Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

In convulsions that shake the whole bed, I come.

  He makes a noise deep in his throat, a humming that reverberates through my core, making me shudder even more. The orgasm lasts and lasts, explosive, ripping through me like a detonation. It’s a high, brilliant peak, a breathless, intense blast of pure pleasure.

  I lose all track of time and place, all memory or comprehension. I am a creature, ravenous and wild, unashamedly reveling in the best damn orgasm I’ve ever had.

  When it subsides and I’m left a limp-noodled mass of arms and legs, Parker turns his head and gently sinks his teeth into the flesh of my thigh.

  “Fucking beautiful,” he whispers. He pulls my panties down my legs, tosses them aside, and then rips open the fly of his jeans. His cock—big and stiff—springs free. He pulls a condom from his back pocket, tears the foil open with his teeth, rolls it down his swollen length, and positions himself between my legs.

  I groan in disappointment.

  Parker tenses, breathing hard. “You weren’t a foregone conclusion, if that’s what you’re thinking. I was only hoping, not expecting.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What, then?”

  I sink my fingers into the hard muscles of his ass. “I wanted you bare.”

  With a moan, he shoves inside me.

  He fits his mouth to mine. I taste myself on him. I pull my knees up and rock my hips, feeling him hot and hard deep inside, filling me, stretching me. He fucks me slowly, kissing me and fondling my breasts, bringing me quickly back up to that bright peak again, so quickly I’m dizzy and gasping for breath.

  “Come on my cock, baby,” he whispers, gazing down at me. “Give it to me again.”

  I’m flying. Flying and burning and suddenly there’s water in my eyes and my throat is closing up and my chest feels like there’s a thousand-pound weight on it—oh God, what’s happening?

  I turn my head, desperate to escape those eyes of his that always see right through me, but he won’t allow it. He grasps my jaw in his hand and turns my head back so I’m forced to look at him.

  “Don’t hide. Let me in. Let me see you. Please.”

  It’s that soft, pleading “please” that does it.

  I come again, silently this time, though no less savagely. Throughout it, I look at him, feeling raw and bloodied as a scraped nerve, until finally I can’t contain the feelings inside me anymore. Water slips from the corners of my eyes.

  He whispers, “Yes. God, yes. That right there. I’d kill to keep you looking at me like that forever.”

  I say his name. It’s like fitting a key into a lock.

  He starts to thrust faster. Sweat breaks out on his forehead. His arms are tense and corded. His breaths come in harsh pants. He moans, long and low, and I know he’s close.

  I pull his head down and say into his ear, “Fuck me hard, lover. Come inside me.”

  Grunting in pleasure, he bites me on the long muscle above my clavicle. He slides one hand under my ass and uses it to lift me as he pumps into me, deeper, harder. My breasts are flattened against his chest, my fingernails bite into his flesh, my legs tremble as my thigh muscles tense.

  Then he stiffens, throws his head back, and, with a shout, comes.

  It’s a beautiful thing to watch. His eyes are closed. His lips are parted. Even in the spare light I can see his face is flushed with color. I feel him throb and twitch deep inside me, and I experience an emotion I’m unfamiliar with. It feels like I’m being stabbed over and over, right through the center of my chest.

  A little sound escapes my throat. Parker opens his eyes and looks down at me. His eyes are shining. He leans down and kisses me softly on the lips, cheeks, eyelids, his warm breath washing over my face. Balancing himself on his elbows, he cradles my head in his hands. Against my chest, I feel his heart thrumming a crazy, irregular beat.

  We’re quiet for several minutes, our arms around each other, letting our breathing return to normal. Finally he says, “Okay, that was seriously fucking amazing.”

  I manage to keep my voice steady when I reply, “Or seriously amazing fucking.”

  He chuckles, nosing my hair away from my ear. “Both. Jesus.”

  “You don’t have to call me Jesus. Your Royal Highness will do.”

  He chuckles again and kisses a path from my ear all the way down my neck. Without withdrawing from me, he rolls to his back, his arms around my waist, and settles me atop him so I’m straddling him, looking down, my hair falling into my face. He reaches up and brushes it back with both hands. To avoid the softness in his eyes that’s almost killing me, I sigh.

  “What?”

  Acting coy, I shrug and then glance at my bare breasts. “You owe me a shirt.”

  His gaze drops to my breasts. He smiles. “I’ll take you shopping.”

  “I doubt you could afford it.”

  His smile widens. His hands follow the direction of his gaze, and he cups my breasts, running his thumbs back and forth over my exquisitely sensitive nipples. He watches as I bite my lip.

  He whispers, “You like that?”

  “Yes.”

  I can tell he’s pleased by how quickly I answered. And that I didn’t try to lie or hide. He gently pinches both my nipples. When my lips part in pleasure, he pinches a little harder, and I moan, enjoying the feel of his big, rough hands.

  “You like that too.”

  It isn’t a question. He’s talking to himself, watching me as he continues to fondle my breasts, alternating between stroking his thumbs over my nipples, pinching them, and squeezing the fullness of the globes. Inside me, he’s still rock-hard. A tiny contraction in my core makes him pull in a quick breath.

  He sits up and wraps his arms around me, which drives his stiff cock even deeper inside.

  “And that,” I whisper, slowly rocking my pelvis. He drops his head and sucks one of my nipples into his mouth. I close my eyes.

  When he sucks harder, using his teeth, I arch and shudder. He pushes my torn blouse over my shoulders and off my arms, breaks away briefly to pull his own shirt over his head and toss it aside, and then quickly goes back to lavishing my breasts with attention.

  “And your skin,” I breathe, running my open hands over the muscles in his back, shoulders and arms. His skin is like silk, flawlessly smooth and hairless. I’m losing myself again, drowning in the pleasure of him. Of us, the way we fit together.

  I change the motion of my hips from a rocking one to a slow up-and-down slide. Parker groans against my breast.

  “Ride that cock, baby,” he says roughly, his tongue flicking my nipple. “It’s yours. Ride it.”

  It’s mine. It’s mine. Yes, yes, it’s all mine.

  I don’t realize I’ve spoken aloud until he agrees via a grunt of approval.

  I push him down so he’s flat on his back. Then I run my hands all over his chest and stomach, admiring the sculpted muscles. I reach down behind us and circle his cock with my fingers, squeezing and stroking as I take him in and out, my own wetness slipping between my fingers.

  With steady pressure, Parker strokes my clit with his thumb as I ride him. He wraps the other hand around my hip. He watches me all the while, his look intense and unwavering, his eyes taking in everything on my face.

  And I’m giving him everything. I’m letting him see exactly what I’m feeling, how good he feels, how much I like it, everything. I’m past caring. Past caution.

  I never want this to end.

  Suddenly he grabs both my hips, rolls out from under me, flips me onto my stomach, hikes my ass in the air, braces one arm against the mattress, wraps the other around my waist, and plunges deep inside me from behind.

  I cry out. He starts to fuck me hard, holding me in place with that arm around my waist, his breath hot and rough at my ear.

  “Are you mine, Victoria?”

  My face half buried in a pillow, I moan.

  “Say it.”

  Thinking I know what he wants, I whisper, “My pussy’s yours.”

&nb
sp; “Not your pussy, baby. You. Say it.”

  I don’t. I won’t. This is one line I will never, ever cross. If he wants dirty talk, he can have it. If he wants my body, obviously he can have that too.

  But he can never have me. Not for real.

  Not again.

  I turn my face to the pillow. Parker slows, runs a hand up my back, fists that hand in my hair. He gently pulls my head back until I’m looking at him, my neck craned to the side.

  “Say you’re mine.”

  He whispers it, our gazes locked together. I shake my head.

  He falls still. In the quiet of the room, our heavy breaths are loud as thunder.

  “What are you afraid of?”

  I swallow. I know I must tell him some shade of the truth or he’ll know I’m lying, so I say, “You. This. Everything.”

  He releases my hair, leans back on his heels—taking me with him by holding me around the waist—and then gathers me against his chest and buries his face in my neck. Against my skin, he vows, “You’re safe with me. I promise you. You’re safe.”

  I swallow a silent sob and close my eyes. “You can’t know that. You don’t know what lies ahead.”

  His arms around me are crushing. Against my back, his chest heaves. Slowly, enunciating every word, he repeats, “You are safe with me.”

  But you’re not safe with me, my lying lover. You’re holding your own destruction in your arms.

  After a moment, when I don’t respond, he softly kisses my neck. He takes us down to the mattress, lying on our sides with my back to his front, our bodies still joined. Across the room in the wall of windows, I see our ghostly reflection in the glass, two lovers entwined in an intimate embrace.

  Gently, slowly, he starts to move again. His arms stay wrapped around me. His lips rest against the furious pulse in my neck. He drops a hand between my legs and strokes me as only he knows how, drawing moans from my throat, giving me acute pleasure and acute pain as only he can.

  Just before I come, I close my eyes to block the vision of that ghostly woman in the glass, her face a mask of misery.

  20

  Parker

  I wake up alone.

  The clock on the bedside table reads three a.m. I sit up in bed and call out, “Victoria?”

  No answer.

  Rising, I pull on the jeans I discarded on the floor last night and walk out of the bedroom. My bare feet are silent against the floor. I pass my office door, which is slightly ajar. I frown, pausing outside it.

  I know I closed the door yesterday. I always keep the door closed when the housekeeper comes. No one is allowed in my office, not even her. I know I closed it.

  Didn’t I?

  Silently, I push the door open and take a quick look around. Everything looks as it always does: perfectly ordered. I close the door and continue down the hallway toward the living room, which is where I find her.

  Victoria stands nude at the window, staring silently out into the night. I stop, admiring the picture she makes, her lovely body silhouetted against the wall of glass, lights softly playing over her skin. She senses me and turns.

  “You’re awake,” I say.

  She murmurs, “Couldn’t sleep.”

  As if magnetized, I draw closer. On my way past the sofa, I grab the cashmere lap blanket folded over the arm. Victoria watches me as I approach, her eyes unreadable in the shadows. When I’m finally standing in front of her, she looks up at me with a small, sad smile.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” she says.

  I wind the blanket around her body and hug her, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You didn’t.”

  “Oh. You’re an insomniac too?”

  I chuckle, enjoying the scent of her hair, the feel of her in my arms. “Just a light sleeper.”

  She allows me to nuzzle her for a moment and then turns her head and stares out into the night. She seems so melancholy. It sends a pang of worry through my chest. I hope she doesn’t regret what happened between us, because I sure as hell don’t.

  If I get my way, it will happen every day for the rest of our lives.

  “Do you like the view?”

  “Mine’s better.”

  She says it with such casual disregard, I can’t help but laugh. At least she’s telling the truth. It’s a start.

  “I’ll have you know this is the premier unit in this building, Ms. Price.”

  “This giant penis of a building, you mean? I’ve never seen anything so phallic. Let me guess: the architect was a man.”

  “And what if it was a woman? Would it be a tall, ovary-shaped building?”

  “Now there’s a frightening thought. Can you imagine a forty-story ovary? Sounds gross.”

  I turn her around, gather her in my arms, and press her against my chest. She winds her arms around my waist and tilts her head back, gazing up at me with that faint melancholy smile.

  “Why are you sad?” I whisper.

  She blinks and then turns her head, depriving me of her eyes. “I’m not.”

  I cup her face. As I’ve had to do many times before—and probably will many times again—I make her look at me. I’m determined not to let her hide. I want no walls between us. “Don’t bother acting tough. I can see you’re sad. Tell me why.”

  A long silence follows. Then, instead of answering me directly, she sidesteps, as she does so well. “Why is it that you see me so clearly when no one else does?”

  A stray lock of hair is falling into her eyes. I brush it from her forehead. Keeping my voice low, I say, “Why is it that when I’m inside you, I feel like I’m finally home?”

  She ducks her head and hides her face in my chest, but not before I see the pain that crosses it.

  “Victoria—”

  “Please. It’s just a lot. Please, just this once, let it go.”

  Her voice is so hollow, so devoid of hope, it makes me fall still. I tighten my arms around her, wanting to comfort her, but for what, I don’t know. She obviously doesn’t want to tell me. I debate a moment, knowing I could get it out of her if I push, but finally decide to do as she asks and let it go.

  We’ll have plenty of time to work through whatever issues she has. I’m not going anywhere and, if I have any say in this at all, neither is she.

  I whisper, “Come back to bed, baby.”

  When she nods, I feel a profound sense of relief. At least for now, she’s not running away. I tuck her under my arm and lead her back into the bedroom, and then crawl in bed beside her and gather her in my arms. She’s still wrapped like a little burrito in the cashmere, but I don’t care. She seems to need it, like a security blanket. If it makes her feel safer, she can have it. She can have anything she wants.

  Lying beside her in the dark, I listen to the sound of her breathing, feel the gentle rise and fall of her chest. At some point, feeling a contentment I haven’t felt in years, I fall asleep.

  When I wake in the morning with the sun streaming through the windows, Victoria is gone.

  21

  Victoria

  When I arrive at my penthouse, Tabitha and Darcy are sitting together at my kitchen table, cackling like witches over something Tabby’s showing Darcy on her cell phone. Tabby’s wearing a Day-Glo pink tank top with the words “Stop staring at my tits” written across her boobs, paired with a leather miniskirt, an armful of silver bangles, and biker boots. Darcy is wearing a pair of zebra-print stretch pants, a shiny purple top, and gold sparkly sandals with a dangerously tall heel.

  “Christ. It looks like there was a sale at the stripper factory outlet in here.”

  They look up and see me standing in the doorway.

  “Well, well,” says Darcy, eyeing me up and down. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

  “I am the cat.”

  Darcy snorts. “More like something the cat coughed up.”

  “Whose shirt is that?” asks Tabby brightly.

  “Whose do you think?” I mutter, pulling out a chair and flinging myself dramatically into
it. Darcy and Tabby share a look.

  Tabby says, “What happened to the blouse you were wearing when you left last night?”

  I scowl at her. “What are you, writing a book?”

  She grins at me. I want to curl my hands around her throat.

  Darcy says, “You know, it’s not a walk of shame if you stop for brunch on the way home.”

  I prop my chin on my fists. “Shut up. And why are you people in my kitchen so early on a Sunday morning?”

  “Because your assistant here called me and told me you didn’t come home last night, so I had to come see for myself the state you were in when you finally showed up.” She purses her lips. “And what a state it is.”

  I drop my head to the table, rest my forehead on my folded arms, and sigh.

  “Uh-oh,” says Tabby.

  Darcy asks, “What?”

  “I know that sigh. It’s the precursor to some really vile plan. She’s probably going to tell us now about the body she needs us to help her move.”

  Darcy says reasonably, “Girl, what are friends for if you can’t count on them to help you move a body?”

  “Thank you,” I grumble to the table. “At least I know I can rely on someone around here.”

  Tabby rises. I hear her move to the counter, hear the sound of liquid being poured. She returns and sets a steaming mug of coffee in front of me. “Don’t be so quick to judge, Maleficent. You can rely on me. For important stuff too, like, for instance…finding out about the girl Parker was dating who killed herself.”

  I bolt upright and stare at her. “You found out? Tell me, tell me!”

  Darcy says, “Whoa—what’s this?”

  “Parker told Victoria he was dating a girl who killed herself.”

  “Actually, what he said was, ‘I once killed someone,’ which is vastly different, but when pressed he admitted she actually killed herself. He just drove her to it.”

  Darcy makes a face like she just ate a piece of rancid sushi. “White folks. Y’all are fucking crazy.”

  “Get on with the story, Tabitha! What happened?”

  Tabby sits, folds her hands on the tabletop, and looks at me. “What happened is your boy lied.”