Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

  He’s fucking me against the wall.

  Standing with his legs braced apart, fully clothed, bearing all my weight, Parker is fucking me against the smooth, painted wall of his bathroom.

  He thrusts, sinking deep, his fingers now digging into the flesh of my bottom. When I drop my head back against the wall and close my eyes, I feel his mouth on my throat. His teeth press against my skin with just enough pressure to make me shiver. He thrusts again, and grunts as my inner muscles contract around him.

  “I claim this beautiful pussy,” he says harshly at my ear. “You understand, woman? I know you’ll never give me your heart, but this—”

  He thrusts again.

  “—is—”

  Again, harder, deeper.

  “—mine.”

  Something inside my chest unravels and breaks free.

  He’s the best sex I’ve ever had, the father of my illegitimate child, the object of over a decade of hatred, and the catalyst for my success. He ruined me, and I’ve sworn to ruin him—and what will I do when this is over?

  When I have my revenge, what will be left? When I break his heart, or his soul, or destroy his career or reputation—who will I be without the bitterness that’s driven me? What will I see when I look in the mirror?

  What if hating him has been the only thing that’s kept me going?

  I kiss him as if I’ll never kiss another man again, ravenously, my tongue invading his mouth, my teeth clashing with his. I tighten my arms around his shoulders, press my heels against his spine, and buck, my hips relentlessly flexing back and forth, meeting his thrusts, shoving his cock deep, claiming him as he’s claiming me, marking him as he’s marked me.

  He shudders. His groan is long and low. His final thrust into me is violent. He puts his hand around my throat, lifts his head and stares into my eyes, and, with an oath, comes inside me.

  Warmth, throbbing, a spreading shock of pleasure—my orgasm hits just after his.

  He holds my neck while I come, his grip tight. Dominating. The look in his eyes is dominating too, a look of gotcha that should frighten me but thrills me instead.

  I don’t want to know why. I don’t want to examine my emotions. I just want to relish this last bit of paradise before I burn it to the ground.

  When I collapse bonelessly against Parker, he carries me into the bedroom with me still impaled on his cock. When he stops abruptly a few feet from the bed, I lift my head and look at him.

  Wide-eyed, he’s staring at the nightstand.

  “Oh, that.” I chuckle. “My good luck charm. Cute, isn’t it?”

  Slowly, oh, so slowly, Parker turns his head and shifts his gaze to me. “Someone recently told me cats are basically cute serial killers.”

  I smile drowsily. “No wonder I like them.”

  A muscle in his jaw flexes. “You love to play with fire, don’t you?”

  I trail my fingers over the jumping muscle in his face. “Darling, I don’t play with fire. I am the fire.”

  “Yes,” he murmurs, “you definitely are.”

  He plants a rough kiss on my neck, closes the distance to the bed, takes us down to it, and proceeds to demonstrate to me once again what exactly I’ll be missing when this house of mirrors comes crashing down.

  A few orgasms later—five, dear Lord, I didn’t even know that was physically possible, the man is a sexual savant—Parker and I sit outside on the candlelit lanai at a table filled with the remnants of our meal, watching thunderclouds billow in from the sea.

  The steaks were perfectly grilled. He prepared a simple green salad to accompany the meat. We’ve enjoyed an exceptional bottle of Syrah, a dessert of pineapple marmalade with soft cheese, honey, and figs, and easy conversation filled with infrequent but comfortable silences. We’ve talked mainly about our businesses, travel, hobbies, safe topics that flow easily from one to the next without requiring anything in the way of real self-disclosure.

  Which makes his question all the more stunning when it comes.

  “Do you want children?”

  “Children?” I repeat the word as if it’s one I’m unfamiliar with, a word from a foreign language.

  Parker glances over at me. His face reveals nothing. “You said small children terrify you, which I took to mean you didn’t want any. But I know it’s never smart to assume, so I’m asking.”

  My mouth is the Sahara Desert. The breeze riffles through my hair, swirling it around my shoulders. I stare at the dark horizon, at the stars being slowly obliterated by clouds, and long for them to obliterate me.

  “I wouldn’t be a good mother.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  When I look at him from the corner of my eye, I can tell he isn’t being sarcastic. He actually seems surprised by my statement. As if it isn’t obvious.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, Mr. Maxwell, I’m not exactly the nurturing type.”

  “Most men aren’t either, but no one considers it a negative for them.”

  “That’s because they typically have a partner who is.”

  “So if you had a partner who was nurturing, the problem would be solved?”

  This conversation has taken a turn I don’t like. I shrug and gaze stoically into the distance. “I’ve never really thought about it.”

  “You should.”

  I look at him. He’s serious. It’s terrifying. “Let’s change the subject.”

  His voice softens, as do his eyes. “No.”

  My stomach is in ropes. Beads of sweat break out along my forehead. I manage, barely, to swallow. “What if I said please?”

  “You haven’t said it yet.”

  I open my mouth, but Parker beats me to the punch.

  “I’ve always wanted kids,” he says, looking right into my eyes.

  I feel as if my dinner is about to make a violent reappearance. Cold flashes over me, then scalding heat, and then an anguish so complete it floods every cell, every atom of my being, straight down into the marrow of my bones.

  For a blind, bottomless moment, I’m no longer Victoria Price. I’m no longer a woman looking at a man, or even a human being at all.

  I am Pain.

  Then I’m out of my seat, stumbling over wooden floorboards to the railing that surrounds the lanai, gripping it like a life vest, my knees and elbows locked so I don’t slide down to the floor.

  He comes up behind me and surrounds me with his arms. I close my eyes and lower my head, fighting the swell of sobs rising in my throat. Parker puts his face into my hair.

  “I want to know all the dark places in you,” he whispers vehemently, his arms like a vise. “I want to be the one who has the key that unlocks all your bolted doors and chases away all the monsters you keep hidden behind them. I want to be the light inside your darkness. I want to be your rock and your safety net, the soft place you can fall.”

  When I don’t reply, he turns me around, holds me by the waist, and lifts my chin.

  “I meant what I told you before, about you being safe with me, Victoria. Whatever happened to you in the past, with me you’ll always be safe. I promise.”

  My breath catches in my throat. “Why?”

  Eyes shining, he says simply, “You move me.”

  I drop my head to his chest. My voice comes out hollow, an empty, ugly rasp against the muffled boom of the distant surf. “You don’t know me. You said it yourself.”

  “I know enough.”

  A gull cries, soaring somewhere overhead. The breeze grows more restless, snapping the curtains by the sliding doors, pulling my dress into billowing folds around my knees. The pungent sting of ozone hangs in the air, and I know that rain is imminent.

  I whisper, “Why are you saying these things to me? Why did you bring me here? What is it you want?”

  Parker strokes his hand over my head, combs his fingers through my hair, his silence contemplative. Then, finally, with a soft sigh as if a decision has been made, he says, “I want to show you something.”

  He ta
kes my hand and leads me away from the railing, inside through the kitchen, and up the stairs. We pad silently down the hallway toward the master bedroom, but turn instead to a door to the right. It’s closed. Parker grasps the handle and looks at me.

  “Have you ever heard of something called spousal privilege?”

  What an odd question. My brow wrinkles. “I don’t think so.”

  Parker’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “It’s a legal term. It means that a husband can’t be forced to testify in court against his wife.”

  I dread the answer, but know I must ask. “And what does that have to do with anything?”

  Parker stares down at me, his eyes as focused as lasers on mine. Light burns behind them, catching fire to the flecks of gold in his irises. A tingle of animal recognition courses through me, and I know in an instant that whatever he’s brought me here for is behind this door.

  Parker turns the knob, pushes it open, and lets his hand fall to his side. “Just keep it in mind.”

  Filled with trepidation, I look inside the room.

  The first thing my gaze falls on is a picture, displayed prominently on the opposite wall, a framed eight-by-ten surrounded by dozens of other pictures, similarly framed.

  My heart stops.

  It’s a picture of two teenagers laughing in each other’s arms, blue sky and tall pine trees making a magnificent backdrop behind them. The summer sun shines bright on their faces. They are young, carefree, and blissfully in love.

  It’s me and Parker.

  My mother took the picture three weeks to the day before he left.

  33

  Victoria

  My shock is so total, I feel flash-frozen. Everything inside me hardens, crystallizes, chills to crackling ice. My brain refuses to allow my tongue to form words, so I stand there stupidly gaping, silent and unmoving as Parker walks past me into the room. He stops in the middle of it, examining the framed pictures. They cover most of one wall.

  Other than all the pictures, the room is empty. Only a single plain bench is set opposite, so a person could relax and contemplate the display. It’s like a museum.

  Or a shrine.

  “I come here when I need a reminder,” Parker says sadly.

  Why does he have that picture of us? Why isn’t he accusing me of anything? Why doesn’t he seem angry? What the hell is going on here?

  I find my voice, a whisper of breath in the quiet room. “Of?”

  When he turns his head and looks at me, his eyes are full of ancient sorrow. “Who I used to be. And everything I’ve lost.”

  My gaze flashes back to the pictures. Some of them depict his parents at various parties and social events, his mother in silk and pearls, his father’s florid face grinning, always grinning that hateful, entitled grin. There are photos of the mansion where he grew up, family gathered on the green expanse of lawn, photos of football games, of Parker in his letterman jacket from senior year, photos of him from childhood, of the city of Laredo, of his favorite polo pony, and on and on.

  And there isn’t just the one shot of the two of us, there are many more. In formal wear for a school dance, at a pumpkin patch close to Halloween, at my brother’s hospital bedside on his thirteenth birthday. I’m holding balloons, Parker’s holding my hand, and my mother’s got her arms around both of us. Everyone is smiling.

  Inside, I’m sick. I’m a volcano with a vomit core, about to blow. But I don’t show it. I give him nothing. I’ve come too far. I have too much invested.

  If this is the goal line, I’ll be damned if I’ll fumble the ball now.

  I draw myself to my full height. I look straight at his face. In a voice devoid of emotion, I say, “Why don’t you explain what you mean.”

  He takes a seat on the bench, slowly, as if it pains him to bend his legs. He props his elbows on his knees and drags his hands through his hair. When he speaks, it’s to the floor.

  “I’ve spent the last fifteen years of my life on hold. I’ve opened over twenty restaurants, founded a nonprofit organization, traveled the world, met celebrities, politicians, and even a king. I’ve become wealthy beyond all my expectations, given away millions to charity, built myself an empire.”

  His voice drops. “And none of it makes up for one mistake I made at eighteen.”

  All the air is sucked from the room. The clocks stop ticking. The earth stops spinning under my feet. I’m no longer ice, I’m granite. I couldn’t move if I wanted to.

  Parker raises his head and stares at the wall of photos. “My father was a terrible man. Is a terrible man. The textbook definition of a bigot. Why my mother married him, I’ll never know. The woman is a saint.” He shakes his head. “I’m grateful she doesn’t know what I did. The shame would cripple me.”

  The silence in the room is deafening. Into it, Parker sighs.

  “The girl I told you about, you remember? The one who killed herself?”

  He looks at me. I must nod or make some other kind of acknowledgment that I don’t realize I’ve made, because he continues.

  “That’s her.” He turns again to the pictures. His expression hovers somewhere between searing agony and crushing defeat. “Isabel was her name. She was my best friend. My first love. I would’ve done anything for her. So when my father made me choose between destroying my own life or hers, I chose mine.” His laugh is bitter, the laugh of a man who’s lived too long with guilt, whose soul has been corroded by it. “What a fool I was.”

  Howling erupts inside my head, like a thousand wolves in a dark forest, muzzles raised to the rising moon. I can’t speak. I stare at the photos of myself, the girl I used to be, thick glasses and a too-big nose, crooked teeth and a weak chin, cheap clothes and deeply bronzed skin from spending so much time outdoors. That awful haircut my mother gave me. A smile like the sun.

  I’m unrecognizable. That trusting, happy girl is just another of my ghosts.

  Parker exhales a heavy breath. “Her family was very poor. Mine was filthy rich. In the beginning, my father tolerated our relationship because he thought I was like him. He thought I was just sowing my wild oats. Getting experience.” His voice gains an edge of disgust. “‘You’re not a man until you’ve split the dark oak,’ he once said to me, clapping me on the shoulder. Like making love to the girl of my dreams was just a rite of passage. Like she was a thing to be used. That’s when I began to hate him. That’s when I began to hide my feelings for Isabel from him. To pretend.”

  Parker’s voice gets lower. Rougher. “It lasted for two years, until he found out. I think he had me followed after he discovered us together one night. But he didn’t confront me right away. He waited. He planned. And then, when he had what he needed, he forced me to make a choice.”

  My hands shake. My palms sweat. My heartbeat increases to a nearly impossible rate, pounding with such frantic hummingbird beats, I feel faint. But my mind is clear and cold. I have the most intense feeling of hovering above myself, outside my body, watching this horror unfold with detachment as if it’s happening to someone else.

  Parker stands. He contemplates the photos with his hands on his hips, his shoulders rounded, the normally proud line of his back bent. “Isabel’s father had a gambling problem. I have no idea how my father discovered that, but he organized a private poker game, one with a low enough buy-in so that her father could play. And then my dad did what he does best. He cheated. He let her father gain confidence with a few substantial wins, let him get a taste of real money, and then pulled the rug out from under his feet. The man got so desperate, he ended up betting the deed to his farm. And, of course, he lost.

  “When my father had the means to destroy Isabel’s entire family completely, he came to me and said I could stay with her—and her family would lose their livelihood and be out on the streets, and I’d be disinherited so I couldn’t help them—or I could leave that very night and go to school in England, never to return. He’d already arranged everything. Plane ticket, apartment, tuition, everything. All to g
et me away from a girl he hated because of the color of her skin.”

  When Parker turns to look at me, his eyes glitter with moisture and self-hatred. “So I agreed. Though it broke my fucking heart, I thought that I was being strong for her. That it was the right thing to do, saving the farm, saving her family. I had no doubt my father would follow through on his threats. And, stupidly, I thought she would eventually move on, have a beautiful life, forget all about me.”

  His voice cracks. “Instead she killed herself. Because I didn’t have the courage to stand up to my father, she died.”

  I don’t understand. I don’t understand what you’re saying.

  My words must have been spoken aloud, because Parker replies, “He made me write her a goodbye letter, and then I left. For a few years, I was in school in England, and then I lived in France for a year with Alain. I was miserable the entire time. Heartbroken. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, when it got to be so bad that I knew I had to go back or go insane, I booked a flight to Laredo and went straight to her house as soon as I got off the plane. I was going to confess everything, beg her for her forgiveness. But I was too late. She was already gone. Her mother told me the whole story.”

  One by one, my cells begin to shrivel up and die.

  I whisper, “Her mother?”

  As if he can no longer bear to meet my eyes, he looks away and hangs his head. “She loved me like a son. She was always good to me. But when I saw her that night, I knew her love had turned into the kind of hate that eats you alive. She said things to me, screamed things…things I’ll never forget. She told me that after I left, Isabel had killed herself. That she’d taken her father’s gun and put it to her head. And that she’d been cremated, so there wasn’t even a grave I could visit. She was gone. And I had her blood all over my hands. I still do. It can never be washed away, no matter how hard I pray, how much I give to charity, how long I try to make amends.”