Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

  At the end of the hall, the elevator opens. A uniformed waiter gets off, pushing a rolling cart. I lift my hand and wave.

  “Down here!”

  The guy—grinning and tanned, has the look of an aspiring actor—waves back. In the blink of an eye, Connor is on his feet. He stretches with his arms over his head. His black T-shirt is so tight, I can see every ridged outline of abdominal muscle through it.

  I can see his nipples through it.

  I find myself wondering if it’s only the thought of food that’s making my mouth suddenly water.

  “Got a lot for you here, miss,” says the waiter cheerfully. He glances at Connor and comes to an abrupt stop. “Should I set it up inside?”

  I notice Connor staring hungrily at the cart. From beneath the domed silver plates, delicious scents waft up: cheeseburger and fries, chicken wings, mac and cheese, nachos with the works. I couldn’t decide what I wanted so I ordered everything that looked good.

  It’s more than enough for two.

  I wave the waiter in. “Yes, please. On the coffee table is fine.” When he rolls past me into the room, I sigh and tighten the belt on my robe. “All right, soldier, you can come in for a minute. But just to eat, okay?”

  Connor looks at me from under his lashes. “Roger that.”

  How he manages to make that sound so perilous, I have no idea. I decide to stay as far away from him as possible and get him out as quickly as possible because, judging by the tingling happening throughout my body from his look, I’m in serious danger of making a bad decision if he stays too long.

  Another bad decision.

  Shit.

  The room service guy sets up the food, silverware, and a carafe of water on the coffee table, then has me sign the bill. He leaves, closing the door quietly behind him, and then Connor and I are alone.

  “Where do you want me?” Connor asks.

  I know it’s only my imagination that makes it sound sexual, because he’s not doing anything remotely suggestive, but damn if my vagina isn’t shouting, In here, big boy!

  “At the desk,” I blurt, too loudly.

  Connor gives me an odd look. Ignoring it, I make myself a plate, pour a glass of water, and go sit on the chair across the room, at a safe distance. After watching me for a moment, Connor gets himself a plate of food, sits down at the desk, and starts to eat.

  I notice it again, how elegant he is for a man his size. He eats with perfect self-possession, almost regally. He walks the same way, easy, smooth, with an economy of motion that’s unusually graceful. Normally, big men thump around noisily, eat noisily, take up too much space. Connor takes up a lot of space, but it’s his presence—quiet and intense, dangerous and still—and not a loud, arrogant swagger that calls attention to itself.

  I’ve seen it happen many times. When Connor is in a room, every eye instinctively turns his way, even if he’s just sitting there not saying a word.

  He notices me watching. “You’re gonna give me a complex, princess.”

  I flush and look down at my plate. “Any news from O’Doul?”

  He doesn’t mention my awkward segue. “’Bout an hour ago. All quiet. Miranda scheduled the press conference for five tomorrow evening. Word is already all over the Internet. Speculation is tending toward two camps, her resignation or a major hack.”

  I’m relieved, both because Søren hasn’t taken any action—yet—and about the rumors. I know they’ll please him.

  It was smart for her to do it later instead of the morning. If I know Søren, Miranda’s just bought us another day. He won’t want to do anything before he sees the show.

  The television keeps us company as we finish our food. Having Connor here isn’t as awkward as I thought it would be, and gradually I begin to relax.

  Then, out of nowhere, he says, “When I was fourteen, my brother Mikey died.”

  Startled, I look up. Connor is staring at his plate.

  “Fell out of a tree in our backyard. Wasn’t even that tall of a tree, but it didn’t matter. Mikey was five. The baby. I was the oldest. Of six, all boys, my poor mother. Anyway, after that I developed a fear of heights.” He snaps his fingers. “Boom. Like that. Totally irrational, I wasn’t even near Mikey when it happened, didn’t see him fall, nothing. But from the day of Mikey’s funeral on, I couldn’t stand to be anywhere my feet weren’t touching solid ground. I’d get dizzy going up ladders. Felt like my heart would explode if I had to climb a flight of stairs. Which was really fucking inconvenient considering my bedroom was on the second floor of our house. I even cried when my father made me go up into the attic to get the Christmas ornaments.”

  I’m astonished. “You? Cry?”

  He lifts a shoulder. “Not my proudest moment, but yeah. My point is that I get it. Suffering over something you have no control over, that you picked up secondhand.”

  He looks up at me. His eyes are penetrating. “Your fear of flying, I’m talking about.”

  I don’t know what to say. His confession and the direction this is taking are so unexpected, I’m literally speechless.

  He wipes his mouth with a napkin, tosses it to his plate, and stands. When he looks at me his expression is empathetic. “What I’m trying so badly to say is that there’s a way out.”

  This is dangerous territory. But after a moment, my curiosity overcomes my hesitation. “Which is?”

  “Through.”

  When I blink at him, confused, he clarifies.

  “The obstacle is the way. The thing that ails you is also the cure. There’s no running away or going around or over. There’s no avoidance. Avoidance is just a guarantee you’ll never prevail. You have to push through, to the other side of your fear. The obstacle itself is the way through.”

  My heart is doing something strange inside my chest. “You’re saying I should suck it up, put on my big-girl panties, and get on a plane.”

  “I’m saying that the only way you’re ever going to get this monkey off your back is if you give it the middle finger and tell it to go fuck itself. I know you’re capable of that.”

  Give the monkey on my back the middle finger.

  I study his face for a long time in tense silence before I speak again. “So that worked for you with your fear of heights?”

  Connor slowly moves away from the desk. He looks at the bed, and then looks away quickly, almost guiltily, as if he caught himself doing something bad. Agitated now, he starts to pace back and forth across the room.

  I can’t help but think of a lion, pacing in his cage.

  “My father—a Texas ranch man, raised longhorns, still does—said no son of his was gonna turn out to be a lily-livered sniveler, so he basically forced me to join the Marines. And thank fuck he did, because by the time I was seventeen, I was on the express train to the United States penal system. So I had to deal with my shit. The military doesn’t care about your dainty little phobias. You must climb that rope, you must scale that wall, you will learn to be a team member and a leader and an example for others, in spite of yourself. Or you’re out. Disgraced.

  “And though I was a hardheaded little fucker, even at seventeen I knew I’d rather die than be disgraced. So it became about more than just me and my fear. It became about making my father proud. About making my brothers proud. About honoring Mikey’s memory, instead of letting it cripple me.”

  After I overcome my shock, I say softly, “Connor. That’s sort of…beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” he says gruffly.

  Then it seems neither of us knows what to say, because we just look at each other in awkward silence.

  Finally, I draw enough courage to ask, “But you’re not really talking about my fear of flying, are you?”

  He looks at me for a long time, and then blows out a hard breath and looks away. “You said something to me in the car on the drive out here that stuck with me. After I told you the story about the hero and the princess, you remember?”

  When he looks back at me, I nod.

  �
�You said, ‘A real hero would teach the princess how to save herself.’ I thought that was so profound. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.” His voice gets gruff. “About you. What it might mean to you, if I could…help you save yourself.”

  There’s no more air in the room. There’s nothing left to breathe. When I look down at my hands, they’re shaking.

  Connor softly curses. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to talk about him—”

  “It’s all right. You’ve been fair.” I glance up and meet his eyes. “It’s just that…some things shouldn’t be said out loud. It’s dangerous, summoning old ghosts. You never know what they might want from you in return for digging them out of their graves.”

  Connor looks disturbed by that but waits to see if I’ll say more. There’s so much I should tell him, so much I’d like to say but can’t. But he deserves some explanation, at least, and so I try.

  I rise from the chair, cross to the window, and stare out with my arms tightly wrapped around myself. I exhale a ragged breath.

  “I have a little black box inside my head where I keep all the memories of that year I lived with Søren. It’s this trick I learned. Compartmentalization, my therapist called it. The box is there to keep me safe. It has a big metal lock and sits in a dark corner with a layer of dust on top inches thick. Inside the box are monsters.” As I speak, my voice is growing more and more constricted. “I can’t open that box, Connor. Not even for you. But I will tell you this.”

  I swallow twice before I can continue. “I haven’t lied to you about anything. I’m holding things back, yes, but it’s only to protect myself, not to deceive you. And I don’t…” My voice drops to a whisper. “I don’t want you to hear all the ugliness. Especially now.”

  I hear him move behind me. I see his reflection in the glass. He’s so close, I can feel the heat radiating from his body.

  “Why especially now?”

  My laugh is soft and ragged. “You know why.”

  When I feel his hands gently rest on my shoulders, I don’t pull away. Then his mouth is next to my ear, and his voice is a low, sexy rasp.

  “Because you’re falling in love with me.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself!” I scoff, but his words leave me breathless.

  He threads his fingers through my hair, makes a fist, and softly tugs so my head falls back.

  He whispers, “I’m not,” and kisses me.

  It’s different, this kiss. So different from any we’ve shared before. It’s not demanding but endlessly giving, tender and sweet, filled with unspoken promises.

  “I want to be on your team.”

  Startled by the swell of emotion rising inside me, I break away, but he spins me around, pulls me back against him, and kisses me again. His strong arms wrap tightly around my body.

  “I’ll give you one thousand percent.”

  I want to pound against his chest but my arms are trapped between us, and they don’t want to pound—they want to wind up around his shoulders and never let go.

  “I’ll never let you down when you need me.”

  When I make a sound of desperation, Connor breaks the kiss but keeps his tight hold on me, keeps me so close I can feel his heart hammering, like my own.

  “That’s why you were so mad at me in the cafeteria,” he says roughly, breathing hard. “Why you’re always so mad at me. Because I keep hurting you. And I couldn’t hurt you unless you care.”

  He kisses me again, but it’s rougher this time, edged with raw emotion. I stumble backward, and we slam into the desk, rattling the lamp. It topples off the edge to the floor. Connor leans forward. I’m forced back. My leg instinctively comes up as I try to keep my balance. My robe slips open over my bare thigh.

  His mouth is hot and delicious. His tongue knows exactly what to do. Though I hate myself for it, my body responds as it always does to his touch, and I allow the kiss to go on longer than I should just because it feels so good.

  Connor groans softly into my mouth. With one hand under my butt, he lifts me and scoots me up onto the desk. Now my thighs are open around his waist and my robe has fallen away and his hands are buried in my hair and digging into the flesh of my bottom and I’m dizzy, so dizzy I think the room has started to spin.

  My head drops back. I gasp for air. He moves his mouth to my neck, sucking and biting with just enough pressure to sting. I shudder with the pleasure of it, and my lips part on a moan.

  He tears open my robe.

  With a muttered oath, he takes my breast in his hand and sucks on my hard nipple.

  Arching, I cry out. In one swift motion, he sweeps his arm across the desk behind me, shoving away the telephone, a stack of magazines, a cup filled with pens. In a clatter, they follow the lamp to the floor. Connor pushes me flat on my back on the desk. He ravishes my breasts, moving greedily back and forth between them, sucking, licking, biting, making hungry, masculine noises as if he’s tearing into a steak.

  From somewhere far away, I hear myself moan his name. My fingers twist in his hair. My hips rock helplessly.

  Then he throws my legs over his shoulders, puts his face between my thighs and starts to feast.

  And something happens that’s never happened to me before.

  My mind blinks offline.

  It’s not a slammed door, or a blackness like a curtain pulled across a window. It’s a release, like when you let something heavy fall from your hands.

  “Fuck me,” I demand. “Now.”

  Connor looks up from between my trembling thighs. He licks his full lips. His black eyes are like an animal’s. “I don’t have a condom.”

  “I’m clean. Are you?”

  “Yes.” Then he straightens, rips down his zipper, frees his stiff cock, and pushes it inside me.

  I cry out. My back bows from the desk. I grip the edge of the desk to keep myself in place as Connor starts to thrust into me, his hands on my ass and his eyes on my face, those black animal eyes staring down like they want to devour me.

  “Take off your shirt.”

  He pauses for a fraction of a moment to comply, using one hand to grip his black T-shirt at the back of his neck and then drag it over his head. He tosses it away, and I’m treated to the sight of bronzed skin and hard abs and biceps that flex and bulge as he begins to thrust again. With every move, his dog tags glint in the light.

  “You’re beautiful, jarhead,” I say brokenly.

  He pants, “I’m yours, princess.”

  With a painful burst, my heart fragments into a million jagged pieces.

  The world fades to nothing but sensation. The push and drag of his body inside mine, his heat, weight, and scent, the sound of our labored breaths, flesh against flesh, the complaining groan of the desk beneath me.

  The taste of all I can never have bittersweet on my tongue.

  With a helpless cry of surrender, I close my eyes and disappear.

  20

  Connor

  Tabby’s orgasm is so abrupt, the force of it so violent, for a moment I’m stunned into motionless shock.

  She’s strong, with the thighs of a runner, a taut figure honed by what must be countless hours of the practice of Krav Maga, and so the flex of her legs around my waist is no small thing. But really it’s her abandon that takes my breath away. The change that transforms her from one second to the next. The new way she gives herself to me, as if all her walls are crumbling, all the brakes have been stripped, everything she’s been holding back has broken through and is flooding her at once.

  As if she’s finally here.

  With this woman, you’re always dealing first and foremost with her formidable mind. The force of it is evident in every look. She’s beautiful, yes, blatantly, but the razor-sharp edge of her intellect gives her a prickly, untouchable quality. The rose is there in full bloom for you to admire, but watch out for those enormous thorns. They’re full of venom and have a taste for blood.

  But this new woman beneath me now, this woman is all emotion. All hea
d-tossing, passionate abandon. She’s writhing like a demon on my cock and begging me to fuck her, fuck her harder, and I’m three seconds away from losing control. So I do the only thing I can.

  Slow it down.

  I lift her, wrapping my arms around her back, and carry her over to the bed.

  She moans as our bodies briefly disengage, then again, louder, as I lower her to the mattress, spread her legs, and gently push back inside her. She flings her arms and legs around me, turns her face to my neck, and shudders.

  “Deeper,” she pleads, sounding desperate. “Harder. More, Connor. More!”

  “I don’t want to come yet, sweetheart,” I murmur. Sheathed deep inside her, my cock throbs.

  “He does.” She wriggles her hips.

  I growl and then kiss her deeply, still not moving my pelvis.

  She starts to rock underneath me, flexing her hips so my cock slides in and out as she moves. I hiss in a breath at the feeling, my balls tightening, sweat breaking out on my chest.

  Tabby digs her fingers into my ass and bites me on the neck.

  I can’t help myself. I thrust into her, hard, a groan torn from my throat.

  She makes an encouraging sound. Her bite gentles to a suck, her hands glide up my back. Her nipples skim my chest, twin points of pebbled flesh that need my mouth, and so I give it to them.

  Tabby moans, bucking. “Yes,” she breathes, eyes squeezed shut. “Oh God, Connor, yes.”

  Hot, concentrated pleasure coils at the base of my cock, an ache that pulses through my entire lower body. My thrusts become deeper, less controlled. My breathing turns to grunts and broken groans. She’s so wet I feel it on my thighs, and something about that drives me insane with lust.

  I release her nipple, grab her by the hair, and thrust my tongue into her mouth. I hold her head in place as I fuck her pussy and her mouth, driving deep, feeling the last of my control begin to unwind, only vaguely aware of the hollow echo of the headboard slamming against the wall.

  “No—you can’t—in my mouth,” she pants, breaking free.