His Wicked Games (His Wicked Games #1) (11 page)

I glance up at Calder, who's come to stand
beside me at the case. Instead of focusing on me, his gaze moves
about the ivory carvings below us. His face is carefully calm. I'm
not sure what to make of it.

He seems to be studying the pieces in the
case as carefully as I, but I don't miss the way his gaze lingers
on the same work I noticed, the long tusk with the ship scene.

“That's it,” I say softly.

He blinks, look up at me, as if I've
interrupted some deep thought.

“What did you say?”

“That's it.” I nod at the tusk. “That's your
favorite thing in here.” He doesn't have his father's appreciation
for form or technique or history; no, his favorite will be the one
that speaks to him on an emotional level, one that inspired and
excited him as a child.

His gaze shifts back to the tusk. He stares
at it for a long moment, his eyes flicking between the sailors and
the whale. I watch him with interest, no less because, for the
briefest of seconds, he looks almost boyish. But quick as a flash,
the wistfulness disappears, and his usual expression returns.

“You're wrong,” he says. “It's a remarkable
piece, to be sure, but I'm afraid you're incorrect.”

I don't believe it. I stare at him, trying to
catch the lie in his eye, but the openness of even a few seconds
ago is gone. In its place is the guarded, smug Calder he prefers to
show me.

“No. You're wrong. You can deny it if you
want, but that piece means something to you.”

“I never said it didn't,” he replies. “It's a
charming scene. Nineteenth century. I believe my father acquired it
from a museum.”

He's cheated, and I know it. He might act
indifferent, but it's obvious that he has some sort of emotional
reaction to this tusk. Still, if he refuses to acknowledge it,
there's nothing I can do. I won't press the issue. This whole game
was about flirting, not delving into his emotions. Disappointed as
I might be, I have a job to do.

“Well,” I say. “If this isn't your favorite,
which is?”

The question seems to knock the last of the
shadows from his eyes, and he flashes me a smile before guiding me
back toward the center of the room.

When he stops, we're standing in front of a
round, abstract painting that is, by all accounts, exactly the
opposite of any choice I would have made. It's small, probably only
a foot and a half in diameter, and composed almost entirely of
jagged, angular shapes in shades of taupe and tan and bronze. The
shapes curve around the center of the piece, where a slash of
bright red cuts across the canvas.

If I'm being honest—and I have a strong
appreciation for art, even the weird stuff, so this is saying
something—it’s one of the ugliest things I've ever seen. I don't
know what to make of it.

“It's… interesting,” I say finally. This has
to be a joke. He picked the most hideous piece in here because he
knew I'd never even consider it. It’s cheating, pure and simple,
and he’s not even being subtle about it.

“You don't seem impressed.” His voice is
thick with amusement. “Or is it just that I've surprised you?”

“It's very different than what I expected you
to pick,” I admit, tilting my head to see if it looks any better
from another angle. “Why this one?”

He steps up behind me, so near that I can
feel the heat of him against my back, even though we don't
touch.

“What do you see?” he asks. His breath stirs
my hair.

I'm not sure if the question's a trick. Maybe
he just wants to see me flustered, to see me scramble to compliment
a piece that I clearly don't like. After all the fuss I've made
over the Center and the importance of arts, confessing that I don't
appreciate this particular painting might undermine my points and
give Calder the perfect opening to press his own case against me.
All he'd have to do is claim the same opinion of the art our
students and sponsored artists create.

But it was probably Calder's father that
purchased this piece, not Calder himself, and I generally trusted
the late Wentworth's taste. Maybe he saw something in this painting
that I don't.

“It looks like a sun,” I say finally. “A
muted sun—like it's covered in dust. A hopeless man's sun.” I tilt
my head. “Or a hopeless woman's.”

“My, but that's a depressing interpretation,”
he says. “Is that all you see?”

“It's your favorite. Maybe you should tell me
what you think.”

“Mmm.” His hand brushes against my hip. “I'm
afraid I see it a little differently. You see, I have a theory
about abstract art. If an artist wants to paint a sun, why doesn't
he just paint a sun? If he wants to paint a tree or the ocean or
some pastoral scene with shepherds and goats, he can just paint it
outright. Abstract art, on the other hand, is an attempt to depict
something deeper—those subconscious, primal emotions and urges that
can't be expressed in concrete images or terms.”

“Abstract art is for abstract concepts, you
mean,” I say.

“Yes, smartass,” he growls in my ear.

I'm not sure I agree, but I'm willing to play
along.

“And which 'primal' emotion do you think this
painting depicts?” I ask.

“Well.” He reaches around me, indicating the
left side of the painting. “This bit here—the strokes are short and
angry. And as you follow them around,” —he gestures with his hand,
pressing closer to me with the motion—”they get shorter, more
agitated. Round and round they go, building frustration.”

His chest is flush against my back. I can
feel his hard muscles even through the fabric of our clothes, and
once again I'm assaulted by images of him in his room last night.
My initial urge is to jerk away from him, but already my body is
stirring in response to his nearness. Besides, I don't want to
disrupt this flirtation we've started. I just have to concentrate
and stay in control.

“So you believe this piece represents
frustration,” I say, a little more breathlessly than I intend.

He gives a low chuckle. “To an extent, yes.
But look.” He shifts, indicating the red slash at the center of the
painting while his other hand comes to rest on my waist. “If the
outer edges represent frustration, what do you make of this
part?”

I'm not sure how he wants me to answer—and
I'm having trouble concentrating anyway. The heat of his fingers
seems to burn through my clothes. His hand moves ever-so-slightly,
just enough to brush the top of my hip once more.

“I—I guess the center's the opposite of
frustration,” I say, noting the softer, curved lines.

“You could say that. The cause of the
frustration, maybe, but also its cure.”

I'm not sure what he means by that. I'm too
distracted by the way his hand has shifted again on my hip, sliding
slowly downward.

Easy
, I tell myself.
Stay in
control
.

“But why is this one your favorite?” I
press.

“Mmm.” His warm breath rushes across my ear.
“Because I think the artist has captured it perfectly. Haven't you
ever felt that—that restless agitation? Like you were going to
burst? Like everything in the world was going to crumble down
around you unless you calmed the disturbance pulsing through
you?”

“I… don't know.”

He leans forward, and his lips brush against
my ear. My heart pounds against my ribs, and what little breath I
have left catches in my throat.

“What are you doing?” I ask him.

He responds by tilting his head and kissing
the side of my neck, first just below the ear, then lower. His
mouth begins a slow trail down toward my shoulder, and the
sensations that dance across my skin at the contact make my head
buzz.

“Mr. Cunningham, I—”

“Calder,” he murmurs against my neck. His
voice is deeper, but there's still a hint of amusement there. “I'm
just trying to show you what I mean about the painting.” His mouth
brushes against the place where my neck meets my shoulder. His
tongue slips out, flicking softly against my skin, and I suck in a
breath.

Warning bells go off in my head. I need to
take control of this situation. I need to lead this seduction, not
the other way around. But his tongue brushes against my neck again,
and all of my protests slip out of my head.

Certainly there's nothing wrong with teasing
him a little, letting him think I've succumbed to his charms. I'll
give him a taste, fuel his desire, and then I'll have him right
where I want him.

He tightens his hold on my hip, pulling me
closer to him. His other hand moves to the shoulder of my shirt,
yanking it aside so he can continue his soft march of kisses. I
shiver involuntarily.

“Calder,” I whisper. “Perhaps we should—” I
gasp as he nips at me with his teeth.

“Is that what you really want?” he says
against my skin. His hand moves forward along the neckline of my
shirt, his fingers skimming just beneath the edge of the fabric. He
slides the garment off my shoulder, exposing the top curve of my
breast.

“You have such beautiful breasts,” he says,
his mouth against my ear once more. His hand moves lower, gliding
over one of my breasts and then the other, his touch
featherlight.

My breathing is shallow, uneven. I know I
should stop him, take back control of the situation, but I don't.
In this moment I'm not even sure I want to.

“Feel the frustration building?” he breathes
against my ear.

His hand moves lower and lower, with such
agonizing slowness that I have to struggle to keep from pressing
back against him. His fingers graze my nipple. I stiffen as he
takes the nub and rolls it gently between his forefinger and
thumb.

“It's subtle at first,” he whispers, giving a
soft pull. “Your blood pumping faster, your skin becoming more
sensitive. The beginning of an ache between your legs.”

His fingers become more insistent, pinching
and tugging at my nipple.

“That's where we want to focus. On that
ache.”

I close my eyes and let my head roll back
against his shoulder. My nipple is rock hard beneath his touch, and
still he massages it, pulling and twisting to the point of pain. I
should tell him to stop, but I don't.

And then, suddenly, his fingers release me. A
sound of protest escapes me before I can stop it, and Calder
chuckles into my hair.

“We're not done yet,” he says.

He moves to the other breast, pulling it
halfway out of the shirt so that he can reach the nipple. He
repeats his rolling and pulling until that one, too, is hard and
sensitive against his rougher skin.

“It builds slowly,” he murmurs into my hair.
“But little by the little the ache grows stronger, more
insistent.”

He moves his hand from my hip and across my
upper thigh, stopping at the place where my legs meet. He pushes
down softly, just enough to press the fabric of the skirt against
my most sensitive spot.

“What, then, is the cause of this
frustration?” he breathes. “What's the cure?” His hand slides
further between my legs. I push back against him involuntarily, and
he tightens his grip on me, keeping me hard against him. I can feel
his arousal through his clothes.

His hand continues to move against me, back
and forth across the fabric between my legs.

“You can't ignore it now,” he says. “You
can't think of anything else. It's more than an ache, now. It's a
hunger. A need.”

He stops touching me, but only to tug up the
edge of my skirt and slide his hand beneath it. His fingers dance
over the skin of my inner thigh, tracing the same path my own
fingers followed last night. He touches the fabric of my panties,
and then he shifts them aside, slipping his fingers beneath. I
shiver when his touch meets my bare flesh.

I need to stop him. I need to pull away. I
need to control this situation. But I can't make myself move. I can
no longer pretend I don't feel an intense attraction for him, and I
can't ignore the sensations coursing through my body, across my
skin. I'm reckless, wild, free—just as I was in the passageway last
night.

“So wet already,” he whispers in my ear. His
hand moves slowly—too slowly. I squirm against him, trying to shift
against his touch, looking for the friction I so desperately
crave.

“Not so fast,” he says, pulling his hand
away. “We're doing this at my pace.”

I still, and he resumes his agonizing
touches, his fingers sliding along my folds. This is exciting him,
too, I can tell. His breath is short and shallow and hot against my
ear, and I can feel his heartbeat galloping away against my back.
He gives me another yank back, drawing me harder against his
arousal.

“The ache is growing more desperate now. You
don't know how much longer you can stand it. All you can think
about is relieving that tension, finding release.”

He slips the end of his finger inside of me,
and I whimper.

“You're so close,” he says, his voice ragged,
his finger moving slowly in and out of me. “But that just makes it
worse. You're hot with need, aching for release, and the more the
frustration builds and builds, the farther away it seems.”

It's all I can do not to grind against his
hand, but I won't beg for it. Not from him, no matter how much I
want it. My legs tremble beneath me, and if it weren't for his arms
around me, I wouldn't be able to stand. My entire body is on fire,
alive with need and frustration just as he claims.

“Tell me what you want, Lily,” he whispers.
“Tell me.” He slips a second finger inside of me, and I moan.

I want to touch him. I want him to feel this
desperation, too. I start to reach around behind me, but he
tightens his hold and closes any last sliver of space between
us.

“No,” he says gently. “This is about you.
What you want.”

I
want
to touch him, to make him melt
beneath my hands. I want to see the wickedness I know I'll find in
his eyes. But I can't find the words to say that out loud. Instead,
I close my hand over his hand between my legs and press against it.
I want him to stop the slow, cruel movements of his fingers and
instead ram them inside of me.