His Wicked Games (His Wicked Games #1) (12 page)

This is a bad idea
, a tiny voice in my
head reminds me.
Stop him. Push him away. You're supposed to be
the one in control. You're supposed to get him to…

But for the life of me I can't seem to think
of anything but the feel of his flesh on mine, the hardness of him
at my back, the ache of pleasure building between my legs. I want
him to touch me. To tug and push and pinch at my flesh. To take me
to the brink and back.

Fuck all the rest.

I press harder against his hand. He obeys my
silent order, moving his fingers more quickly. The heel of his hand
finally slides against my clit, and I shudder.

“You're close,” he observes. “The tension has
swelled and swelled and there's only one way out. You'll do
anything for release. Anything to ease this frustration. Your body
is ready for it, tense for that one touch that will take you over
the edge.”

Yes!
my mind screams.
Yes! Take me
over the edge!

“Tell me what you want, Lily,” he asks again,
his voice deep and throaty.

“Do it,” I rasp. “Please…”

I'm shaking. Just one more touch, one more
ounce of pressure. I'm so close, so close…

But instead he releases me, so suddenly that
I nearly fall over. I reach out and catch myself against the wall
before my trembling legs collapse beneath me. I still ache,
terribly, between my legs. I was there, right on the cusp of
letting go. Why did he stop?

I turn, still leaning against the wall for
support. Calder stands behind me, his shirt rumpled and his hair
disheveled. He looks so fucking sexy I want to throw myself at him.
His eyes are half closed, darker than usual, but I don't miss the
devilish gleam in their depths.

“What—what was that?” I ask, my voice hardly
more than a squeak.

He steps closer. For a brief, fluttering
moment I think he means to finish the job, but instead he only
brings his lips to my ear once more.

“That,” he says huskily, “is the frustration
I see in the painting.”

<<>>

What the
fuck
just happened?

I lean against the wall, trying to catch my
breath, while Calder holds his hand out to me as if we were just
having a perfectly normal conversation.

“Ready for the rest of the tour?”

Like fuck I am. I can hardly stand upright.
He just had his fingers inside me and now he wants to pretend like
none of it ever happened? My breasts are still hanging out, for
fuck's sake.

I straighten and quickly yank my dress back
up.

“What the hell was that?” I say.

He withdraws his hand. “A lesson.”

“A
lesson
?”

“You asked me why this painting was my
favorite. I was only answering you.” He rubs his jaw. “You seemed
to be enjoying it well enough.”

“You too,” I counter, but honestly he doesn't
look half as flustered as I feel. How the fuck did he manage that?
I know he wants me too, that he was aroused by the way I let him
touch me.

“Is this some sort of sick game?”

“Not at all,” he says, leaning toward me
again and dropping his voice. “I only wanted you to realize how
much you want me.”

I open my mouth to deny it, but I know it's a
lost cause. I can't bluff my way out of this, and Calder knows it.
He's watching me with an infuriating mixture of smugness and
amusement. I can't decide which I want more: to slap him or to grab
him and kiss him.

His dark eyes are scanning my face, waiting
for acknowledgment of my attraction. Despite the fact that I
basically begged him to make me come only about a minute ago—not to
mention my other behavior of the last twenty-four hours—I can't
bring myself to say the words. Not now. Instead, I push myself away
from the wall and extend my hand to him.

“I'm ready to continue our tour,” I say. “I
imagine there's a lot left to see.”

I'm rewarded, briefly, by the look of
surprise that flashes on his face. He recovers quickly, but it
makes me feel better to know I've knocked him off balance, if only
for a moment.

He takes my hand.

“There's lots more to see,” he says
cheerfully. “Where would you like to go next? The stables? The
kitchen?” He flashes a flirtatious smile at me. “Maybe you'd like
to visit one of those secret passages? I think you'd find it quite
stimulating.”

I feel like someone's dumped a bucket of cold
water on my head. He’s toying with me. He has to be.

My eyes leap to his, and he's still wearing
that self-satisfied smile. He has me in his power, and he knows it.
He's enjoying it.

There's only one way to fight that.

“The secret passageway sounds amazing,” I
say. “Let's start there.”

If my quick agreement surprises him, he
doesn’t show it.

“Of course,” he says, holding out his arm to
me. “This way.”

I hook my hand around his elbow, praying that
he doesn't notice how shaky I still am. His skin is fire-hot
beneath my touch, but he appears perfectly calm and collected. The
bastard. He must get off on making me squirm.

He leads me from the gallery, and as we pass
a long window I crane my neck to peer outside. The sky is still
dark, the rain still pouring down. Thunder rumbles in the distance,
suggesting that the storm won't be ending anytime soon.

How much longer I can survive in this place
with Calder, I don't know, but one thing's for sure: I'm in way
over my head.

* * *

I spend the afternoon in my room, thankful
for the time to myself. Calder's gone off to take care of some
“business,” though what that could possibly mean from him—a guy
who's never had to work a day in his life—beats me. Maybe he hopes
to break more of his father's promises.

There’s a knock on my door about an hour
after I’ve retired, and for a moment I think he’s come to tease me
some more. I consider pretending to be asleep, but I refuse to play
the coward. Instead I run a hand through my hair, smooth the
wrinkles out of my skirt, and pull open the door with a smile.

It’s not Calder. Instead, I find a tray of
food waiting for me. I stick my head out and glance down the
hallway, but whoever left this here has already gone. It’s
funny—all this time I’ve been here I’ve only seen Calder and Chef
Martin. In a house this size, I expect it would take a small army
to keep things running smoothly, but instead the place feels
deserted.

In the end, I decide not to eat the food. I
don’t have much of an appetite, anyway. I’m too distracted.

I sink down on the bed and throw my arm
across my eyes. I don't know what I'm doing here. I've only made
our mess worse, and now I've played right into Calder's hands. This
is not how things were supposed to go.

I can still feel his touch on my skin, feel
the heat of his breath along my neck. I found Garrett attractive,
but I never responded to him like this. This thing—this crazy,
twisted thing—is way more intense. I feel like I'm dangling over
the edge of some bottomless chasm, and that terrifies me.

The worst part is, I can’t seem to fully
convince myself that Calder is a bad idea. I mean, of course he's
not a
good
idea, but when it comes down to it, the whole
situation is more complicated than that. Yes, he's not exactly
boyfriend material, but I never claimed to be into him for his
personality. And what do I gain from staying away from him? He's
not going to change his mind about the Center because I refuse to
sleep with him. And if pride played any part in my resistance
before, it doesn't anymore. There's no denying my attraction, not
now. He knows I want him. A part of me wants to march down to him
right this minute and grab him and kiss him. And why not? A girl
deserves the chance to do something crazy every once in a
while.

But I'm still hoping I might find a way to
wear him down on the issue of the Center. If I could get under his
skin, as he's gotten under mine…

He seems to enjoy our little power games. I
just need to figure out how beat him.

My cell goes off, interrupting my plotting.
It's Garrett.

I debate just letting it go to voicemail, but
I'm in a reckless mood.

“Hello?” I answer as neutrally as I can.

“Lils.” Garrett's voice is thick with relief.
“Listen, about earlier… I was being an ass. I'm sorry.”

I don't respond.

“Look,” he rushes on. “I shouldn't have said
those things. I didn't mean them. You know I didn't mean them. And
you know how much you and the Center mean to me.”

It's a typical apology for Garrett—meant, no
doubt, to soften my heart a little and play on my sympathy. A year
ago, I would have eaten it up, but I know better now.

“You're allowed to turn me down,” I say
carefully. “I know it wasn't exactly fair to ask you for anything.
You don't owe me any favors.”

“Actually, I think I do. And it wasn't fair
of me to go off on you when you're already under so much pressure.
I'm sorry, Lils. I know how much this means to you. I'll help you.
Of course I'll help you.”

This kind, groveling Garrett scares me more
than the bitter, angry one from this morning, but beggars can't be
choosers.

“All right,” I say. “Maybe the Center has a
shot after all.” I pick at the corner of the fluffy white
comforter. “Will you call the Center and let Dad know? He might
have a game plan for you.”

“You're not at the Center?”

“No, I'm—I'm in Barberville. Pursuing a
lead.”

“All the way in Barberville?”

“We're desperate,” I tell him
matter-of-factly. “And on that note, I should go. I have something
I need to take care of. Call Dad, okay?”

“Of course.” He pauses. “I miss you, Li—”

“Bye,” I say quickly. I hang up before he can
respond and throw the phone back down on the pillow.

That could have been worse
, I tell
myself.
He's agreed to help you. The Center might have a
fighting chance now. You should be thrilled.

But if that were true, then why do I feel so
uneasy?

* * *

After much deliberation, I decide to dress up
for dinner. Maybe it makes me look desperate to sport a snug little
black dress and strappy heels after what happened this morning, but
I feel sexy and powerful when I walk into the dining room, and one
look at Calder's expression tells me I've made the right decision.
He can toy with me if he wants, but I'm going to toy right back. If
this is a game of cat-and-mouse, then he needs to prepare himself
for a mouse with a few weapons of her own.

I sit down next to him, pretending to be
oblivious to the way his eyes skim over my body.

“Would you like some wine?” he asks me. “Or
would you prefer whiskey again?”

“Whiskey sounds good,” I reply. I need some
liquid courage.

He rises to go to the liquor cabinet, and I
allow myself a peek at his backside as he walks away. After
everything that's happened in the past twenty-four hours, I can't
help but admire the way he fills out his pants. He, too, seems to
have chosen nicer clothes for this particular meal. In his dark
slacks and pressed sapphire shirt, this is the first time he
actually looks the part of the billionaire playboy. He turns back
around, and I quickly look down at my empty plate. I won't let him
catch me checking him out.

“You look very nice this evening,” he says
when he returns to the table.

“Nice?”

He presses the glass of whiskey into my hand,
and his fingers linger against my wrist.

“Breathtaking,” he says, his voice low.

It's the reaction I was hoping for, but I'm
not sure how to respond. Instead I raise the glass to my lips,
effectively extricating myself from his touch in the same
motion.

“I hope you had a pleasant afternoon,” he
says when I lower the whiskey again.

“Very relaxing.” I don't want him to think I
agonized over what happened in the gallery. “I hope yours was
productive as well.”

“Productive, yes, I suppose. But not
particularly enjoyable.”

I refuse to take the bait and ask him why he
didn't enjoy himself.

“That's good.” I unfold my napkin and spread
it across my lap. When I'm done, I reach out for my whiskey again,
but instead of raising it to my lips, I slide my middle finger
along the rim of the glass. His eyes follow the motion.

“You know,” he says, his gaze still locked on
the lazy, circular motions of my finger, “you never delivered on
our bet.”

My finger freezes. “Excuse me?”

“You owe me a kiss,” he says.

“I paid more than my share.”

“Perhaps. But you never kissed me, and that
was our bargain.”

I roll my eyes, but I'm saved from having to
respond immediately by the door flying open at the far end of the
room. Martin leads a cart of food into the room and wheels it over
to us.

“Mr. Cunningham!” he booms down the length of
the room. “Ms. Frazer! You're going to love what I've cooked up for
you tonight.”

Neither of us says a word as Martin unveils
tonight's feast. I keep my eyes carefully on my glass, and Calder
keeps his eyes on me.

The chef is too cunning to miss the tension
between us.

“Delicious food always softens the heart,” he
says casually as he serves the salad. “Things always look better
when there's a good meal in your belly.” He turns to Calder. “I'll
leave the rest on the cart for you, sir. Let me know if you need
anything else.”

“Thank you, Martin,” Calder says, but his
eyes never move from me.

The chef turns and walks back down the room.
Happy for the chance to change the subject, I dive right into the
question I’ve been pondering all afternoon.

“Where is everyone else?”

“Who?”

“There weren’t any security guards at your
gate,” I say. “And I haven’t seen anyone but you and Martin since I
set foot in this house.”