His Wicked Games (His Wicked Games #1) (7 page)

And just a couple of hours ago, he hinted
he wanted to take you to bed
, I remind myself. I could be in
there with him right now, if I wanted, with my fingers running
across those smooth muscles. I could—

I jerk back from the spy holes. What am I
even thinking? I hate this guy. Okay, so he’s moderately
attractive. I've already acknowledged that to myself. But I made
the right decision. I don't regret turning him down.

Still, I can't keep myself from moving my
eyes to the spy holes again, nor can I ignore the heat that rushes
up my neck.

He's a selfish bastard
, I remind
myself.

He turns, and I have a clear view of his
perfectly sculpted back.

Damn
. I'm in trouble.

He wanders over to a cabinet at the side of
the room and pulls out a bottle of amber liquid. I watch his every
movement, breathless, as he pours himself a glass. He takes it down
in one swig and slams the glass down against the table. Then he
lets out a long sigh and runs his hand through his hair. My own
fingers tingle as I imagine wrapping them around those dark, wet
strands, then sliding down his—

NO
. What the hell am I doing? I have
more self-control than this.

But I’m drawn back to the spy holes like a
magnet. Try as I might to deny it, I can no longer lie to myself:
Calder is an extremely attractive man, asshole or not.

Not just attractive
, I think as I
watch him pour himself another glass.
Insanely-fucking-sexy.

I’d like to think that I’m different from all
the other women who seem to just fall at his feet. That I won’t
allow myself to be distracted by pecs and abs and bulging biceps.
That I won’t allow myself to be taken in by a jerk who just happens
to have a charming smile. I’ve been there with Garrett. I won’t
make the same mistake a second time.

But there’s no reason I can’t fantasize a
little
, I tell myself. I'll never actually let him touch
me.

Calder’s still standing next to the
sideboard, his hand on his glass. His shoulders are tense, his
muscles tight, his eyes focused on some invisible distance. I itch
to go in there, to rub his shoulders and help him relax, but I
quickly fight down the urge. It’s no wonder he’s tense, after the
way he’s handled the Center—and undoubtedly other organizations as
well.

But in spite of myself, I imagine my fingers
sliding over his chest, tracing those smooth muscles, sliding down
the hard shape of his body. I want to feel the heat of him, know
the velvet softness of his skin beneath my touch. My heartbeat
quickens as I picture the path my fingers would take across his
flesh.

Calder is completely oblivious to my
thoughts. After a moment he turns and moves back toward the bed,
glass in hand. I watch his muscles shift beneath his skin as he
moves.

He puts his drink on the nightstand and picks
up an electronic tablet. He turns toward the television and presses
the tablet screen a few times. The channel changes with every tap
of his finger. When he's found something he likes, he sets the
tablet back on the nightstand. His hand moves to his towel.

My breath catches in my throat as he pulls it
away from his waist. Suddenly he's completely naked, and I have a
full-on view of his backside.

Dear sweet mother of pearl.

He’s a freaking god.

A moan from the television is the only thing
that could tear my eyes away from that hard body. I glance up at
the flat screen, and my heart just about stops when I realize
what's he's watching. There are two naked women on the screen, and
one's straddling the other, her hands roaming over her partner's
breasts.

I jerk away from the spy holes again. I know
I shouldn't be shocked—people watch porn, after all.
I’ve
watched porn, though honestly I prefer romance novels to sleazy
movies most of the time. But it's one thing to watch a dirty film
in the privacy of my apartment with my vibrator in my hand and
quite another to watch a gorgeous man watch porn from a secret
passageway.

I lean against the wall. Through the
paneling, I can hear more moans and heavy breathing coming from the
television. I also hear the soft give of a mattress—Calder climbing
into bed.

I should go. This is wrong, standing hear
listening to this, spying on Calder as he… as he… But I can't seem
to move my feet. My blood is rushing in my ears. There's an ache
beginning to form between my legs, and it keeps me frozen against
the wall.

In the bedroom, I hear Calder exhale a long
breath. One of the women on the television begins squealing. I
can't help it. I'm drawn to the spy holes once more.

Calder lounges on the bed, his hand around
his long, hard length. My entire body goes hot at the sight of him
touching himself. His hand slides steadily up and down. The ache
between my legs sharpens into a throbbing.

I should go, but it's too late now. I'm
riveted by the sight in front of me. I can't turn away. I slip the
hand that doesn't hold my phone beneath the waistband of my pajama
bottoms. My fingers slide between my legs, seeking the core of my
building frustration. I'm already getting wet, and my flesh quivers
at even that first, light touch.

My eyes move to the television again. The
woman on top leans forward and closes her mouth around her
partner's nipple. My own nipples stiffen beneath my pajama top.
What would Calder do if he knew I was here? If he knew I was
growing aroused at the same movie he watched, at the sight of his
hand around himself? I slide my phone into my pocket and move that
hand up under my top to tease one of my nipples. In my mind it's
his hand, his fingers pinching and pulling and twisting. In my mind
I'm in his room, next to him on the bed, and it's my hand wrapped
around him, sliding up and down his length.

The ache between my legs is building to the
point of pain.

In the room, Calder's hand begins to pump a
little faster. His breathing has quickened with his movements. My
own breathing is short and shallow. I can't see his face, but I
remember the way his eyes burned into mine, the hunger I saw in
their depths. He wanted me. Maybe he wants me still. Maybe it's me
he's thinking of now, just as I'm thinking of him. I move my hand
further between my legs and slip one finger inside.

On the screen, the girls appear to follow my
lead. The one on top has moved aside just enough to be able to
reach between her partner's legs. The other girl moans and writhes
against her.

Calder makes a sound in his throat. He's
getting close. I am, too. It's all I can do to fight back the moan
forming in my own throat. This is wrong, so very wrong, but I can't
help myself. I can't remember the last time I was this aroused by
anything. The wickedness of it all just makes my body respond all
the more.

On the bed, Calder sucks in a breath. I slump
against the wall, no longer able to watch and hold myself upright
at the same time. I increase the speed and pressure of the hand
between my legs. I'm no longer concerned about hiding the heavy
sound of my breathing. I'm too far gone to care.

I want him. Fuck it, I want him. I don't care
if he's a selfish jerk. I still want him. I want him to throw me up
against the wall and ram his fingers inside of me. I want him to
make me scream.

Climax hits me hard, rushing over me with
such intensity that I let out a moan before I can stop myself. I
freeze, my wet hand still between my legs, waves of pleasure still
shuddering through my body. My legs are shaking. I stay against the
wall, unable to move, terrified. There's no way he didn't hear my
moan. No way.

I wait for a secret door to come flying open,
for Calder to burst into the passageway and catch me at my spying,
but nothing happens.

Maybe he thought my sound of pleasure had
come from one of the actresses on the television. Maybe he was so
caught up in his own pleasure that he thought he'd imagined it.

The euphoria is fading from me now, and with
it reality sets in: I just spied on Calder while he touched
himself. I just watched that, and I was so aroused by the whole
thing that I touched myself, too.

I force myself away from the wall. My heart
is careening wildly and my legs are still trembling, but I can't
stay here. I can't believe what I've done. I can't believe I let it
get this far. I hurry down the passageway, back toward my room.

This never happened
, I tell
myself.

Still, I can tell already that my body won't
let me forget this anytime soon.

* * *

Morning comes too quickly. My hair is still
wet from the shower I took after returning to my room last night,
but I don't care. I switch out of Louisa's pajamas and back into my
clothes from yesterday. They're stiff and crusty from the dried
mud, but that doesn't matter. I'm eager to get out of here as soon
as I can. If I can sneak out without running into Calder, then all
the better. He doesn't really deserve more than a thank-you note, I
tell myself. Not after what he's done to the Center. It's cowardly,
I know, but I don't know how to face him, not after last night. I
don't think I can look at him again after what I've done.

But luck isn't on my side. When I open the
door to the hallway, hoping to slip out quietly, I find myself face
to face with Calder. He stands there in front of me, fist raised as
if he'd been about to knock on my door. A slow smile slips across
his lips.

“Well look at that,” he says. “Perfect
timing.” His eyes slide down my body, and his smile fades as he
takes in my clothes. “Why are you wearing that? Certainly you can
find something clean that fits you.”

My stomach flips, and not entirely because of
his scrutiny—though admittedly that stings, too. I can't look at
him without remembering last night, without picturing him naked and
lounging on his bed, his hand around his hard length. Without
recalling how much it had aroused me. My body reacts even now to
the memory, and I reach out and grab the door frame to hide the
fact that my legs are quivering.

“I… I thank you for your hospitality,” I say.
“But I really need to be going.”

His frown deepens. “You can't go anywhere.
Haven't you looked outside?”

My fingers tighten on the doorframe. I throw
a glance over my shoulder, back toward the long windows on the far
side of the room. One of the curtains is slightly ajar, and through
that sliver I can see that the sky is still gray and rainy. I
hadn't even considered the possibility that the storm might still
be raging outside. How long am I going to be trapped here?

Calder is studying me.

“There's no need to look so upset. There's
breakfast waiting downstairs. You haven't lived until you've tried
Martin's French toast.”

I'm still a little shaken by the thought that
I'm going to be stuck here another day. I can't look him in the
face. I can hardly speak to him. I just keep seeing him naked, keep
hearing the moans from the women on the television. Even now, my
body has started to react once more. I want to slam the door in
Calder's face. I want to run back to the bed, throw the covers over
my head, and hide until I forget what I've done. Until the heat
leaves my skin and I feel like a normal person again.

But no—freaking out won't solve anything. I
force myself to take a deep breath. Calder's given no sign that he
knows I watched him last night, and my weirdness will only tip him
off. I have to be calm. Pretend it never happened. Put on a smile
and act like I don't feel more awkward than I've ever felt in my
entire life.

“Let—let me change,” I say. “I'll be right
down.”

“I'll wait. I don't expect you to find your
way there by yourself.”

I can't argue with that, so I give him a nod
and retreat to the closet. I let myself browse through my clothing
options for longer than I should, but it gives me a minute to
settle down.

You can do this
, I tell myself.
Forget about last night. He'll never know what happened.
Remember what he's doing to the Center. Remember how much you hate
him.

It helps, somewhat, to embrace the anger.
That
I can deal with. I select a casual day dress from the
rack and quickly change. I've got to face him sooner or later, and
putting it off isn't going to make it any easier.

Calder flashes one of his charming smiles
when he sees me.

“Another fine choice,” he says, giving me an
appreciative once-over. I ignore the flutters in my stomach.

“Thank you,” I reply. I force myself to take
the arm he offers, but when he closes his hand over mine, all I can
think about it how I watched that same hand move up and down
himself last night. My skin burns under his fingers, but I can't
pull away without looking rude or suspicious.

We walk in silence. His thumb brushes against
the back of my palm, and I can't tell if it's an intentional caress
or an accident.

The Center might close because of him
,
I remind myself over and over and over again.

“I trust you slept well?” he says, his
fingers tightening on mine.

“Fine, thank you,” I squeak out.

“Good.” I sense him watching me out of the
corner of my eye. “If there’s anything I can do to make your stay
here more enjoyable, please let me know. The satisfaction of my
guests is very important to me.”

The way he says
satisfaction
sends a
shiver through me. I pray he doesn’t feel it through our
interlinked hands.

Breakfast is even worse. I can't even
appreciate the amazing French toast because I'm so aware of
Calder's every movement. I'm afraid he'll touch me again,
accidentally or otherwise, and every time his skin brushes against
mine, I remember the way I longed for that very contact last night,
how I imagined his hands on me instead of my own. My knuckles are
white around my fork. I'm going to go insane unless I can trick
myself into thinking about something else.