Page 30 of Only the Wicked (The Sinful State #1)
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sydney
I still. Uncertain.
Where’s the guy from the trail? The smiling, laughing, down-to-earth guy? Because this guy is one I halfway expect to dangle handcuffs and a blindfold.
Is this his way of acquiring control? Is he testing me?
Did Crawford say something to him that set off insecurities? David is such an insecure prick I wouldn’t put it past him to brag about his sexual conquest.
And if that’s what happened, has Rhodes dismissed my value? Determined he can treat me however he wants because I’m no longer his perceived equal?
Fuck that.
But remember, none of this is real. You’re playing a role Syd. Red Sparrow 101.
Still, you have to be believable, and the best way to be believable is to wrap the lie in honesty.
“I don’t think I like your tone.”
He leans back on the sofa, thighs spread, as he palms his crotch. I follow the movement, the outline of the bulge, mesmerized by the subtle movement over his length.
My skin prickles and heat pools between my legs.
My mind reels, spinning. We’ve gone from my sharing something deeply private to sex.
Whiplash.
“Clothes.” His low, gravelly tone churns through any remote restraint.
If this were real, I might tell him to fuck off and I’d block his number on the way to the lobby.
But it’s not real.
You’ve shared so much of the real you. How would he expect you to behave right now?
“What’s going on? Is this how you think you can treat me?” There’s a rawness to my tone, a vulnerability that I both hate for its existence and applaud for the authenticity.
He blinks. His fingers stretch wide, the space between them allowing air, stretching corded muscles.
“Dammit, Sydney.” His jaw flexes, but otherwise, he’s impassive, cold. “I had a shit afternoon. And that was before I walked into the lobby and had it thrown in my face I don’t know you well.”
The raw truth grates.
I swallow, my gaze locked with his, my heart racing so fast there’s an ache beneath my breast bone.
“I hate the idea of you with a putz like Crawford. That’s pretty cave man of me, huh?”
“Obviously.”
The new Prada heels I tried on earlier come into view, and in two strides, I’m slipping into them.
“You’re leaving?”
He spits out the words but his expression tells me he’s too arrogant to believe I’d actually do it.
And he’s right, but for the wrong reasons.
“If I’m going to strip for you, I might as well wear these sexy as fuck heels you overpaid for, don’t you agree? I mean, these shoes cost what? A thousand dollars?”
If he wants to play power games, I’ll give him exactly what he thinks he wants. Control the narrative, Syd. Make him think he’s winning while you figure out your next move.
With the swiftness of the Santa Ana winds, his glower transitions from cold to heated.
“Whatever those shoes cost, they’re worth it.”
I undo the first button on my blouse.
“Easy for a guy who can afford this suite to say.”
With the third button, the silky blouse falls open.
He swallows; gaze locked on my chest. “You haven’t asked me much about that.”
“Your business does well. What is there to ask?”
The blouse flutters to the floor.
Cool air dances through the mesh lace. His gaze rakes over the exposed skin.
“What about you? Unemployed and vacationing at one of the most expensive inns in North Carolina.”
I wondered if he’d thought about that.
“A gift to myself.”
My fingers work the zipper on the back of my skirt.
“I work hard. I can afford it.”
It’s true. All those years abroad on the CIA’s dime, I stashed almost everything I earned. Until everything went to shit. All thanks to a yet-discovered someone.
The smooth silk liner glides over my butt cheeks, the outer curves of my thighs, and whooshes to the floor, raising goosebumps in its wake.
“Jesus, look at you.” His voice is thick with appreciation.
My shoulders lift, my back arches, and I stand before him, chin raised, proud.
On autopilot, I enter his vicinity, standing between his spread legs, looking down on him.
His dark gaze meets mine, and I kneel.
The stretch in my calves burns. My knees flatten on the rug, and my palms flatten on each of his muscular thighs.
His hands fall to his sides and his knees spread, making room.
“Who are you Sydney Parker?”
I lick my lower lip and reach for his belt buckle.
As my fingers press into the soft, buttery leather, he unbuttons his shirt and removes it, tossing it on the far end of the sofa.
When I unbutton his pants, he leans forward and cups my breast inside the lace. My nipple swells with his rough touch.
“On my lap.”
I follow his command, gaze locked on his lips, my mouth watering, my sex needy.
With my legs on each side of his thighs and the sharp points of my heels aimed behind me, I grind my hips over his groin, earning a guttural groan.
“Who are you, Rhodes MacMillan?”
His fingers tangle with my hair and he directs me down until our mouths meet.
Our kiss is hungry. Nothing is soft as we press into each other. If anything, a battle wages for dominance. For control. A competition.
It’s no wonder. We’re two alpha souls.
Heat encompasses my core, over my panties. The silk seam tugs tight, digging into my hip, and the tip of his finger dips inside.
Sensations swirl and my hips undulate.
His finger withdraws. There’s a tight pull, a sharp pain, and the panties fall loose.
I break the frantic kiss, needing to see.
“You ripped my panties,” I say, taking in my naked bottom half draped over his trousers, and the black lace looped around his fingers.
“Who was the guy from the FBI?”