Page 8 of Only the Wicked (The Sinful State #1)

Chapter Six

Rhodes

The blush on her cheeks deepens ten shades. Her trimmed, unpainted nails glide along her slender neck beneath a subtle red burst.

With her shoulders back and her chin at a defiant angle, she’s the picture of a headstrong woman with a modest streak she’d rather hide, but her traitorous body gives her away.

We’re both on vacation. There’s no need to dance around a series of dates or pretend there’s relationship potential.

Perhaps I should give her a reprieve. Shift to mundane conversation. Ask if she’s been scuba diving.

Fuck that .

I lean forward, pushing the place setting back to make room for my folded arms. “Tell me exactly what you believe we have in common.”

Her luscious milk chocolate eyes widen and a silky dark veil of wavy hair swings forward, partially hiding her face, but her gaze never breaks.

I half expect her to retreat to the restroom, and that’s the only reason I don’t give in to the itch to reach across the table and touch those glossy strands.

I wish I was sitting closer, that this table wasn’t between us.

All in good time.

Her shoulders rise and she braces against the bench, pushing up on the vinyl cushion. Using the physical to gather her strength. Fuck, maybe even pressing her thighs together, wanting this as much as I do.

“Orgasms,” she says, the strength of her defiance going straight to my cock.

Holy fuck . Outstanding.

“Plural,” she adds, and with that addition, I’m forced to shift to readjust my pants because my dick is now hard as stone. “I’m a fan of pretty much any path to get there. Slow. Fast.” She tucks the veil behind her ear and licks her lower lip. “Dirty.”

Alright. That does it. Where the fuck is our food? Can I just ask for the check?

As if hearing me, the singsong server appears with our appetizers. The talkative woman makes a production of detailing what we ordered, while the space between Sydney and I smolders.

Orgasms. Plural.

Challenge accepted Ms. Sydney.

Syd.

All we have to do is make it through dinner.

After the server leaves us, I ask, “What’s your last name?”

Her head tilts to the side. “We’re doing last names now?”

A cautionary voice whispers through my conscience. Once she has my last name, she’ll Google me. But what does that matter? I’m not ashamed of who I am. We’re on vacation. I’ll likely never see her again, but I hope to see a lot of her tonight.

“Given what I’m mentally doing to you sitting here right now, sharing last names strikes me as appropriate.”

She lifts her glass. “To last names and wishful dreams.”

Our glasses clink, and our gazes remain locked over the rims as we sip.

Wishful dreams?

A warning sounds in my head. Is she mocking me? Telling me to dream on? Or is she a romantic? Dreaming of a vacation fling lasting into eternity? Neither scenario ranks as good.

“Parker,” she says quietly over the rim of her glass. “Sydney Parker.”

“Does anyone ever call you Syd?”

Syd and sex . Yes, both my heads are going there.

“My parents. Close friends.” She smooths a finger over the crisp white tablecloth. “And your last name?”

“MacMillan. Rhodes MacMillan.”

“Anyone ever call you Mac?”

I stifle a laugh. “Never. Do I look like a Mac?”

She shrugs. “It’s a sports thing. And MacMillan is a mouthful.”

“Well, I tell you what, when it’s just the two of us, if you need to shorten my name to Mac, I’ll allow it.”

I feel her inhale in my tightening chest. Feel her swallow in my groin. I’m damn fucking positive cum leaks from my tip.

She pats the table the way one would pat a dog and slides out of the booth.

“I need the restroom,” she whispers with a demureness that contradicts her earlier dirty innuendo.

She grabs her purse, hips swaying all the way to the restroom. The sundress she’s wearing falls loosely over her ass cheeks, the fabric flirting with her curves. The cropped cardigan I purchased ends just above the small of her back, highlighting the seductive motion of her hips.

Yes, I want her.