Page 9 of Only the Wicked (The Sinful State #1)

Chapter Seven

Rhodes

Subtle shifts in the restaurant crowd reflect the late evening hour. A crowd of five or six gathers before the hostess stand. Staff hurry to bus tables. My glass is half empty. Syd’s still in the restroom. I check my wrist. Five minutes.

Is there a line? No, no one else has come or gone from the hallway.

Did she escape through a back door?

Calm yourself down.

She’s into this. Undeniable chemistry buzzed between us through dinner. She prompted sexual innuendo.

I pull out my phone.

I shouldn’t. It’s an addiction.

Although, with Sydney sitting across from me, the urge to check it didn’t strike. Highly unusual.

Not really, though. I want sex.

She’s been gone for five minutes and I’m still hard. Not painfully so, but there’s no doubt I’m aroused by her, by the thought of getting her out of that dress, teasing her nipples, discovering exactly where she craves touch.

I hold the phone to my mouth while keeping a watchful eye on the hallway entrance Sydney entered.

“Find out everything you can on Sydney Parker, born in Chicago. Current Washington D.C. resident.”

I squint to see if voice diction got it right and hit send.

She’ll probably get back to me with a need for her middle name. Place of employment. Physical address. Email address. Phone number.

“Hey dipshit? What the hell? You think there’s only one Sydney Parker?” I can hear Daisy’s screech.

I’ll ask for her phone number. That’ll play well. And it’ll be good to have. I’m here until Friday.

What the hell is Sydney doing in the restroom?

I scan through notifications.

I’m on vacation. I should flip the phone over. Put it in my pocket.

In my periphery, I see her slender silhouette exit, and I openly ogle her as she approaches.

The bright flush from earlier has faded. Her dark waves brush her shoulders, and her lips bear a faint pink gloss. For the briefest of seconds, I imagine the pink stain on my cock.

The connection between us thrums, and the rest of the world fades.

It’s been a long time since I wanted someone this badly.

As she slides into the booth, I wiggle my phone.

“Before I forget, can I get your number?”

Her cheeks flush a deeper crimson and the splotch on the crest of her collarbone returns. She runs her fingers through her strands, ruffling the smooth curtain.

“Sure.” She digs her phone out of her brown leather handbag, directs her phone to mine, presses, and I glance down to see a notification light my screen. “I just texted you.”

I forget sometimes how easy Apple makes it to exchange information. For that matter, how much information we can collect on an individual. It’s just as well. My company wouldn’t exist without the wealth of data to mine.

I slip on my glasses, open her information, select create new contact, and under company name, type in “Highlands Hottie.” Memory cues. The older I get, the more necessary they become.

She exudes confidence, but when she batted her eyelashes and reminded me she’s between jobs, I picked up on her underlying insecurities.

We all have them. If I was unemployed, I’d be insecure.

Hell, when I dropped out of business school, I became deeply insecure.

Ultimately, I proved the doubters wrong and hit an untapped market with perfect timing.

All I really needed was the Stanford degree for doors to open.

One day I expect Harvard will give me an honorary degree, at least, if I get around to donating the funds for an AI research and training center.

For the most part, over dinner we successfully skirt all work-life conversation.

She’s an only child, like me. Her close friends live in either Southern California, Chicago, or the D.C.

area. She doesn’t care for San Francisco, which, truth be told, neither do I.

Like me, she prefers the Seattle vibe. And like me, she’s a novice vacationer.

My holiday find possesses a healthy appreciation for alternative rock.

Linkin Park, Green Day, Foo Fighters, Evanescence, The Strokes, Blink-182, Red Hot Chili Peppers—she likes them all.

I’m not familiar with Chappell Roan, but I promised to check her out.

With Billie Eilish, we agreed to disagree.

She said she’s always wanted to listen to Dave Grohl’s Storyteller memoir, and I shared that it’s worth her time, and that I listened to it on a business trip to Saudi Arabia last year. Business…it always leaks in.

As we wait for the check, I ask, “What’s your favorite film?”

“ Almost Famous . Yours?”

“ A Complete Unknown .”

“That’s a new one,” she says, sounding surprised.

“Yeah it is. And next year I’ll probably have a new favorite.”

“Interesting. I wouldn’t have expected that.”

Her comment strikes me as odd. What did I do that made her expect I’d have the same favorite movie into eternity? The server arrives, and the question of what she meant slips away.

Uncertainty strikes as we exit the restaurant.

It’s barely nine as we walk down Church Street.

The faint scent of honeysuckle floats on the breeze, and laughter and conversation converge into a low hum on the sidewalks as tourists mill about.

A line extends from the one ice cream shop in town, and a blue haze descends over the mountains in the distance as the setting sun lingers, casting an ethereal, otherworldly glow.

With the idyllic small-town thoroughfare to our back, I hold the lobby door to the inn for her. A young woman with freckles behind the reception desk smiles a greeting.

“Thank you for dinner,” Sydney says when we’re out of earshot of the reception desk and at the juncture leading to the suites.

I slow my steps, placing a hand on her lower back, closing the distance between us. “Do you mind if I see you to your room?”

“That’s not necessary. The inn is safe and I can take care of myself.” She smiles, but I can’t help feeling that she’s teasing.

I make a show of leaning back to eye her scraped knee, which I can’t see as it’s covered by her dress, but she gets my point. “Are you sure about that?” Her grin widens. “I’d feel so much better if I saw you safely to your door.”

Her eyes narrow into slits. It’s the wide smile and the coquettish tilt of her head that lets me know I’m headed upstairs.

“Eagle Scout, remember? Southern gentleman.”

“Is Charlotte really part of the south?”

What did she read about the Queen City? “It borders South Carolina. I’d say that’s southern by any definition.”

She releases a dramatic sigh and says, “Okay southern boy, see me home.”

We don’t travel far before she stops at her door. We’re the only two in the hall.

“This is me.”

“You’re not inviting me in?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to come in.”

I open my mouth to argue. “Oh, I?—”

“It’s my time of the month.”

Oh. Disappointment strikes like a rogue wave. That’s why she spent so long in the bathroom. It clicks.

Damn .

My gaze falls to her lips. There’s nothing more awkward than asking for a kiss, but… “A goodnight kiss?” I raise both eyebrows, playfully hopeful.

She twists her body and steps closer, bending her head to look up at me, offering her lips.

Her fingers fall to my chest and I swear her touch singes my skin.

My hand finds its way to the curve of her lower back.

Her eyelids flicker closed and her lips open slightly.

My heart thuds unusually hard, the reverberations noticeable.

It’s just a kiss, Rhodes.

My lips press to hers and a warm buzzing sensation spreads over my extremities as our lips brush lightly, once. Twice. My fingers rise to her nape, tangling with her silky strands, and I gently angle her head.

She opens and I deepen the kiss, consuming sweet hints of our lemony dessert that fuel a desire for more. Her body presses against mine and my hand on her lower back glides lower, over her bottom, pressing her into me.

Fuck. I want her .

This woman can kiss. I love how her tongue flirts with mine, how her breasts feel pressed against my chest, the pressure of her against my now very hard erection.

Voices mingle and footsteps sound.

She breaks the kiss, breathless, lips over her mouth, eyeing me through her lashes with a timid smile.

An older couple pass us in the hall.

“You two make a lovely couple,” the elderly woman says. I cut my gaze to them as they pass in time to see her husband pat her on her butt, likely telling her to keep walking.

Sydney sinks her teeth into her lower, glistening lip.

We share a confessional grin.

“I mean, I guess you could come inside. We could have a drink.”

I’m not interested in alcohol. “There are other things we could do.”

She tilts her head, questioning, reminding me of the current predicament.

“You don’t actually believe that story about Thor, do you?”

I bark out a laugh that echoes down the quiet corridor. She’s referring to the myth that Thor gained immortality by swimming in a river of menstrual blood.

“You like mythology?”

She shrugs like, of course she does. “Who doesn’t?”

This woman. She’s too good to be true.

“You’ve got great taste in music and you like mythology. I definitely want to see you again.”

“I’d like to see you again, too.”

My hand remains stubbornly on her hip. I don’t want to let her go. I’m not ready to say goodnight. It’s still early. And there are things we can do.

“Did you pack your vibrator?” The look she gives me will be seared into my brain for eons. It’s the deep brown eyes, her slight intake of air through her rose-pink lips, the slope of her neck.

“Excuse me?” Those swollen lips spread into an incredulous half-smile.

“Vacation. Lots of women do.”

“And I’m like lots of women?”

“Are you?” My fingers caress her bottom, up and down, shifting the summery fabric over her curve.

“I guess I am.”

Fuck, yes . “Excellent. Then there are definitely things we can do.”