Page 35 of These Wicked Games (Wicked Sins #1)

Another photo catches my attention, and I almost can’t believe it.

It’s us. What the hell? It’s us on the Titans and yeah, there are other people from the team, but we’re the focus.

It’s as if we were the ones taking the photo and everyone else joined in.

We look so young, and Oli looks a lot less tired.

I hate what we’ve become. I hate what he thinks of me. I have to convince him.

The door opens, and I flinch away. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I was playing with your clear dildo.” I grin, then I drink him in. Damn, maybe I should have put my jeans back on. I am severely underdressed. “Holy shit, you look hot.”

“I know. I’m gorgeous,” Oli says flatly. “You better have washed it when you were done.”

“I named it. I think we’re in love. Do you use it?”

“It was a gag gift from Atlas for my birthday one year. It’s an inside joke.”

“I love a dildo with lore.” How do I tell him I want to watch him use it? While his tongue is deep in my ass in a sixty-nine. Oh, shit yeah, that’s a vision. “Any chance we can forget about the date and give it a test run?” He blinks at me flatly. “Right. Never mind.”

Now he’s wearing a pair of black slacks, nice shoes, and a dark red sweater that damn near begs attention to those blue fucking eyes. Why did I want to do this instead of riding him?

Stupid. Focus. Romance.

“Are you finished, so we can we get some fucking food?” Maybe asking him to do this was stupid. We could be hot and sweaty right now and I chose this. Still, I follow him, curious what he came up with.

We walk down the stairs, and he’s eying me weirdly, but I ignore him, not so sure what his deal is. Ignoring him works for five seconds before I snap, “What!”

“Are those my clothes?” His voice is low as he surveys me.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. I didn’t want to put my jeans back on. ”

He turns in the hall, grabbing me and hauling me into his arms. I’m so fucking shocked, I moan with the contact.

How the fuck—Jesus. His arms don’t even strain as he holds me.

My legs are whores, wrapping around his waist. What were we doing?

Something about romance. Dinner? “Can we just fuck or do we have to do this? You’re driving me crazy, Dre. ”

A slow grin spreads along my lips. I can’t help it.

While I want that worse than anything, I like the way weakness drips from his eyes when he looks at me.

It feels amazing. It feels like I’m flying.

“Romance this sweet ass, Oli.” I grip his jaw, kissing him hard.

He ruts against me, pressing me against the wall.

I’m not sure what switch has flipped between us, but I know it’s fucking incredible.

I can see how much Oli hates how he wants me.

His hatred still bleeds into me, but I soak it in.

I drink every last drop. I need this just as much as he does.

After he romances me.

I struggle out of his arms, impressed he’s still holding me steady. Finally he lets me go. “Come on. I’m too curious about what you call romance.”

“Go fuck yourself.” He walks past me, storming down his stairs.

“So, no flowers or . . . ?” His frown deepens. “I don’t know, I expected more from you. I’m surprised you even get laid.”

He turns to me in his living room. “With how fast you drop to your knees the second you see my cock, I’m not.”

My fingers ball into fists. Dick. “Are you done being a self-obsessed douche? I’m ready to be romanced.

” Oli turns from me, walking into the kitchen, and the faint smell of tomato sauce hits me.

I follow him and then stop, looking over what he’s set up.

On his round table there’s a candle lit in the middle.

Two glasses of wine sit at either end with a bottle between.

Both places have a plate of spaghetti with what looks like some sort of creamy tomato sauce.

“It’s the fastest thing I could think to cook,” Oli grunts, walking to my side of the table and pulling my chair out.

I bark out a laugh as he glares at me stone-faced.

I concede, sitting down and watching him take his seat. “This is better than I expected.”

“Well, your standards are pretty low.” He takes a swig from his wine glass.

What I want to tell him is that this is fucking perfect.

There’s not one thing I would change about this moment.

Well, maybe if he were nude, but other than that it’s perfect.

Soft music plays in the background and I nearly have to stop when I hear the lyrics.

“Is this . . . One Direction?” His scowl hardens. “What! I’m just asking.”

“I like . . . their music. Shut the fuck up and eat.”

“I am surprised.”

Oli points his fork at me. “I am romantic as fuck.”

I laugh, taking a sip of wine. “I feel like I should go change back into my street clothes.”

He eats. “I like you wearing my clothes.”

The comment is soft and I want to pick at it. Instead, I eat, and my eyes widen. “You made this in twenty minutes?”

“It’s simple.” He shakes his head while he eats. “Tomato paste, butter, heavy cream, and olive oil.”

“It’s spicy.”

“Red pepper. A tablespoon, and basil.”

“Wow, this is so fucking good. ”

Oli takes a swig of his drink. “My mother used to make it all the time. It was cheap to make. It was my favorite thing she made.” My fork pauses at my lips. Oli made me something very personal.

It means nothing. I mean nothing. It’s just what he had on hand. Don’t overthink.

“Well, if this is how it used to taste, she was an amazing cook.”

“She used to leave the red pepper out. I like the spice.” He eats, and I don’t know how much wine he’s drunk while he was making this, but I’m afraid to comment too much and spook him.

“It’s amazing.” He takes another drink, downing the rest, then filling himself another nearly full glass.

He cracks his neck, looking at his pasta.

“When she got sick she didn’t have much of an appetite.

The chemo just . . . ravages your body.” I freeze, cold washing over me.

“When she had good days she spent her time making meals and freezing them for me. She had this freezer box she would put them in.”

“That’s really sweet.”

Oli swallows. “I found the chest when I was clearing out her house. She left a note. She’d been storing meals in there for after.

” His knee begins to bounce under the table.

I can feel the vibration of it. “I . . . I think that was worse than the day she died. I was upset that she’d spent so much of her time on me.

Making sure I’d be okay.” He shakes his head.

“I was always her first priority. So much so that she forgot to take care of herself.”

“Still, it’s nice that even after, she got to feed you.”

“I had meals for months. I’ve never cried so much while eating.” He laughs, his eyes lighten with it. “Embarrassing.”

I can’t believe he’s sharing this with me.

I don’t know what’s happening or how much he had to drink before he got me to come down here.

We’d both sobered before we left Murray’s.

“Oli . . .” I’m going to ruin it, but this my shot.

“I didn’t do it.” Yup, ruined. He stiffens, fixing his hard blue eyes on me. “Just listen, I—”

“Why do you always have to open your fucking mouth?” He shakes his head, looking into his glass before taking another sip of his wine.

I’m not backing down. “No, listen to me! I don’t know why you thought I—”

“It was your fucking cup!” he roars, standing abruptly and knocking his chair back.

“It was your fucking cup, Dre. With the fucking hearts, and my fucking name!” He swipes his large hand over the table smashing his plate against the floor.

“You were my best fucking friend! You fucked everything up!”

He’s heaving, his eyes glassy. I slowly stand, trying to make sense of this. I’m not backing down. Not while we’re finally talking about this. “What are you talking about, my cup?”

“You drew those fucking hearts all over your cup while you were waiting for me, then when I got called into the office it was my label. On your cup. I gave the cup to you, but you didn’t give a shit about getting caught. You knew you would just switch the labels.”

“How the fuck was I going to know your mother would call?”

“You would have anyway. You would have found some other way!”

“Oli—” He sounds crazy.

“Then I got called in . . . your cup. I lost fucking everything. The Vipers were going to sign me that week. I would have gotten a contract. I could have paid for everything for her!” He heaves.

“Instead, I lost that contract, with my dream team! I couldn’t get her the care she needed.

She spent her last months in pain, suffering because I didn’t have the money to get her better care.

She gave everything to me and I can never pay her back! ” he sobs.

No one moves, talks, or even breathes. Oli comes undone, my stomach clenching as tears spill down his face.

His head sags, his hands braced on the table.

I don’t know what to do to make this better.

I try to make sense of this. The cup . .

. that doesn’t even make sense. Dr. Wexel had taken both of our cups from me.

The labels were fine when I handed them over. I never saw the cup because I passed.

When I shouldn’t have.

I just thought I’d diluted the drug enough to pass.

No one would have had access to the tests besides the doctor, and my father.

Which meant that one of them had something to do with it.

I can believe my father faking my results, but to switch it with Oli’s?

Why? What would even be the point of that? None of what happened makes sense.