Dirty Sexy Games Read online

Jesus, she was a fucking wet dream.

  And she was my wife.

  I was so goddamned hard at that thought, my cock was a brick. I had to stroke myself through my pants, just to get some relief.

  Elizabeth was watching me as closely as I was watching her. She saw what she did to me. She loved it, that little demon. That witch. That spiteful angel. Her lips quirked up the tiniest bit, taking pleasure in my misery, as she reached behind herself to undo the corset.

  But I stopped her. “Leave it.”

  “Can I take off my shoes, at least?” she asked, her tone full of sass and sauce.

  “Fuck no.” So her feet were hurting, but that was part of the turn-on. That she was suffering. Suffering like I was inside.

  I wanted to make her suffer more.

  Suffer and feel good. The way she made me suffer and feel good and wish that I could only ever feel exactly that way all the time.

  I unclipped my suspenders then undid the fly of my pants. My boxer briefs were damp from my dick leaking inside them, begging to be released, aching for Elizabeth’s pussy. But I wasn’t ready to bring it out yet. Not until she was aching for me too.

  Scanning the room, I quickly found where I wanted to be.

  “Follow me.” I led her to the bench in front of the windows. She watched me, and I could feel her curiosity as I turned the lamp on and then opened the curtains all the way. With the light on, anyone who was looking in the building across from us should be able to see us pretty well.

  “You and those damn floor-to-ceiling windows,” Elizabeth said, her voice raspy and eager.

  Yeah, she liked the windows too.

  “You want me to close them?” I asked, but I was already rolling up my shirt sleeves, moving on to the next part of my preparation.

  She shrugged with one shoulder. “Whatever turns you on.”

  “Lie down on the bench,” I commanded.

  She lay back, tentatively, as though she were concerned about getting it right, not as though she didn’t want to do it.

  “All the way, flat on your back,” I instructed. “Then spread your legs, as far as you can.”

  I stepped back to look at her, imagining what someone would see from the other side—this beautiful redheaded bride, laid out on a table in front of her groom, a banquet feast just for him. The bench was the perfect size for her; it fit her from her head to the bottom of her ass, so when she spread her legs, her pussy was there at the other end, clothed in delicate lace.

  I rubbed myself as I gazed upon her. “You’re the most beautiful woman I know,” I told her, massaging my crown through my briefs. She turned her head on the bench to look at me, her lips pouty, her eyelashes fluttering.

  I continued. “You were so fucking sexy when you walked out into that aisle, I was almost pissed that anybody else got to look at you.”

  Her breathing quickened, but she parried me anyway, turning to look out the window. “That’s a guy thing to say. You’re so—”

  “Stop talking unless you’re screaming my name,” I said tersely. “I’m already not in the mood to be good to you; I really don’t think you want to push me.”

  Her head shifted back toward me quickly, her mouth opening with a slight gasp. “What are you going to—”

  “I said no talking.” Before she could say anything else or challenge me or make me want to throttle her, I moved to kneel in front of her pussy, hooked my arms around each of her thighs, and began licking at the lace barrier.

  She responded with a series of moans and grunts. I kept it up, licking at her through the material, swiping up her slit, using the lace to create friction. I’d been sleeping with her long enough to know how to get her worked up now, how to read her signs. And every time she got a little bit close, every time her gasps got louder and her breathing more rapid, I pulled away, changed my tactic.

  It wasn’t too long before she was writhing, still dressed in her bridal underwear, wound up from my torturous tongue. So desperate, she started to beg, remembering my order that the only word she could speak was my name. “Weston, Weston,” she pled.

  She wasn’t worked up enough. Wasn’t destroyed yet. Wasn’t torn apart inside like I was over her.

  I pushed aside the panel at her crotch. My fingers found her wet and slippery as I slid inside her. She bucked up with her hips, urging me in deeper. But I continued my torture, fucking her shallowly with just my fingertips, licking in wide circles around her clit.

  She was sweating, tears were trailing down her cheeks when she finally broke the rule I’d given her and spoke. “I don’t know if you’re trying to make me feel good or miserable,” she said.

  “That’s the point,” I said against her.

  “Please, fuck me now.”

  I nodded, unable to take watching her squirm any longer. My balls already ached with the need to release inside her. “I’ll close the curtains,” I offered.

  “No. I like them open.”

  God, she was divine. I pushed my pants down with my briefs just as far as necessary, and pulled her panties from her gorgeous legs. Then I was climbing on top of her, fucking into her hard, harder, so hard. She wrapped her legs around me at my waist, hooking us together, and when I looked in the window I could see our reflection there, could see what the neighbors saw, and it spurred me on more, drove me to pound into her faster and deeper and harder, harder.

  It was the final dirty encore to our earlier performance.

  We came together, both of us tortured and miserable and in desperate need of the release.

  When I was calm enough, I pulled out of her and gathered her in my arms, carried her to her bed where I held her and made love to her the rest of the night. We didn’t talk about the mountains between us.

  We were married now. We had the rest of our lives for talking.

  Or, at least we had tomorrow.

  3

  Elizabeth

  Weston was still asleep when I woke up the next morning. I spent several minutes tracing the dips and curves of his bare torso with my eyes, his abs so toned that six-pack didn’t even cover it. My mouth watered as I gazed lower at the V-lines that peeked out from under the sheet—two short roads leading to pleasureland. But it was the sweet gentle rise and fall of his chest that had me hypnotized. I thought about how easy it would be to roll into his arms and fall back asleep, or wake him up with a kiss and urge him to make love to me again.

  But there was a giant wall between us, invisible, yet I believed it was surmountable, and that had to be dealt with before I could truly be as close to him as I wanted to be.

  I forced myself out of bed and into the bathroom. One look in the mirror said that the beautiful bride from the day before had gone, leaving a faded beauty queen in the wreckage. I needed a shower and breakfast, needed to pull myself together, needed to make myself look like a decent human being—needed to feel like a decent human being before facing my groom.

  My husband.

  How long would I be able to keep calling him that?

  The shower did wonders for my mood. I washed off the makeup and the traces of the extraordinary day I’d had before. I felt melancholy as I washed away the sticky leftovers of sex between my legs, as though a little water and soap would take away the memory of Weston’s mouth and cock. But those memories were forever seared into my mind, deep, like ink into flesh. Whatever I left this marriage with, at least I’d have that.

  When I was clean and fresh, I turned off the water and wrapped a towel around my body and another around my hair. I brushed my teeth and put makeup on my face until I looked like someone whom I recognized again. When I walked back into the bedroom, I found the bed empty.

  Sounds from the other room said Weston was up and moving around. Hopefully he’d ordered breakfast, or at least coffee. I found a robe in my suitcase and traded the towel for that, then padded out to the main room of our suite.

  My spirits dropped at what I found. Weston was dressed. Seeing him with clothes on was always somewhat di
sappointing, but more disappointing was that he was dressed to go out. He had shoes on and his coat in hand.

  “Are you going somewhere?” I hated how weak my voice sounded.

  His eyes darted around the room, looking anywhere but at me. “Yeah. I have an appointment. It shouldn’t take too long. I’m just looking for my wallet.”

  “You have an appointment? We’re on our honeymoon.” Technically we didn’t leave for our trip until tomorrow, and of course when all this had been planned, our entire marriage was a farce. But then suddenly it wasn’t. And we needed to be together if we had any shot at all of figuring this out.

  “There it is,” he said to himself, finding his wallet in his jacket from the night before. As though I hadn’t said anything at all.

  I didn’t even care anymore what it looked like for him to be leaving his bride less than twenty-four hours after our nuptials. I didn’t care about putting on a show anymore. I cared about us.

  “Weston,” I called as he headed toward the door.

  He turned this time and looked at me, really looked at me. His expression, which had seemed distracted before, focused and softened.

  He crossed the room and pulled me into his arms, cupping my cheek with his hand. “I promise I won’t be gone very long.” He kissed the side of my lips.

  I clutched onto his jacket. “But we need to talk.”

  “We do. We will. We have two weeks and I’m all yours. But first I just have to do this one thing. Okay?” His thumb grazed along my chin, sending goosebumps down my arms.

  “Okay,” I said when it really wasn’t okay at all, but what choice did I have but to trust him? He kissed me again, for real, the kind of kiss that made my knees weak and my toes curl.

  “Don’t be dressed when I get back,” he said half teasing, half commanding.

  I nodded, though for the kinds of things we needed to discuss, being dressed was probably the wisest decision. As he headed for the door again, it felt like he was leaving, leaving for real, and his name came out of my lips again involuntarily. “Weston!”

  He stopped, the door half-open, and looked at me longingly. “Two weeks,” he promised again. “I’m all yours.” Then he shut the door and was gone.

  It wasn’t the two weeks I was worried about. It was the whole lifetime after.

  I stood staring at the door for a long moment after he left, sorting through the banquet of emotions I was feeling inside. He’d meant to comfort me with his words and his kiss—and he had, momentarily.

  But now that he was gone, and I was left alone in the bridal suite of the Park Hyatt with nothing but questions and a brand-new diamond-lined wedding band under my engagement ring, his well-meant intentions vanished and were replaced with a brewing storm.

  Alone, his comfort felt like rejection.

  Alone, his words sounded like empty promises.

  Frustration swept through me like a gale wind and I reached for the nearest object I could find, an empty water glass on the desk, and threw it as hard as I could against the door. It smashed at once into pieces, unleashing a dam of tears inside me. What the hell had I gotten myself into? I cried as I hugged myself, asking myself the same question over and over. Why did it hurt so much? I didn’t even know who to blame—myself, my father, Weston, or Donovan.

  And maybe all of this was stupid and dramatic and there was nothing even to cry over. I would get my company. That was what I’d wanted, right? And maybe I would even get Weston, but if I had him, then why was he rushing off to secret places on a Sunday morning at 10:00 a.m.? Why did he leave me in the dark? Why would he never let me in?

  I bent over in an attempt to control the sobs racking my body, when suddenly there was a knock on the door. My crying halted, my body froze.

  It was probably housekeeping. We’d forgotten the stupid do not disturb sign.

  The knock came again, and I knew I had to answer it or they would walk right in. I crossed to the door, careful not to step on the glass, and opened it just to say, “We don’t—”

  But it wasn’t housekeeping.

  “Clarence?” I wiped the tears from my cheeks with the whole of my hand. God, this was the second time in two days he’d seen me crying. “What are you doing here?”

  “Can I come in?” he asked.

  “Weston is…” I didn’t necessarily want to tell him that my husband wasn’t there, and it seemed just as odd to invite an ex-boyfriend into my bridal suite when I was alone.

  “He just left,” Clarence finished for me. “I saw him.”

  My brows furrowed. “Did you know he had an appointment today?”

  Clarence shook his head. “I just got lucky.”

  I processed what he’d just said, understanding that he’d meant he wanted to see me alone.

  I couldn’t think of any reason to tell him to leave. Honestly, I wasn’t thinking very well at all. “Be careful. There’s glass by the door.”

  I opened the door farther so that Clarence could step in, then let the door go so it could slam shut on its own, and I wouldn’t have to dance over the glass again. Clarence looked at the mess on the floor.

  “Did something happen here, Elizabeth?” he asked anxiously.

  “I just dropped a glass,” I said, tightening my robe around myself, conscious that I was naked underneath. “It’s really silly how upset I got about dropping the glass. You must think I’m really emotional these days.” Such a lame excuse. I picked up the hotel magazine and headed for the door to start cleaning it up.

  Clarence took the magazine from my hand. “Let me.” He bent down and swept the broken pieces onto the magazine, glancing up at me furtively. “You just happened to drop a glass right in front of the door, huh? It really seems more like it was thrown.”

  I turned away from him to the Kleenex box and cleaned up my nose before turning back to him. “I really don’t know what you’re suggesting, but maybe you could tell me why you are here today.”

  “Not trying to upset you, Bitsy,” he said using his old nickname for me again. He dumped the glass into the trash can under the desk, set the magazine down, and faced me head-on. “I came because I want to make sure you’re okay. Yesterday I was worried that you weren’t. And now that I see you today, I’m even more concerned that you’re not doing well.”

  More tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. Because I wasn’t okay, and because Clarence had been the first person to notice. “You know, weddings are just really hard,” I said holding my arms across my chest. “And relationships are really hard. Being an adult is really hard.”

  He crossed to me and put his arms around me, hugging me. “Do you want to tell me about it? Because you can tell me anything. You always can.” He ran his hand up and down my back, soothing me as I cried on his shoulder. It felt like I imagined a father would comfort his child. A normal father, anyway. Not mine.

  “I had a crazy idea about you actually. Want to hear it?”

  I nodded into his neck, unable to talk.

  “After I saw you a couple months ago, at the restaurant with Weston, when you told me you were engaged, I kept thinking about you. My father’s in the television business here in the States, you know, and I asked him about you. Asked about Dyson Media and what was going on with it after your father’s death. I heard about the terms of your inheritance. It got me wondering, and I might be crossing the line here. This is a total shot in the dark.”

  My heart sped up as I listened. I could see where this was heading.

  “Well, I just wondered if you were getting married just so you could get control of your father’s business.”

  I pushed out of Clarence’s arms and swallowed hard. “That’s really inappropriate for you to ask,” I said, choking on my words.

  “I know. It is. Truthfully, it’s probably just wishful thinking.”

  I looked up at him quizzically. “Wishful thinking?”

  “I still think about you, Bitsy. When I saw you again I realized I still have feelings for you. If you’
re happy with this King guy, then good for you. I’m ready to let you go. But if you’re not…” He took a step toward me. “If this marriage is under false pretenses, then I really wish you would’ve told me.”

  “And what would you have done if I would have told you?” I asked, despite myself, knowing it was better to leave it alone. “I mean, if it were all under false pretenses, I mean.”

  “I would’ve offered to marry you instead.”

  4

  Weston

  I paid the cab driver and stepped onto the sidewalk outside the brownstone in Brooklyn. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be back in bed with my wife, wanted to spend the day making love to her, planning our future.

  But as much as I wanted to be there, I needed to be here.

  There would be time to discuss everything later, once I knew more about the baby. I climbed the six steps up to the front door and walked inside to the tiny foyer, looking for the number I wanted to press. And I tried not to think about Elizabeth’s lips, her warmth, the way she looked at me when I told her I was leaving today.

  There it was—Callie Tannen and Dana Steadman, apartment four. I bristled for a moment at the additional name on the plate. Callie had said that Sebastian didn’t have another father in his life. Was Dana a man or woman? Would he be a father to Sebastian if I chose not to be?

  I pushed the button and waited for Callie’s voice. It didn’t come, but a moment later, a buzz indicated that the door was unlocked. I walked in and made my way to unit number four, an easy route because it was on the first floor. Units one and two, it turned out, were garden level units. First floor was good. Not too many stairs. A good apartment in which to raise a child.

  I lifted my hand to knock on the door, but Callie opened it immediately. She was dressed in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, her hair tied up in a ponytail. She seemed slightly out of breath, like she’d been rushing around, and from the look at the items in her hands—a stuffed puppy, a toy dinosaur, and the remote control—I guessed that she was doing some last-minute straightening.