The Perfect Wrong, page 14
It’s all soaring windows and sleek edges, polished curves, a painting of a half-nude Roman woman stuffing grapes into a man’s mouth. They’re making eyes at each other and enjoying their fruit snack way more than anyone has any right to.
There are only a dozen mirrors everywhere—the better to see how I could shake her from every bleeding angle. And that’s just the main room and kitchenette.
Goddammit.
Delia coughs behind me. She’s standing straight as a board after ducking in and out of the spacious, hand-tiled spa bathroom for a quick peek.
I don’t dare turn around.
For a terrible second, I see myself sinking into her virgin pussy, a growl boiling up my throat as she grips my shoulders, wearing nothing but a sheen of sweat.
Fuck.
Keep moving, you jagoff, I tell myself. Don’t let yourself stop and think or bad, bad things will happen.
And so I do, turning my back to her and sliding open the massive black door to the bedroom.
I’m already stone before I hear her gasp.
In another life, this room would be a kiss from God with its fine gold-and-black touches.
Colorful art everywhere, more lusty Romans and pastoral landscapes that rival a photograph.
All paired with modern blues and greys pulled from a dream.
There’s even a small heated pool just outside on the balcony.
Barely one wall away from a California king bed that looks like someone trapped a cloud in this room.
Yes, bed.
Yes, singular.
Let the unhinged laughing commence.
And the worst part is, I’m already sporting a raging hard-on, despite being mortified when I look back at Delia.
She’s pinching the bridge of her nose like she’s fighting to breathe after a blow to the face, her cheeks so red they could join the fire department.
I say nothing, just turn around and march past the bed that must be a gift from Lucifer, shoving aside the mammoth wall of glass that opens to the balcony.
It’s not a gorgeous view. More like gazing into the soul of Lady Vegas with her sun and shadows and energetic, throbbing crowds that push through this city like a pulse.
If my head weren’t damn near popping right off and flying into orbit, I might enjoy it more.
I don’t turn around until I hear a door shut faintly behind me.
It’s empty in the bedroom again.
Looks like she’s escaped into the bathroom.
Who the fuck could blame her?
It’ll be night before you know it. Outside, everything will light up like a maze of palaces and fairy-tale wonders—everything I’ve seen in Baghdad and Damascus—except here there’s no tracer fire cutting through the air or far-off bursts of incendiary explosives to worry about.
The hell is inside this room.
Inside Delia.
Inside me.
Standing on the balcony overlooking the Strip isn’t doing shit for taming my lust.
A few long chaise chairs wait by the pool.
Another trigger where I’m forced to see myself pulling her onto my lap, naked and wet and wanting in the steaming velvet night.
When she finally comes out of the bathroom and looks at me, she’s fuming.
Ah, there’s my cue to bite the bullet and deal with this.
I wonder if she’s been coaching herself in the mirror, working up the courage to lay into me, to tell me she’ll rough it on the overstuffed couch in the main room.
“You okay?” I venture, knowing full well she’s anything but.
“I just... I can’t believe Dad didn’t think to lock in two separate rooms.” She stamps her foot as I hand her a key card for the room. “Roommates. Bedmates. It’s like every silly rom-com ever made—”
She catches herself and stops mid-sentence as I dart her a look.
“By silly, I mean the terrible, super cheesy ones.”
Judging by the way her face reddens, I’m not sure what the hell she means.
“Princess, relax. Roughing it out in a two-thousand-dollar-a-night suite is not the apocalypse. I’m not gonna watch you shower or whatever the fuck—unless you want me to.”
She flips me off, wincing.
It’s so unexpected a laugh tears out of me.
“See? There’s the fighting spirit. Now take a nice long look around. You see how big this place is? Hell, that bed alone, you could jump up and down on it like a frigging trampoline and I’d never know on the other side.” I gesture to the sprawling bed that looks like it could hold two people and all the greyhound lumps I’d ever want. “I’ll even turn my back like a good boy when you’re changing. Pinky swear.”
I hold up my hand with the finger stuck out, hiding my other behind my back, fingers crossed.
She shoots me a dirty look and purses her lips.
That fire in my balls leaps through the rest of me.
Damn, I’d give a whole nut just to wipe that bratty look off her face by taking her over my knee.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Maybe that raid on Warzach did more damage than I thought. Forget the assessment from the two shrinks Sexton and Strauss made everybody visit after we got home.
There must be a few wires crossed in my head if I’m this hot to tan this woman’s ass and then plow her till she can’t move for the next week.
“Total nightmare,” she whispers, sinking down on the edge of the bed. “Chris, I can’t even...”
“Cut your old man some slack. This isn’t his fault. The lady at the front desk said they’re overbooked. She offered me the upgrade when we checked in. I’m the guy who gave up the other room.” I stab a thumb at my chest.
“You—you what?” Her eyes pop, all mahogany confusion, and she looks at me like my nose just fell off.
“You heard me. And you know what? I can’t say I regret it. Give it a day or two, and I think you’ll agree.”
That shuts her up. At least long enough for her to hop up and skitter past me to the balcony outside.
I get it. She needs air.
So I give her space, let her soak in her new reality.
Hopefully, she’ll come to her senses soon and realize we’re practically sleeping in the Taj Mahal.
If we manage to get any sleep at all, I mean.
I played up how I won’t notice her in bed. Actually, it could be ten miles long and I know I’ll still have a hell of a time keeping my hands to myself—never mind other badly behaved parts of me.
“Oh my God,” she whispers from the balcony, soaking in the awesome view.
When I walk out and stop behind her, I see her hands clenching the banister, her dark hair gleaming with gold threaded through it by the high Nevada sun.
“...it’s really something, isn’t it?” she muses.
“Yeah, something. Just wait till you see it at night. I think of it as Christmas in the desert, all year round.”
Yeah, something, I think again, glancing at the deck furniture. Something that makes me want to rip your dress off right here and take you in front of this entire unhinged city.
I’m not sure what makes my dick throb harder—her ass or the way she smiles at me with her nervousness fading.
I pace back and forth slowly, taking in the only view that’s better than the busy strip and the landscape beyond.
Her.
Delia damn Burr in all her forbidden fruit ripeness.
The last time my eyes linger on her hips, imagining how sweet they’d feel in my hands, I think she catches me.
I look away sharply, fighting back a smile.
Something makes me lunge forward and grab her then. I spin her around gently, digging my fingers into her hip till she breaks and can’t stop laughing with me.
For a second, we stop fretting over the tension, the litany of questions about what sharing a bed means, if it means anything at all.
Then reality hits me in the face. Literally.
Her palm smacks my cheek and I drop her.
Damn, do I love that sting.
It feels the same way aged bourbon tastes.
“There you are, princess. Feisty as ever. You had me worried,” I say, staring until she snaps her face away from me.
“Just don’t do anything stupid, Chris. I’m trusting you. Don’t make me regret it,” she says softly, a serious weight in her big brown eyes. “We can’t mess around again. Not here. Not ever.”
Not true, a dark, buried voice inside me roars.
She doesn’t need to know I’m in a war with that voice right now.
So I smile, push my hand into hers, and force my eyes to the breathtaking scenery below.
“Whatever you say, babe. As soon as you’ve had your fill feeding your muse for your next pretty painting, let’s go have some fun.”
9
Tart Red Disaster (Delia)
One bed.
One big, tiny, pillowy puff of ten thousand stitch silk that feels like it’s made of a billion needles.
I regret not going out exploring earlier. But the sheer exhaustion and shock of this surprise meant never leaving the hotel, even if I agreed to let Chris lead me around this luxurious palace to a dinner fit for a—princess.
I know, I know.
But I’m glad I did.
Besides taking the edge off the awkwardness of the one bed problem, the delicious four course meal gave me a chance to stuff myself with savory meats and rich desserts I thought might summon the Sandman.
...except, so far, he’s nowhere to be found.
My belly actually rumbles from nerves when I roll over to face him again.
If Chris feels my torture, he doesn’t show it.
He’s sprawled out like a lion after a long day’s hunt, his magnificent, powerful body stretched in a peaceful slumber. A soft snore ripples out of him every few breaths—nothing like the deafening logs Dad saws in his sleep—and it makes me smile.
He’s yanked the thin sheet halfway down in his sleep, exposing a shamelessly bare chest.
I can just make out the trident inked across his muscle in the dreamy blue low night light of our room.
I’m also able to see about a mile of rock-solid man.
But for a body made for so much punishment, he’s a gentle giant tonight, sleeping so deeply and beautifully it makes me a little jealous.
And that jealousy makes me the lightest sleeper ever.
When I’m finally deep into counting about two hundred sheep, I jerk awake from a half sleep, breathing hard.
There’s something huge and heavy wrapped around me.
Something thick and simmering against my butt.
Oh, no.
My heart lunges into my throat as I try to turn—and can’t.
Because I’ve got more than two hundred pounds of ginormous hero-man eclipsing me, his thick arm wrapped possessively around my waist, his seriously large—ahem—digging into my ass.
Holy hell.
He must’ve rolled across the entire mattress in his sleep.
It’s like my body knew—and welcomed it—before I even startled awake.
Nerves in places I never knew I had are singing, “Day O!”
My skin is a flimsy sheet of flame.
And that sharp ache between my legs pulses like the strings on a violin—resonate, insistent, demanding to be played to a finish.
I swallow hard.
“Bull. Fucking. Shit,” he rumbles against my ear, unmistakable anger in his tone.
I freeze, my lust fever momentarily broken.
“Sex, no. Tell them we’re not pulling back for extraction. You saw...you saw the shit in that asshole’s library. If we pulled one out behind that fucking bookshelf—that prison—you know there’s more...”
His arm around me tightens.
Oh my God.
Bookshelf prison? What is he talking about?
I turn carefully, just enough to see Chris’ face.
Gone is his peaceful big cat expression from earlier.
Now, his whole face is contorted, screwed up with a pain that scares me. His lips are still moving, but I can’t make out the words, speaking terrible words only known to him.
“Chris,” I whisper softly, finding his arm with my fingers.
I brush his skin lightly, trying to banish this nightmare or flashback that has him in its grip.
“...goddammit, no! I’m not leaving. Not letting those assholes run. You’ll have to slug me and drag me out, boss. Yeah, I don’t care if they’re holed up in some room with a whole army. I’m not fucking leaving—we’ve got two men down besides the girl and more kids to find—so you can tell Strauss you’re leaving without me, or you can find your fucking balls and help.”
I gasp.
It’s that raid with the Jordan Warzach bust.
He’s reliving a special kind of hell, chasing a man armed to the teeth who enslaved little girls and women for money—some from right here in Vegas, supposedly.
“Chris!” I whisper more urgently, shaking him.
For a second, his face screws up.
His big hand covers mine this time.
Then his fingers start closing, tight and crushing—too hard!
“Asshole, you heard me,” he spits. “On the count of three, I’m heading in. Motherfucking one. Two.”
“Chris, please—ow! You’re hurting me.”
Just when I think he’s about to break my hand, flaming green eyes snap open.
He whips back like he’s touched a live current, the rage on his face fading to a sad apology.
“Fucking shit. Delia? Did I—”
I shrink back, more stunned than I am afraid of what just happened.
We lock eyes. I sit up now that he’s off me, reaching for water to parch my dry throat from the bottle on my nightstand. While I take a long drink, he shakes his head like it weighs a hundred pounds.
“Goddamn, did I hurt you? Whatever I said, I’m sorry.”
“No, and don’t be,” I whisper, holding out the bottle. I’m sure his throat feels even worse from whatever that was.
He rips it out of my hand and drinks for a few seconds, but somehow I don’t think it’s just the thirst.
“You were having a nightmare. I’m sure you couldn’t help it.”
He shakes his head fiercely, his big shoulders rippling.
“No. I lied to you, Delia,” he rasps as he sets the bottle down in his lap. “My outburst on the flight here...it wasn’t a joke like I said. I was asleep then too. I was back there—fighting my way through some really wretched shit nobody ever ought to deal with. You don’t deserve to hear that, much less get crushed because I lose my shit.”
He turns away like a wounded beast and slowly gets up.
He paces to the glass through the soft blue light and props his arm against it, staring out at a Vegas nightscape that suddenly feels too melancholy and dark despite the sea of twinkling lights.
My heart sinks.
A few seconds later, I get up and follow. When I’m next to him, I gingerly rest a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t owe me an apology for something you can’t control, Chris.”
“Yeah?” He looks at me sharply. “Even so, I still owe you one because you were right. This fucked up situation with one damn bed might be a crisis after all—just not for the reasons we thought.”
I smile softly.
“It doesn’t have to be. Have you had these nightmares for a while?”
“A few months, at least. They come and go, but lately they must be happening once a week. I even installed a motion camera at my place to see. I hoped it’d go away on its own, but fuck.” He exhales so heavily it’s like watching a mountain breathe. “I’m no stranger to shell shock. Any man who’s been on enough live missions gets hit with it sooner or later. Only, that shit that went down with Warzach was a hell of a lot worse than anything that ever happened in Syria or Iraq. I never had so many kids caught in the crossfire.”
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t speak.
Not with words.
It’s all instinct when my hands wind around him, hugging him tight, my palms pressed flat to his abs.
He inhales sharply, a silent curse on his lips as his head cranes back.
“This trip was a bad idea. Delia, I’m bad for you. Nothing but broken glass in my head and venom—”
“Hush,” I whisper.
He looks down with a puzzled glance, his eyes searching mine.
“You’re too hard on yourself, Chris. This isn’t the kind of thing you should bottle up, but if you want to—I get it. I won’t tell a soul. Nobody ever has to know.”
He nods so slowly, his green eyes piercing the city below like he’s searching for a piece of himself he left behind on that mission so far from here.
“You’re not a bad man,” I say.
“Aw, hell. Now you’re just kissing ass,” he growls. I’m so flipping happy to see a ghostly smile. “I can’t keep my hands to myself. They were already on you before the nightmare, weren’t they? Fuck. I damn sure shouldn’t have been touching you like—”
“You woke up when you needed to. It’s not like you would’ve killed me in your sleep.”
“No.” His face falls. “But I don’t trust myself in this bed with you, woman.”
He moves closer, facing me again, breathing me in like my scent is the one thing holding him up.
What the crap is going on?
Am I having a real moment with Chris Triton?
“I’m gonna try crashing for a few more hours on the sofa in the other room. At least for tonight,” he says, walking away from me. “I’m not shitting up this trip for you. You want me to feel better, it’ll only happen when I know you’re having fun.”
My heart flips over.
I want to reach out, drag him back to me, and take my chances as he paces to the door. But I can’t when he’s making this much sense.
Just when I’m about to crawl back into bed, he stops and looks over his shoulder.
“And princess—thanks. I don’t say that often enough. You’ve made my life interesting.” He snorts softly and shakes his head again. “Also, I think you’re the only woman I’d trust not to toss me out of her bed after freaking out like I did. It’s a damn good thing nothing else happened between us.”
