His Wicked Games (His Wicked Games #1) by Ember Casey Page A

I say, noting the softer, curved lines.
    “You could say that. The cause of the
frustration, maybe, but also its cure.”
    I'm not sure what he means by that. I'm too
distracted by the way his hand has shifted again on my hip, sliding
slowly downward.
    Easy , I tell myself. Stay in
control .
    “But why is this one your favorite?” I
press.
    “Mmm.” His warm breath rushes across my ear.
“Because I think the artist has captured it perfectly. Haven't you
ever felt that—that restless agitation? Like you were going to
burst? Like everything in the world was going to crumble down
around you unless you calmed the disturbance pulsing through
you?”
    “I… don't know.”
    He leans forward, and his lips brush against
my ear. My heart pounds against my ribs, and what little breath I
have left catches in my throat.
    “What are you doing?” I ask him.
    He responds by tilting his head and kissing
the side of my neck, first just below the ear, then lower. His
mouth begins a slow trail down toward my shoulder, and the
sensations that dance across my skin at the contact make my head
buzz.
    “Mr. Cunningham, I—”
    “Calder,” he murmurs against my neck. His
voice is deeper, but there's still a hint of amusement there. “I'm
just trying to show you what I mean about the painting.” His mouth
brushes against the place where my neck meets my shoulder. His
tongue slips out, flicking softly against my skin, and I suck in a
breath.
    Warning bells go off in my head. I need to
take control of this situation. I need to lead this seduction, not
the other way around. But his tongue brushes against my neck again,
and all of my protests slip out of my head.
    Certainly there's nothing wrong with teasing
him a little, letting him think I've succumbed to his charms. I'll
give him a taste, fuel his desire, and then I'll have him right
where I want him.
    He tightens his hold on my hip, pulling me
closer to him. His other hand moves to the shoulder of my shirt,
yanking it aside so he can continue his soft march of kisses. I
shiver involuntarily.
    “Calder,” I whisper. “Perhaps we should—” I
gasp as he nips at me with his teeth.
    “Is that what you really want?” he says
against my skin. His hand moves forward along the neckline of my
shirt, his fingers skimming just beneath the edge of the fabric. He
slides the garment off my shoulder, exposing the top curve of my
breast.
    “You have such beautiful breasts,” he says,
his mouth against my ear once more. His hand moves lower, gliding
over one of my breasts and then the other, his touch
featherlight.
    My breathing is shallow, uneven. I know I
should stop him, take back control of the situation, but I don't.
In this moment I'm not even sure I want to.
    “Feel the frustration building?” he breathes
against my ear.
    His hand moves lower and lower, with such
agonizing slowness that I have to struggle to keep from pressing
back against him. His fingers graze my nipple. I stiffen as he
takes the nub and rolls it gently between his forefinger and
thumb.
    “It's subtle at first,” he whispers, giving a
soft pull. “Your blood pumping faster, your skin becoming more
sensitive. The beginning of an ache between your legs.”
    His fingers become more insistent, pinching
and tugging at my nipple.
    “That's where we want to focus. On that
ache.”
    I close my eyes and let my head roll back
against his shoulder. My nipple is rock hard beneath his touch, and
still he massages it, pulling and twisting to the point of pain. I
should tell him to stop, but I don't.
    And then, suddenly, his fingers release me. A
sound of protest escapes me before I can stop it, and Calder
chuckles into my hair.
    “We're not done yet,” he says.
    He moves to the other breast, pulling it
halfway out of the shirt so that he can reach the nipple. He
repeats his rolling and pulling until that one, too, is hard and
sensitive against his rougher skin.
    “It builds slowly,” he murmurs into my hair.
“But little