Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Oakley is hiding something.
I climb off him, reluctantly, my skin no longer touching his. I anticipate the drop back into numbness, bracing myself for the comforting warmth of feeling nothing. The carefully crafted cocoon of safety.
Only, it doesn’t come.
Oakley shoots me what looks like a mix between a glare and a wince.
His head is all buggered up, and even though he must be seeing stars, he still makes sure I know how much he despises me.
And yet, it’s not all disgust. There’s interest there.
His gaze lingers across my face and chest, eyeing my tattoos and then watching my mouth.
A thrill runs through my chest. My little mousey wants to play.
Oakley grabs his bag and starts to march in the wrong direction. I direct him back with a grip on his arm. Oakley’s following yank away from me makes a real tingle run down my spine. Slowly, that numbness is being chased away by something else. Something…alive.
There’s something about Oakley that zaps life into my veins. I’m not sure if it’s just because he’s hot, or if it’s the secrets I see churning in those pretty eyes. But he’s like a drug without the hangover, and I can already feel the magnetic pull. It’s so strong I almost step into him.
I blink, the illusion shattering. Oakley isn’t like the other men on this island. He’s too soft. His gaze darts away too quickly; he’s never angling his body to find my weaknesses, and he looks so far away, but with the most anguishing sadness instead of hardened anger.
Cursing myself, I realize I meant to look him up the other night. I must have passed out.
Not safe.
That happy bubble of good feelings pops, and I’m hit with a wave of fear.
Someone else is riding this wave of good feelings with me.
Someone who put me in that wave. Oakley.
Who I don’t know anything about. Someone who spent the first day trying to get close to Wyatt. The one I’m supposed to protect.
I feel my chest get stiff. What the hell is wrong with me?
Gathering up that numbness, I wrap myself in it again. Blank nothing settles over me in a smothering, isolating fog. Normally, it’s also slightly warm and welcoming. But right now, I don’t feel warm. I feel alone and cold.
I need a drink.
“Let’s go.” I direct Oakley to the villa, scanning to make sure no one has seen us, then herding him inside. “You can pay the fine when we get there.”
As I say it, the cold gets colder.
I need that fucking drink to warm me up. Warm me and give me clarity about what to do with the mouse that I still want to pin against the wall and play with until he comes.
Suddenly, I’m warm again.
Getting Oakley up to my room feels like chasing a pouting toddler who doesn’t want to acknowledge me. When we stand outside my door, his eyes get shifty. “What are we—”
Unlocking the door, I motion inside. “Go.”
I shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t bring him into my room. Because already I feel the apathy shifting to something else. Something far more dangerous.
It’s fine. I’ll get a drink, and it’ll be fine.
Oakley glances down the hall, those captivating eyes looking for an escape. In the light, his forehead is even more puffy than it looked before. And still, his gaze catches on me with a split second of hesitation. Like he can’t look at me enough.
That attention yanks on my numbness again, like a siren call.
Shaking myself, I focus again. “Shall I tell my boss that you were out late?”
That spurs Oakley into motion, and he steps into my room.
It’s dark, but I flip the light on, expecting to see a mess. Already stuffing down any feelings that might be related to Oakley and what he thinks about it.
But it’s not. The room is clean, and the bed is made. My work stuff is all organized on the desk. I pause, staring. Did room service come in here while I was gone?
Oakley turns to face me. “I uh, don’t have my wallet here.”
Wallet? He thinks he’s paying in cash?
I have to turn away, looking for my tequila. That damned interest is trying to overwhelm me again. It’s screaming that a threat wouldn’t be so naive. That Oakley isn’t trying to pull one over on me. That he’s just as lost as I am.
Finally, my fingers brush up against the cool glass of a bottle under the bed. There’s a slight thrill of victory. Housekeeping isn’t that good. Even as I haul out the heavy bottle, I’m hit with a combined sense of relief and guilt.
I shouldn’t be drinking right now. But with that thought comes that cold version of reality, and I’m not sure what demons will catch up to me there.
So I shove that thought away, taking a swig right out of the bottle. It burns in a welcoming, warming way.
Oakley is watching me, those eyes tracking every movement. I grin, toasting the bottle at him. “Want some?”
“No.”
“Oh, but I insist.” I glance around, not seeing any cups. So I shrug, moving up to him. “Open your mouth.”
Oakley’s eyes widen.
“I said open.” Even issuing the command makes my dick hard.
“I’m not… Let me pay the fine, and I’ll go back to my room.” Oakley’s eyes shift in that helpless look that makes me want to kiss the fear right out of him. I don’t like fear. I want to bury it. Smother it in anything I can get my hands on. And right now, that’s tequila.
“We’re getting there, impatient mousey.” I take another swig. Oakley looks hot even with that black eye. In fact, it adds to his look, making him look troubled and so, so sad.
I don’t like sad either.
“Drink.” I can’t keep the growl out of my voice. I don’t want to see Oakley sad. I don’t want his sadness to rub off on me. I need him to be happy. Loose. Off guard, so he can tell me why he’s here.
And why he’s so damn sad.
No. I glare at him until he parts those full lips. That bottom one sticks out in a kissable pout.
Heat is starting to warm my chest from the liquor. I see a look pass through Oakley’s eyes. It’s not sadness or fear…no, this time it’s anger.
Well, that won’t do. In a last-minute decision, I take the swig that was meant for him, then press my mouth over Oakley’s lips. He startles, trying to pull away, but I only chase after him, crushing our lips together, pushing the tequila past his closing lips into his mouth.
For a second, he’s frozen. Then I feel his tongue working and his lips close to swallow.
Only then do I let him pull away.
Oakley looks stunned, his lips puffy and his pupils dilated. That anger is gone, and he’s back off balance. I feel that warmth creeping into the room. The warmth that goes to both of us. The dangerous warmth.
Fucking hell. Playing with Oakley is like playing with fire.
I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. I ask partially to do research on him later, and partially to satisfy my curiosity, “What’s your last name?”
He looks slightly confused, but still answers, “King.”
Oakley King. I roll it around in my mouth. “Middle?”
“Want my social and date of birth too?”
“While you’re at it.” I throw him a wink.
“Go fuck yourself.”
I take another drink, then hand the bottle to him. This time, he takes it without arguing. I wait to see if he’ll drink it.
He raises it to his lips, and then a flicker of that defiance is back. Immediately, I warn, “If you pretend to drink that, I’ll do it again, only you’ll be on your back.”
Suddenly, I’m flooded with the image of Oakley on his back under me, those eyes turned up at me with lust. I wonder if there’s another way I could get him to drink it? Pour the alcohol down my stomach and along my dick right into his mouth.
I grow so hard it hurts. Fuck, I want my dick in Oakley’s mouth. Would he try to bite it off? Would he gag? Fight me? Give in and grip my thighs in a silent plea to let him breathe?
My dick throbs against my leg, and I shift, watching Oakley take a real drink from the bottle. Then, he puts it down.
“My middle name is Rebel.”
Oakley Rebel King. Oh yes. I fucking love that.
“What am I doing here?” he asks, defensive.
That is the question, is it not? I let him stew in silence for a bit, watching him squirm.
“I didn’t know what time it was. I got lost.”
I scan his arm for the watch we give all hunters. He’s not wearing it. Now why the hell isn’t he wearing it?
I reach for the bottle, taking another swig, then motion at Oakley to do the same.
“Why did you want to see the game master?” I ask.
Oakley’s gaze flits away.
“You know bribes work wonders in this game, but the game master rarely accepts.”
“I wasn’t…” Oakley looks a bit defensive.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
Oakley’s face shutters, those lids falling over his eyes halfway. He’s so obviously hiding something, it’s painful. He’s terrible at it. Unless this is part of his game?
I need to push him. To see how far he’s willing to go to keep up whatever ruse he has going on. I sit back on the bed. “You know, I won’t tell my boss you were out late if you make it worth my while.”
Oakley takes a second to process that, then the prettiest color pink spreads across his face. His mouth opens, then shuts again. A flash of emotions, all too quick for me to pin down, moves across his face. He freezes, staring at the bed.
He’s thinking about all the ways he could make it worth my while. I am too. Oakley on all fours. Oakley in the shower. Oakley under me with my cum all over his face.
He sits there, frozen. My little mousey, all caught in my trap. Nothing to do but accept defeat.
Something shifts. I’m not sure what it is, but Oakley snaps his gaze up to mine and holds it; his gaze is fiery.
It startles me that…life that’s suddenly in him. I don’t look away. The connection feels electric. It’s like he’s opening his soul, and I can see straight into the depths of his heart. And what I see there is fear but also defiance.
“You can do whatever you want to me, but don’t hurt her.”
I can do whatever I want to him. That statement hits me like a jolt of adrenaline. I want to do whatever I want to him. I want his life fused so far into mine that all I feel is the warmth from his soul. Then slowly, I realize the second part of that sentence.
Her?
I blink. Oakley and I have never talked about a woman before. I heard him wrong.
Oakley doesn’t break my gaze. “She didn’t do anything wrong. She doesn’t deserve to die.”
I blink again. She? What in the hell is he talking about? I stare at him, and that fire in his eyes is still there, but now it’s sad.
I blink a few more times. “Who?”
“Look, don’t kill her. You can do anything…but you can’t kill her.”
He’s definitely talking about a woman. Rage hits my bubble of warmth, threatening to shatter it. I growl, “Who’s her?”
He pauses for so long that I feel that rage starting to take over, starting to turn me into something I’m not. Snatching him up by the throat, I ask again. “Who is her?”
“Holland. Fourteen.”
I stare at him like he’s talking gibberish.
“The woman I came here with.”
Just like that, my bubble shatters, and cold, wet fear slides in. It erases the anger and brings with it another kind of spiral. A worse kind.
Oakley has a woman.
He has a woman.
As I process that information, I realize what that also means.
There’s a woman here. On the island.
Ice forms in my gut with a withering punch. I clench and unclench my hands, trying to regain control.
Control. Warmth. No fear. No dread.
One of my deals coming to this island is that women were never to be involved. That’s my hard rule. Everyone knows that. Wyatt stands behind it.
“You’re lying,” I say, my voice coming out soft. I clear my throat, saying it again in a gruff voice.
But Oakley doesn’t look like he’s lying. He just turns those pretty, sad eyes up at me in a look of hatred.
And I realize with horrifying clarity that he’s not lying.
I feel sick. The feeling crashes over every carefully crafted wall. The wave that’s been threatening all night plows into me and crushes my defenses. Then I’m caught up in it, unable to take a breath, unable to tell which way is up.
Alone. And afraid.
Like I try so hard not to be.