Wicked Game by Bethan Tear Read Free Book Online

me.”
                  The fingers wrapped around her arm were warm yet she still trembled, from a combination of cold and something else. It wasn't fear, what it was she didn't like to admit, even to herself. He was trying to distract her and she couldn't let him. She tugged away from him and he let her go. She was grateful.
                  Mom wasn't home so Hazelle set about making dinner. Kaden loitered in the kitchen by the blank TV, watching her chop vegetables and fry chicken. At first she had wanted to put as much distance between them as she could but now she preferred to keep him under her eye, to know that he couldn't plot, or scheme or seduce women without her knowing about it. She wasn't jealous of his past lovers, she wasn't , the fact was she'd seen enough soap operas to know that men were unfaithful, deceitful, manipulative and a sex demon prowling the streets, even in the twenty-first century, was bound to bring some unwanted scrutiny.
                  He seemed content enough to stay by her side and he didn't criticise her cooking. She didn't even hear him come up behind her, his muscular arms reaching around her, his huge frame enveloping hers. She tensed when she felt his bulge brush her back, sucking in a quick breath, blushing.
                  “Why don't we spice things up a little, hmm?” he murmured sensuously, his warm breath tickling her throat.
                  “We can't...not here in the kitchen...what if my mom comes home?” she gasped, and though she knew it was risky, knew it was wrong she was still a woman and it was her womanhood that ached now, screaming at her to accept his advances.
                  He reached out with a long fingered hand; at first she thought he was reaching for the knife she had used to slice the chicken and she tensed, but instead his hand picked up the paprika jar from the spice rack and he began shaking it over the chicken, marinating it. She relaxed, deflating against him, suddenly so weak with relief.
                  He replaced the paprika and retreated. She had to grip onto the counter for support.
                  “You don't have to be so scared of me, Ma Chérie,” he drawled, perfecting a French accent at the end, “I will not hurt you...unless you beg me to.”
                  She didn't know how to responded to that, and so she didn't, at least not with an answer. Her body did though, the heat between her legs flaring, the flames of lust licking at her flesh. She tried to ignore it, finished cooking the chicken and served it on a bed of salad. It was delicious.
                  “You know how to cook?” she asked curiously, having assumed he would be good for only one thing.
                  “Even demons need to eat,” he said, nonchalant, “Besides, I can't be doing that all day, every day. I'm not a machine, Hazelle. Or a god.”
                  “Know many gods, do you?” she asked sarcastically.
                  He smirked.
                  “A few.”
                  He lifted his fork, a succulent piece of chicken speared on the end.
                  “Let me feed you, lover,” he purred, and then she realised all the amusement was gone from his face, leaving only his lustful, piercing dark gaze, his black eyes penetrating a deep, dark, profound place in her that no man had ever come close to reaching.              
                  She shook her head.
                  “I am not your lover and I am not a child. I can feed myself,” she said contrarily, demonstrating this by taking a bite of chicken and chewing.
                  He sulked for the rest of the meal.
                  Mom still wasn't home by the time they'd finished so Hazelle cleaned up and left some chicken on a plate in the