Cat & Mouse Games (Tempting Mr. Parker) (4 page)

Brandon, strangely, isn’t turned off by my actions. “I like girls with healthy appetites.”

I stab a large chunk of steak and wolf it down. “Fuck you,” I reply, but it probably sounds like “uh huh” to everyone else.

By the time dessert has rolled around I’m able to keep my anger in check, masking my emotions with a typical teenager's expression. The one that says I’m-Bored-Life-Sucks-And-I’d-Rather-Not-Be-Here-So-Fuck-You.

Ahem.

I dig into the German chocolate cake Mom snagged at the store while my dad uncorks a few bottles of wine and distributes the liquid generously. Brandon and I are passed up since we’re not twenty-one. We have to suffer with grape juice instead.

Ugh.

Carolyn, nice and tipsy now, gets even louder and more annoying. I eat my dessert slowly, not giving myself a reason to leave the table just yet. It’s not that I don’t trust him… I just can’t bear the thought of some bitch in heat shaking her ass around my man. Right in front of my eyes, and there’s nothing I can do about the situation.

Or
maybe… I can.

Seeing I’ve calmed down and mellowed out, my mom chuckles over her glass of Pinot. “Feeling better?”

I answer around a mouthful of cake. “Whu
t
-
e
-vuh.”

“Oh, what happened?” Carolyn chimes in, but her sugary tone doesn’t hold an ounce of sincerity. She’s just talking in an attempt to dominate the conversation.

“Girls.” My mom rolls her eyes. “Jess just broke up with her boyfriend.”

“Ooh.” The woman responds, but it sounds a bit more like a person’s response to
an
LOLCat and not to someone losing a lover. “I’m so sorry. I bet you liked him a lot, yeah?”

I blurt out another handful of obscenities masked by chocolate cake.

“Jess, don’t talk with your mouth full.” My mom’s voice is chiding, a single eye narrowed.

“That’s okay, LeAnn, I remember being her age. Ooh, how fun it was…” The Queen of Slutastica proceeds to bore everyone out of their minds with the story of a gorgeous eighteen-year-old girl whose beauty was so great boys fought to win her affections. (Which means, she’s talking about herself.)

Even though she was constantly tempted by her numerous paramours, her heart always belonged to one man: Brandon’s dad. Since they had both been young they’d had their ups and downs, trials and tribulations; but in the end, they got married. Then the adorableness that is Brandon was born.

Life was a fairy tale until Brandon’s father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.

Now, I am not an
über
-
die-in-hell bitch. Really.

It’s just that we’ve heard this story three times since we’d arrived. I don’t think it’s been more than five hours.

This woe-is-me whining is annoying. Anyone can listen to my thoughts and tell me I’m evil and not nice and whatever, but I can’t stand the “feel sorry for me” shtick.

And right about now I realize Carolyn Somersby is no longer a threat. She’s a ditz.

My mom may not see her friend for what she is since Carolyn is apparently her BFF, but I know Mr. Parker can certainly see her true colors. He’s sitting straight, studying his empty plate with his arms crossed over his chest and a perfectly unreadable mask over his face. One glance is all it takes to see that she bores the hell out of him.

Then, thank God, Carolyn ends her story with a shrill laugh and rubs Mr. Parker’s arm. She’s touching him. Touching him. Something inside me snaps.

That does it.

The bitch has crossed a line she probably doesn’t realize exists, but whatever.

It’s obvious she’s desperate for Mr. Parker’s attention, and has pulled out all the stops. As a grown, intelligent woman, she has to realize he’s not biting the carrot she’s dangling. All his answers to her questions have consisted of single words… or, if it had to be a longer an
s
wer, at most ten. Add the fact that he doesn’t make eye contact or ask her any questions, and it should be staring her in the face.

The woman, with all her years, doesn’t understand how to recognize a cold shoulder.

Perhaps I should show Carolyn how to tease a man properly.

I make some benign, sugary sweet comment in response to the woman’s story and simultaneously reach for the bottle of Welch’s juice to refill my glass. Oops, I douse my chest with the rest of dark purple liquid. Darn. Right.

“Oh, crap! My new sweater!” I’m wearing a thin, white tank beneath my pale pink Juicy Couture slim Hoodie. No bra. Hell, I rarely wear one when I’m with Mr. Parker. In my “frantic” attempt to salvage the designer sweater, I unzip the front and grab a napkin to soak up the offending juice. My chest is saturated and my white tank sticks to my skin, leaving little to the imagination. My stiff nipples and firm breasts are shielded by the barely-there, wet fabric. Oh, it’s not low cut to reveal my abundant cleavage, it’s just wet. But all women know men have a thing for wet T-shirt contests. For men, it’s the thrill of the nearly seen that arouses them, gets their motors running.

Carolyn probably thought she could reel in Mr. Parker with her dangerously low cut top, but I’m the one who elicits the sharp inhale from him. I’ve won this war.

My dad keeps his mouth shut, gives me a frown.
I know he doesn’t like “scenes”. My mom is on top of stain patrol, though. She’s giving me directions on how best to salvage the sweater, running it under cold water and scrubbing gently.

And in the middle of the commotion, I steal a glance at Mr. Parker, and catch his dreamy expression before he tears his gaze away.

That’s about when Carolyn and Brandon catch us, looks of suspicion and resignation on their faces.

I, being the actress I am, pretend to get terribly upset. “This is a three-hundred dollar sweater. A Limited Edition! Now it’s ruined because I’m such a klutz.”

“Don’t worry, honey.” My mother pats my shoulder and rubs my upper back with a soothing touch. “We’ll take it to the cleaners. Just head to the bathroom and change before the stain settles into your tank top as well.” My mom shoos me away. “Now.”

I spin on my heel and march to the second floor. Behind me, I can hear my mom apologizing to our guests about my whiny behavior while my dad makes a comment about my mom spoiling me too much. They blame each other like any normal set of parents do. As I head past Mr. Parker, I steal a glance and find he’s studying his wine glass with a fervent intensity, tense lines filling his form. Triumph fills me.

I bet all of my fingers he’s got a sizeable hard-on right about now.

No fucking doubt.

After I change I spend the rest of the evening curled up next to the fireplace with a good book. At some point, Brandon joins me, and we chat about school and stuff. When he’s not trying to come on to me, he’s a likeable boy, and we have a lot in common. We like the same bands, and adore the same authors. At one point, he kinda complains that his mom embarrasses the hell out of him, and I pretend not to understand.

I figure it’s just that his mom hadn’t gotten laid in a while.

The “adults” linger in the dining room until well past nine. When they finally break up, I help my mom clean the table and do the dishes. My dad and Mr. Parker continues their conversation over beers on the back patio, leaving Carolyn, high as a kite on champagne, in the house with us. In the kitchen, she can’t stop giggling and gushing about how attractive Mr. Parker is. I keep my not-so-innocent face blank.
I start feeling a bit of pity for her. Even my mom seems to realize that Mr. Parker isn’t interested.

So far, Joseph has been nothing but inattentive to Carolyn, but she’s too large a fool to realize he’s just being barely polite. My mom’s matchmaking scheme is a total bomb.

Go me.

I’m no longer worried about the competition. After dinner, the “adults” retire to the hot tub, and to my surprise, Mr. Parker declines. It doesn’t seem to matter to him that Carolyn begs while dressed in nothing more than scraps of cloth that resemble a bikini.

Based on her evening attire and barely-there bikini, I get the feeling Carolyn is “in” on the matchmaking scheme. Like, all in, gung ho,
I know what you’ve done and I wanna get laid,
“in”.

Why the hell did she bring her son along? Wouldn’t it have made more sense to have left him home while she went daddy hunting?

I don’t get that.

Don’t care either.

I saunter to the back patio, say goodnight to the “adults”. Still in my good girl mode, I apologize for my behavior at the dinner table and blame it all on my breakup. Everyone but Mr. Parker buys my fib. I see the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, telling me he’s a bit impressed with my lying skills.

I’m adept at lying, and I’m proud of it.

I trot upstairs to take a shower, but once I enter the bathroom, I settle on a long soak instead. I pop in my earbuds, find some gentle music on my iPod and then light the single candle I’d found in the kitchen. I part the curtains covering the large window along one wall, slide up the bottom half for ventilation and let the moonlight fill the room.

It’s a perfect
autumn
evening, brisk breeze swimming through the portal and it drops the temperature a few degrees. But with the near-scalding bathwater, I find the entire setup very Zen and soothing.

After the long drive and the commotion I caused at the dinner table, I think I deserve some quality “me” time. I shampoo my hair and then scrub my body clean with my favorite Bath and Body Works rose-scented soap until my skin turns a lovely pink. Then, I roll a towel and place it beneath my neck before I close my eyes to relax. I must have dozed for a moment or two. When I open my eyes, I see someone sitting on the toilet, watching me.

Mr. Parker.

My heart stutters. “How did you get in here?” I keep my voice low. God, he’d been so silent, I hadn’t heard anything except the band, Static-X, blaring from my iPod. Can all these super impressive spec ops guys move like ghosts?

His lips curve into a smile as he twirls something thin and metallic between his fingers. It looks to be a twisted paper clip. “I picked the lock.”

My gaze darts to the door. All of the doors in the cabin have old-fashioned locks. For someone of Mr. Parker’s caliber, getting in and out of our locked doors shouldn’t be much of a problem.

He lays the bit of metal on the counter and then kneels beside the bathtub, reaching for me. I don’t hesitate, don’t pause a second. I meet him half way, open to him and twine my tongue with his. I can taste the wine on his tongue, an accompaniment to the addictive flavor that belongs to him alone. I cup his cheeks, needing to touch his skin and feel him beneath me.

Between kisses, he whispers against my lips. “Miss you.”

I moan. “Miss you more.”

“I don’t want Mrs. Somersby. You don’t have to be jealous, Jess.”

I rest my forehead against his, breathing heavy. “Sorry. I couldn’t help it.”

He sighs, pulls away to study my face and caresses my cheek ever so gently, as if I ‘m
made of fragile porcelain and could shatter at any moment. I grab his hand, place it on my breast and force him to squeeze the mound.

“Touch me,” I plea. “Show me that you like me better than Mrs. Somersby.”

“Jesus, Jess.” His face shows his confusion, shock, and he brings his other hand up to touch me, knead my flesh. Not too hard. Not too soft. Just perfect. A surge of heat pours through me and my pussy grows heavy and aches. He knows my body better than I ever could.

Joe leans forward, kisses along my jawline until his lips brush my ear. “Can’t you see that I’m crazy for you? I can’t think of anything but you. When I was in Iraq, on the plane. I try not to think about you during missions, but even that’s impossible. I could get shot if I’m distracted and you still weasel into my thoughts.”

We laugh together, but my giggle dies when he pulls away, and I see the true intensity in his eyes. The man on his knees before me isn’t lying. I feel the heat radiating from him, and it singes me to my core, right to my soul.

“You’re so pretty, perfect and naughty. Sometimes I wonder how a guy like me could ever deserve to be with a pretty girl like you.”

Something inside me melts and goes all gooey upon hearing his words. I snatch the front of his shirt, uncaring of the water seeping into his clothing, and pull him to me. Without hesitation, he crushes his lips over mine. He kisses me hard, desperate, his tongue plunging into my mouth. He tastes, brands, claims.

My veins burn with molten fire, his closeness urging my arousal on. I want him. Not just a tiny bit. I seriously fucking want this man and would pawn my soul to the devil for a taste.

He licks my neck, scraping his teeth on my heated skin as Static-X breaks in to “The Only”. I’ve never been overwhelmed with the raw emotions of hunger, desire, jealousy and possessiveness. I’m seriously considering marching downstairs with my lover in tow and announcing our relationship to my parents, regardless of the consequences.

I bite the inside of my lip as he bends lower, sucks my nipple into his mouth and flicks the nub with his tongue in rabid taps. I grab his shoulders and press my cheek to his bent head, caress his close-cropped hair. His scent envelopes me, a thick male fragrance that causes every fiber inside me to scream for more, and I arch into his ministrations. Mr. Parker sucks my breast, bites my nipple, and my stomach flutters, pussy clenches in desperation. I groan, and offer my other nipple, quietly beg for his molestation. He sucks it hard, ravenously and makes my body shiver.