Free Truth or Dare (His Wicked Games #2) by Ember Casey Page A

fingers twisting and pulling at the
strands. He leans over me, nudging my thighs apart so he can press
nearer. There’s a clatter as something else tumbles off the desk.
Something big this time—probably that dinosaur of a three-hole
punch we’ve had since this place opened.
    There’s no way Dad didn’t hear that.
    I push Calder off of me and sit up, grabbing
him by the tie even as my dad’s voice floats in from the next room.
“Lily? Are you all right?”
    “I’m fine! It’s nothing!” I tug Calder around
the desk and shove him down onto the floor. He’s too surprised to
resist or argue, and I pray that he catches the warning in my
glare. I’m just bending to pick up the three-hole punch when Dad
appears in the doorway.
    “Is everything okay, honey?”
    “Yeah,” I say, waving the beast of a gadget
at him. “Just knocked a couple of things off my desk.”
    Out of the corner of my eye, I see Calder
raise his eyebrows in surprise. I give him a small kick, hoping he
gets the hint.
    Dad is looking curiously at me, and I realize
suddenly how disheveled I must appear. My hands skim over my shirt,
my skirt. And— oh, God —my hair…
    “It’s been a rough day,” I say, trying to
brush it off, hoping against hope that my face isn’t as red as it
feels. Crap, are my lips swollen?
    But my dad either doesn’t notice or chooses
not to see.
    “That Collins woman again?” he says. “She’s
been a real trip.”
    I nod. “Called and changed her numbers again.
I—”
    Calder is touching me. His fingers are
sliding up my leg—softly, slowly, sending shivers all the way up my
thigh. I clear my throat and try to shift away from him, but his
hand follows.
    “I—I redid the invoices,” I manage,
indicating the papers that are still on the floor. Calder’s hand
has slipped beneath the hem of my skirt now, and it’s slowly
inching its way upward. His breath is warm against my ankle. When I
try to gently nudge his face away, he nips at my skin and flicks
his tongue sensually along the back of my leg. I try not to
squirm.
    “How many do they have coming?” Dad asks.
    It’s hard to remember the number with
Calder’s mouth teasing my ankle and his fingers caressing my thigh.
“Two hundred and twelve, I think?”
    Dad whistles. “A big one.”
    “We need it.” I lean forward and grip the
desk, trying to keep my face blank. Calder’s ever-climbing hand is
now tickling my strategically closed thighs, trying to force me to
part them. In spite of the situation, my body reacts instinctively
to the touch. Heat pools in my lower belly, a contrast to the
panicked lump in my throat. I’m having trouble breathing normally,
and my face and neck feel warmer with every passing second. I
swear, if my dad finds out about us like this, Calder’s going to
get it. And by “it” I don’t mean the prize he’s currently seeking
between my legs.
    I shift again, and this time I feel my heel
connect with Calder’s cheek. He sucks in a breath, and I cough to
cover up the sound.
    Dad’s frowning. Great, he must have
heard.
    But no—he’s shaking his head. “Didn’t you
have dinner plans with a friend?”
    “Yes. Yes I do.” I smile. “I was just about
to change.”
    Dad’s smiling again. “Good. You’ve been
working too much these past few weeks.”
    “I could say the same of you.”
    It’s true, but if I’m being honest, Dad looks
the best he has in months. When the Frazer Center for the Arts was
on the brink of closing, he was a mess. I’ve never seen him look so
old, so tired, so haggard. But now he might be a decade younger.
He’s smiling more—laughing, even—and, as cheesy as it sounds, the
sparkle is back in his eyes. We’re not completely out of danger
yet, but we’re moving steadily in the right direction, and that
positive energy has been enough to make Dad excited about this
place again.
    “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” he says. “You
have fun tonight, honey.”
    “Will do.”
    No sooner has