I walk up to him and stare hungrily into his powder blue eyes.
“Right. That does it.” He scoops me up and carries me to his bed.
My T-shirt, which is one of his I robbed from his closet, is up, over my head, and on the floor in two seconds flat. It takes another two seconds to have him on top of me, his cock free and his mouth sucking on my nipple.
“Condom,” I whisper.
Without hesitation, he reaches for one in his nightstand. I revel in the fact I don’t have to explain why. Last night was beautiful and reckless. I was caught up in the moment, too desperate to know if we could be together in every sense of the word. He was driven by giving me what I wanted. Hard, hot fucking.
More, please.
He rolls the condom on his thick, throbbing cock, and I enjoy the view that’s over way too fast. Before I know it, he’s pinning my arms over my head and kissing me like he can’t get enough. I love how it makes me feel—like his hunger for me has no limit. He slides his tongue against mine and thrusts hard, making me break from his lips to release a groan. He withdraws and slams into me again. The movements are animalistic and deep. It’s pure pleasure. He wants this. Not that I don’t, but he’s fulfilling his need.
Will he pay the price after? I don’t know, but I don’t want him to stop, so I just let go.
In three minutes flat, I’m coming hard, and he’s ejaculating deep inside me. He lets out an unapologetic groan, thrusting in time to my contractions, making each and every explosion more intense.
I can’t see straight. I can’t even remember my name. Or his. I just know this is where I belong.
After several moments, him still buried inside me, he drops his forehead to mine. We’re both panting hard.
“I don’t know how I got so lucky,” he says.
“We both did.” I kiss him, and we start making love. This time, it’s for me. But like a good, loyal genie, he obeys and makes my wish his command.
Later that morning, Mr. Wish has me fed, sated, dressed in fresh clothes—a red comfy turtleneck and warm black leggings, no panties—he made appear out of thin air (his assistant delivered them), and we’re on our way to a “customer” in New Jersey.
He’s driving his silver Audi-something sports car that glides over the post-winter Turnpike potholes like it’s floating on air.
“I’m not letting you give this one away, Mr. Wish. It’s too damned wonderful.” I snuggle into the leather bucket seat. “Also, you look extremely fuckable driving it, so…”
“Are you saying I look less fuckable in my other cars?” He cocks one brow and flashes a glance my way.
“Yep. Your fuckability is at maximum warp speed in this car.” Add to that, he’s wearing jeans and a sexy navy blue sweater that hugs his hard chest under his blazer, and I’m dying inside. He’s so hot to look at.
He chuckles. “I didn’t know my sex appeal had a velocity, but I will certainly keep it in mind.”
“Excellent.” I close my eyes for a moment.
“Tired?”
I grin contentedly. “Late night. I’m hoping to gather my strength for a repeat.”
“Mmm… Well, keep wishing.”
I crack open one eye. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that my stamina and fitness routine are no match for your sex drive.”
“We’ll see…”
His phone rings, and he presses the button on the steering wheel. “Yes?”
“Hi, Marus,” says a man. I’m guessing it’s Jim, his assistant. “You asked me to call if we got a hit from Rachel Gaberdine?”
“Yes.”
“Well, she’s wished to be in the Olympics.”
Marus groans. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll get back to you.” He taps the button to end the call.
“What’s a hit?” I ask.
“The bottles have sensors in them.”
“So that’s how you know where the bottles go!” I figured he just had everyone followed.
“The sensor also detects what’s been written on the paper. It’s a very expensive piece of equipment.”
My jaw drops. “Your bottle is armed with spy equipment?”
“One of my first customers worked for the CIA. He helped me engineer them with some basic equipment inside those glass beads.”
He means the cabochons? What a sneaky bastard. I love it! “But why bottles? Why not just pick random people and ask them what they want?”
He flashes a glance my way. “And have people running around, blabbing to the media?”
I give that some thought. The whole bottle thing does create a nice deterrent. One word to anyone and they instantly think you’re crazy.
“By the way,” he adds, “thank you for the bottle you killed. It cost me a hundred grand.”
Oh. Oops? “Well, in my defense, I thought the thing was possessed. It kept following me around.”
“Different bottles. The one you saw at the garage sale wasn’t the same one you picked up at Rose’s.”