by Christa Wick
"I won't," she agreed. "Because I already have a job waiting for me—in Massachusetts."
Confusion clouded his face for a minute and then she felt like she was staring at the alien warrior in the film they had just wrapped up as he rose to his full height and stalked toward her. She backed up aimlessly, her thoughts too scattered by the determined glint in his gray eyes for her to follow her planned escape route.
Feeling a solid wall blocking her on both sides, she realized she’d retreated into a corner.
"Why are you running away from me?" he growled.
"If you mean right this second," she squeaked, "take a look in the mirror!"
He didn't look, but he rubbed at his face with both hands, huffing and puffing like the scruffy, big, bad wolf he resembled at that moment. When his hands came away, he only looked half as terrifying as before—which was still pretty damn terrifying.
"I agree I overstepped certain...boundaries...with the jobs thing. I shouldn't have had you pushed off the soap opera. I should have told you I could get you on this damn Shades knock-off and even kept the spot open so you could honor your obligation at the soap if that's what you wanted."
The mechanical delivery of his mea culpa diluted his apology, but she was surprised that he seemed to be apologizing at all.
Declan also surprised her by backing away from the corner where he had her trapped and sweeping his arm toward the bedroom door.
"Let's find someplace you'll feel safe while we talk this out."
She doubted he could find a prison at any hour that would allow them into a visitation room where they each sat on opposite sides of the glass. But getting him out of her bedroom for the night would be a good start to ending their weird relationship.
"Fine." Stopping a few feet from him, she made the same sweeping gesture. "Lead the way."
A smile that tickled her stomach surfaced on Declan's face, but he quickly swiped it away with his hand.
He walked, she followed. Down the long hall and the stairs, bypassing the first floor and descending into the basement.
It was clear the basement was made for fun, mostly the kind engaged in by men gathered together. There was a pool table, air hockey, Foosball, a cluster of arcade machines that included a motorcycle simulator, enough comfortable seating for over a dozen people between the club chairs and couches, and a huge flat screen television with multiple gaming consoles on the surrounding shelves.
If his intent truly was to help her relax, she was pretty sure he was having the opposite effect. She harbored the concern that she could scream her head off down there and no one, not even someone standing on the first floor, would hear her pleas for help.
And there was still one last door to go at the opposite end, the door he was clearly steering her toward. She slowed her pace until she was at least six feet behind him when he came to a stop.
"Still suspicious, I see."
He twisted the knob and pulled the door toward him to reveal a narrow strip of floor and then a platform with three levels of seating. Edging a little closer, she saw a movie screen occupying the entire left wall of the room.
"I would brag that it's totally soundproof," he joked, "but you already want to run back to your bedroom and bar the door."
He was mostly right, only she wanted to run straight out of the house. Not that she thought he would hurt her physically. There were brief flashes when she thought he didn't want to hurt her at all, that his relationship with Roger had nothing to do with whatever was going on between her and Declan.
Of course, as a little girl, she had fervently believed that a horse with wings was a real thing for an embarrassingly long time.
"Pick a seat," he said, holding the door open and gesturing for her to enter.
She stepped past him and looked at her options. The best location was easy to spot. It was in the middle of the second level, and instead of the big recliners surrounding it, there was a couch with deep cushions and an ottoman that ran its full length, the set up complete with pillows and several fur throws.
"I promise to stay on my side, if you promise to stay on yours," he challenged, his breath falling warm against her skin.
"I don't even know why I'm here."
Or why her legs refused to do the sensible thing and carry her out of the room and away from someone who posed such a danger to her heart.
"Because, deep down, you know I'm not the bad guy you want me to be."
She shook her head. Feeling the first sting of tears in her nose, she refused to let her emotions run away from her. She turned to him, instead. Looking up, she met his stormy gray gaze.
"You've got it all wrong. I want you to be a good guy." She swallowed, knew she had at least a little crow to eat. "Thank you for saving me from Strake. I haven't told you how grateful I truly am."
He smiled but she could tell he was fighting some other expression.
"Well, you had him knocked on his ass before I clotheslined him," he said at last.
She laughed. "Only because he was suddenly scrambling to get as far away from me as possible."
He shrugged and then his face went all serious again. "Thinking about it makes me want to pull you close and make sure you have someone to keep you safe when I can't have you right next to me."
The sting came back to her nose, its cruel pinch twice as forceful. "It's impossible to take you seriously when you say stuff like that."
Nodding, he rolled his lips and pointed at the seats. "That's why we need to talk some more, don't you think?"
Talking with Declan was dangerous, arguing with him slightly safer. Only it was closing in on ten p.m. and the day had thoroughly depleted her energy reserves. Without looking at him, she went to the loveseat, but sat down on the side closest to the door so she wouldn't have to crawl over him when she decided to leave.
The basement, particularly the screening room, was several degrees cooler than the main floor. Pulling one of the throws onto her torso and legs, she glanced over to find that Bain had disappeared.
"Declan?" she called and squinted at the doorway to see if he had gone back into the gaming area.
"Under here," his voice echoed from beneath the seating platform. "Just changing discs. You want something to drink?"
"A water, please."
Her face scrunched at the idea they were talking to one another like normal people. It might be a first for them—aside from the brief, often barking, exchanges on the last movie. But mostly he had been quiet around her on set, absorbed in himself—or so she’d thought.
Looking back in time, she tried to piece together enough details that would support his claim that he'd been interested in her all along. Assuming he didn't growl or imperiously ignore women he wanted to bed, all she had was the fact that her name was one of the few he had bothered learning on set and those moments in his trailer or the wardrobe room when he'd been looking at the mirror with an expression of dreamy satisfaction.
She started to shake her head, the motion interrupted by a cavernous yawn. Covering her gaping mouth as her eyes pulled tightly shut, Melanie considered asking if Declan had a cappuccino machine hiding under the platform, but knew she'd pay for it later when she was trying not to replay the day over and over and instead engage in that novelty the rest of the world knew as sleep.
Declan reappeared a few seconds later with two water bottles in hand. He tossed one at the far end of the couch then broke the seal on the other and handed it to her. She watched him climb across the ottoman and settle into his space opposite hers on the couch.
His hand dipped between the cushions in a universal fashion. When he came up empty, she repeated the motion on her side and laughed when her fingers curled around a familiarly shaped device.
It didn't matter how rich or cute they were, men had to have their remotes, but it usually took a woman to find it.
She handed the control to him, smiling until he beamed one of his own at her. Then she busied herself with unscrewing the cap on the wat
er bottle and taking a few studied sips as he brought the lights down and started something playing.
The screen stayed black for a few seconds and then she heard a water drop. A ripple ran across the screen. Another drop followed and another ripple, the drip of the water and a faint, almost eternal, static the only sound coming over the expensive sound system.
After what had to be at least a hundred drops, the camera slowly pulled back, pivoting its focus so that the viewer was looking down at where all the droplets had hit.
"Oooh..." she cooed.
It hadn't been water hitting the surface, it had been newly born galaxies, or maybe universes. The black screen was now a pinpoint of lights at varying distances. It zoomed in on one, the silvery white giving way to cotton candy colors that deepened until she was looking at nebulae and new stars being born.
"Where did you get this?" she whispered, not wanting to break the magic unfolding in front of her. "It's beautiful."
"Pet project I'm developing," he answered mysteriously and pressed another button on the remote. "I find it very relaxing."
The lights in front of her were suddenly joined by more lights above, the display on the ceiling a perfectly timed mirror to the first.
She craned her neck as proto-planets spun in hot discs, slowly forming spheres that released plumes of magma that cooled and were soon overtaken by seas and land masses.
Declan shifted, his legs stretching diagonally out from his corner as his feet encroached on the section of couch he had promised to stay away from. Peeling her eyes from the screen, she looked at him.
His soft smile melted her bones.
Taking one of the pillows, he placed it against his side, the fluffy rectangle of fabric and stuffing both a slight barrier and an open invitation.
"This isn't talking things out."
He shrugged, still smiling. "Because you don't feel safe yet."
He patted the pillow. "You won't have to bend your neck like that to watch it on the ceiling. Which is the best way to watch in my experience."
Feeling the last of her willpower slide onto the floor and scurry under the door to play Foosball with her sense of self-preservation, Melanie wiggled along the cushion then rested her back against the pillow.
They settled into silence, their bodies progressively relaxing. The video moved from the largest to the smallest objects in the universe before blossoming outward again.
"How long is it?" she asked. "I feel like I could watch it forever."
"I've got almost ten hours of visuals."
Finding the remote, he jumped ahead to where someone walked through a wheat field, the sex and age indeterminate and little of the person visible beyond the white silk scarf that trailed in the air.
"There's a 3D version," he offered. "I'd have to change discs and pull out the glasses."
"No," she answered softly, knowing that, if he got up, she'd emotionally retreat again.
He smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear, exposing the skin for him to lightly trace a finger along. "Maybe next time."
She didn't answer, just let his suggestion linger. He kept playing with her hair, his nails gently skimming along her scalp. The sensation made her sleepy at the same time it sent a tingling sensation running down her neck and across her shoulders.
Melanie brought her hand up, absently trying to quell the race of electricity his touch produced. Gently capturing her hand, he lifted it to his mouth and kissed the back of her fingertips.
"I want to make love to you before you run off to Massachusetts—before you even commit to going."
He said it so softly she thought she might have fallen asleep, dreaming the rest of the video and his words, but she knew she was awake.
"Has Roger done anything personally to make you hate him?"
She felt that, if she could understand his feelings on that front, she would be able to make sense of what was happening between her and Declan.
"I've only known about him a little longer than he's been married to your mother," he confessed. "He claims he found something in my supposed father's estate papers. He wouldn't be the first absent relative crawling out of the woodwork wanting something from me—but everyone else has wanted money. Roger has plenty of that, including the boatload he just inherited from the man he says is my father."
"I don't think my mom realizes that. I mean, she knows he has some bookstores. She described the one he took her to as 'quaint' when I talked to her on the phone Sunday."
"She doesn't seem like the kind who would care." Rotating Melanie's hand, Declan kissed her palm, his lips staying long enough for her to feel their warmth even after his mouth retreated. "Neither do you."
She thought about what Declan was saying. Not his assessment of her or Nancy but the fact that his dead father was rich. She knew from Declan's bio that he'd been raised by his mother, Skye Bain, in South Boston, one of the area's poorer sections.
During filming on the last set, she’d tried to look up his mother, wondering what kind of beauty she must have been, but the woman didn't seem to exist beyond Declan's biography and an alumni list for some fancy prep school.
"Is...is your mother still alive?"
His fingers wove in and out of hers. She’d been timid in getting the question out, but she knew he'd heard her. Freeing her hand, she rolled onto her side to see his face in the light of the two screens. He didn't avoid her gaze but met it head on, his expression as raw and powerful as always.
"When?"
"The summer following my sophomore year at college."
She would have guessed as much since he hadn't returned for his junior year.
She struggled with the issue of asking him how his mother had died. It was prying and rude and none of her business. Abandoning the idea, she rested her head on his chest, her ear unintentionally placed where she could hear his heart beating slow and steady.
His hand stroked absently at her back, down her shoulder blades to the top curve of her ass, lifted, touched down again at the top of her shoulders and repeated the trip.
The rhythm began to lure her into sleep. If she'd been awake enough, she would have laughed at herself. On a sofa, trading secrets with a man so beautiful it hurt to look at him, and she was falling asleep!
It wasn't his gentle tracing of her curves that pulled Melanie from her stupor. It was the change in his heartbeat, the way it accelerated as hers grew sluggish.
She lifted her head and looked at him. He studied her face for a second before sighing.
"You should probably return to your bedroom. It's been a hard day for you. We can talk tomorrow."
Melanie lowered her head to his chest once more, one fingernail tracing the contour of his upper abdominals, the compression t-shirt hugging him so tightly she could see their outline even in the low light from the screens.
"Mel..." he started before he had to stop and swallow something down. "You really should go to your room."
Closing her eyes, she let her finger trace lower and whispered the question that had been knocking around inside her head since moving over to his side of the couch.
"What if I don't want to?"
20
Declan didn't answer—not immediately and not with words when he did. For a few seconds, he did nothing more than stroke one finger along the bridge of his nose, just as he had done in the limo. Then he patted along the ottoman for the remote. Jumping ahead a couple of chapters on the disc, he plunged them into magma traveling deep within an early earth. The sound playing over the speakers was rolling, hot and undeniably liquid in nature.
Turning on his side, he opened up more room between his body and the back of the couch so that she sunk a little into the cushions to be cradled against him. He smoothed the back of his fingers across her cheek then cupped her face while his thumb stroked at the sensitive underside of her chin.
She could only imagine, at that moment, how good his hands would feel elsewhere on her body.
The light from the screens
, all dark reds and oranges with flashes of yellow, was to Declan's back, throwing his face in complete shadow. It was better that way, she knew. She wouldn't be able to study his face for clues that this was only real for her.
Instead, she had to read his touch and, at that moment, it was slow and tender in a way that soon had her arching her back. He had touched her on the plane, but she’d retreated inside, tried desperately not to feel the arousal that had coursed through her. She’d retreated during that first limo ride, too, even if his touch had quickly brought her to climax.
This time, she wanted to feel it fully.
Reaching one hand up, she curled her fingers in his hair and lightly tugged at it in invitation. Accepting her offer, Declan lowered his mouth. His lips ghosted across her cheekbone, then down to the corner of her mouth. She could feel his breath, warm and moist, escape his parted lips.
She opened to him, giving his tongue access. Her arms folded around his shoulders, all of her limbs beginning to tremble with need.
Declan was slow and strategic, warming her up with the kiss, one hand wrapped lightly around her throat as his tongue teasingly explored her mouth. He tickled her upper palate with a long, firm lick that rolled through her body like a wave, lifting her breasts and then her hips.
Her fingertips dug against his back for purchase. She needed his touch everywhere at once. Her pussy ached from the way he held her throat, his hand molded around her flesh. Her hips beginning to dance, she whimpered into his mouth.
Breaking the kiss, he rubbed his lips along her neck and ear, lightly pinching her flesh with them as he growled. His hand left her throat to tangle his fingers in her hair, tugging at it as he groaned at her.
"So fucking hot, baby girl."
She felt like the magma churning on the twin screens, her thighs prickling and burning with need, her lower lips dripping wet, her juices spreading out as she squirmed and whimpered some more.
"Help me get your top off," he coaxed, parting from her with another groan to help her into a sitting position. Seizing the hem, he pulled it upward. She lifted her arms, the blouse peeling away.