by Edie Harris
Her subconscious body-checked her brain. As if you had the confidence to date.
Stupid subconscious.
With one hand on her back, his other holding hers, he didn’t allow her the same space the mambo had demanded. “Think I’m gonna need you to say it out loud, darlin’.”
Her jaw clenched. “I’m single.” When relief relaxed his expression, she was goaded into adding, “And I like it that way.” Single was a good look on her. A partner would only complicate the routine she had going, test the controls she’d so carefully constructed over the past three years, forcing her to make room for someone else in her life and potentially losing all that she’d fought to rebuild in the process.
So why was she tempted to clear a space for Declan? That nonsense would have to stop. Immediately. “If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, I’m just telling you right now—bad idea.”
He wove them through the other couples on the floor, every step and turn aligning their bodies another inch, until she felt as though both her shirt and his were on the verge of combustion. “Why?”
If their shirts disappeared, it would be her flesh against his. Her stomach against his.
Her insides knotted at the prospect. Not in a million years. “Because I’m not ever going to be easy.” Not again.
His head dipped toward hers, and she jerked back…in time to see a hurt look flash across his face. Slower this time, he bent, his lips hovering over her ear. “Never said I wanted easy.”
She scoffed. “All men want easy.”
“Do I look like all men to you?” Before she could manage a retort, he shook his head. “You say you’re not ‘easy.’” His grip on her hand tightened. “What makes you think that?” A pause. “Did someone tell you that?”
It was as if he held her throat instead of her fingers, a lump forming until tears threatened and swallowing became impossible. She dropped her gaze to his chest, staring at that faded plane. Fly With Me. Too bad Fiona and relationships were a toxic mix. “No, no one. It’s just…I know me, and I know what I am.”
“I’m more interested in who you are, Fiona O’Brien.”
Her name on his lips was a full-body stroke to her senses, and this stroke eased the aching anxiety that had her in a chokehold. Leave him. She had to leave him on the dance floor, or she wouldn’t be able to blame the margaritas for her actions. Torn between the urge to flee and the need to hold onto this man who, with every passing moment, proved how special, how individual he was, she stepped away.
Her gaze locked on her father. Rick watched her steadily from the other side of the cantina.
The strings that were tangled around her heart as part and parcel of her relationship with her father tugged at her. She wondered if she was too old to march over and demand a hug. She wondered if she was too young to march over and demand he mind his own business, because even from here, she could see the hint of worry in eyes the same mutable gray shade as her own.
Those eyes shifted to somewhere over her shoulder, and she knew she wasn’t going to make it off the dance floor.
Declan caught her around the waist, strong forearm a steel band across her spine as he pulled her into him. His lips hovered over hers, a breath away, stealing hers. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”
“What?”
His eyes flashed, melted chocolate shot through with gold. “I’m gonna kiss you, Fi. You can decide if you want it to be here in front of your dad and our coworkers or somewhere more private.” He stepped back and extended his hand. “But either way, I’m kissin’ you.”
Her insides went mushy. Melty. Annoyingly, deliciously liquid. Without another word, she grabbed his hand and tugged him off the dance floor.
SIX
Fiona knew this establishment from front to back, a fact that became quite clear as she pulled Declan past the restrooms and through the quiet restaurant kitchen, where a lone worker scrubbed the stainless steel counters.
The guy didn’t bother glancing up.
Then they were through the fire door and in a side alley, the narrow space separating the cantina from the dry cleaning establishment next door. Two Dumpsters, lids thankfully closed, stood to their left atop cracked concrete, but the alley was otherwise abandoned.
A vent overhead funneled the muted blare of instrumental brass into the alley, while the occasional whoosh of passing cars, several meters to their right, provided a soothing baseline to the silence between them as the door swung shut.
All sound faded to nothing as she dropped his hand, facing him with temptress eyes. “You dance well.”
“You dance better.”
Shrugging, she circled him, balance flawless as her heels clicked on the uneven ground. She carried herself so well, he noted, shoulders even and spine straight. Her dance training seemed obvious to him now. He supposed he’d subliminally noticed it in the makeup trailer and on set. There was a graceful economy to her movements that spoke of long hours spent on her feet and perfecting her form.
Realization hit. He could watch her move all day and never grow bored.
Well, shit.
The desire that had burned into his bones on the dance floor now knotted his stomach as his gaze slowly, slowly traveled from the tips of her toes—painted a glossy Smurf blue—up sleek calves so smooth they gleamed in the faint glow from the overhead light stretched across the alley. That floaty green skirt he couldn’t take his eyes off of inside the cantina flirted a good six inches above her knees, brushing over the supple curve of strong, feminine thighs, and he wanted to touch her. God, he wanted to feel her flex under his palms, nothing but hot skin and hotter woman as she wrapped those legs around his waist and let him shove her back against the rough brick. Let him thrust into her, all while those pretty thighs clutched him closer.
As if she’d heard his naughty thoughts, she smiled, a subtle quirk of full lips that were usually stern whenever he was in the vicinity. Leaning her bare shoulders against the wall, she lifted a sandal-clad foot to rest on the brick behind her, and the skirt shifted. Lifted. Fell away until most of one lovely thigh and the beckoning inside of the other snared his unswerving attention—a provocative pose.
Declan scrubbed a hand over his mouth and stared. He was being rude—worse, he was being obvious, but he couldn’t help it. Her body called to him, stirring recognition at a gut-deep level and whispering, I’ll fit. Against you, atop you, beneath you. The itch in his fingertips was in no way relieved as they scraped over his bristled jaw. “I like how you move, darlin’.”
She plucked at the gauzy fabric of her top. “Most men do.”
His eyes met hers, the translucent gray piercing even in the alley’s lengthening shadows. “You weren’t dancing in there for most men.” He stepped forward until his knees brushed her leg, angled out from the wall. “You did that for me.”
“Wrong. I did that for me.” But her hands reached out to fist in the thin cotton of his tee shirt. Her knuckles brushed over his abdomen, and he sucked in a breath. “You’ll know it when I dance for you, Mr. Murphy.”
When. When she danced for him—not if. He didn’t even have to close his eyes to imagine her thumbs hooking around the thin straps of her creamy top, sliding those straps over the caps of her shoulders with a gentle tug. Her torso would twist as it had earlier, pulsing to the beat provided by the salsa band. A swish of her hips, the skirt flicking around those sublime thighs as she twirled. “I want that,” he murmured, studying her face for clues that he was being too aggressive—because he certainly felt aggressive, more than he’d ever been with a woman. “What do I have to do to see that dance?”
Eyebrow arching, she lifted her chin, and there was a glimpse of the familiar Fiona, the aloof woman whose face was the first he saw on set each morning, and the last he saw each night. “See it?” Her fists relaxed, fingertips petting the ridges of lean muscle hiding beneath his shirt until he wanted to purr. To pounce. “You have to earn it first.”
“Oh, I’ll earn it.” The
air between them thickened as he planted his palms on the wall on either side of her head and sidled closer. His leg nudged her bent knee aside, making a place for his hips in the cradle of hers, but he didn’t lean into her. Keeping the heavy ache of his erection away from the heat of her welcoming body was imperative—if he touched her like that, he’d lose any chance he had of keeping this encounter flirtatious. His need would yank them both into the dark yearning that kept prodding at his chest every time he saw her.
It wasn’t smart. Kissing her wasn’t smart—Rick knew it, Fiona knew it, and the Declan who knew that his career and not a woman should be his priority knew it. If he messed this up—
Fuck it.
A hint of salt and salsa at the corner of her mouth, the sweet tang of lime margarita when he dipped his tongue past full, giving lips. More tentative than he’d anticipated, she let him lead the kiss, and a curious ache bloomed high in his chest. For all that she moved like wild sex on the dance floor, in the moment of their first kiss, Fiona seemed almost shy.
It gentled the harsh edge of his lust. Without thought, he stepped into her, dropping one hand from the wall to cup her cheek, flushed and warm. He stroked his thumb over the high curve of one cheekbone. Her lashes fluttered closed as he angled her head, nipping playfully at her lower lip. “You taste like you dance.”
“What does that mean?” She let go of his shirt to loop her arms around his neck, holding him closer. Holding him to her.
The simple action soothed that unnamed ache. “Hot. You’re so damn hot.” Plump breasts pressed against his chest, her knee hooking over his hip. The heel of her sandal might as well have been a spur digging into his upper thigh, urging him to take her mouth again and seduce away any shyness.
The hand on her cheek slid to cup her nape, the cool strands of her high ponytail slipping over the backs of his knuckles, a tantalizing tease of sensation that made him want to wrap her hair around his fist and tug—hard. Much like he was. He finally brought his hips fully against hers, letting her feel him, and feel what kissing her did to his body.
Her breathing stuttered as she gripped his shoulders. “Damn it,” she muttered into his mouth. “You feel good.” Her hips hitched up, and he felt the sudden, stunning heat of her pussy along the length of his dick, only his jeans and her panties separating them. She bit down on his lower lip, not gently. “Really good.” She moved on him, arms clinging, leg clutching, nothing but lithe muscle and silky skin…and need.
God, she moved like she needed him. Him.
His hands dropped, one to her waist, the other to the thigh sliding over his hip. He slanted his mouth over hers, wanting to steal her words and her lips and her breath and her. Just her. All of her. His shoulders flexed as her nails found his spine, sharp pleasure burrowing into the tension-knotted muscles.
She thought he felt good? He couldn’t possibly compare to this writhing woman pinned to the alley wall.
He dipped inside her mouth to taste her again, eyes closed, wallowing in the salty sweetness on the tongue twining with his. His gut clenched as her hand fisted in his hair, the tug on his scalp shivering across his nerve endings. When she moaned against his lips, he felt sanity start slipping away, and burrowed the hand at her waist beneath her thin top, desperate to touch naked Fiona.
The hand in his hair yanked him back, tearing her lips from his. “Nothing under my shirt.”
He froze as his fingertips found the warm flesh stretched across her rib cage. “Why not?” Petting. Her skin practically cried out for petting, and he wanted to pet every damn inch of her. And then lick her ’til she melted like ice on his tongue.
“I just don’t want you there,” she snapped, tempering the bite of her tone by nuzzling the side of his neck.
All right, then. He withdrew, planting his palm on the brick above her shoulder. “What about your skirt?” The hand on her thigh slid beneath the hem of that fall-away skirt. The further he climbed, the softer her skin, the heat from her body buffeting the backs of his fingers. He nipped at her earlobe. “You gonna let me under here, darlin’?”
She stiffened when he found the lacy edge of her panties, trembled when one finger traced the crease of her lips through the delicate fabric. “Yeah. Yes.” The air leaving her lungs whooshed loudly against his ear.
His surprise didn’t keep him from playing along her slit, teasing touches that quickly increased the wetness gathering behind the lace gusset. She had this backward—most women were all about above-the-waist games, not letting a guy into their knickers until they knew he wouldn’t pull a bang-and-dash. But she wanted him exactly where he wanted to be and so would hear zero complaints from him.
He found the bud of her clitoris with his thumb and circled, applying more pressure with each pass. “You like this, Fi?” he whispered at her ear, breathing in the jasmine of her perfume, the scent making his dick throb painfully. Regretfully, he drew his hips away from hers, needing better access for his fingers. “You like how I touch you?”
She nodded, the hand in his hair fisting tighter.
His jaw clenched as he tried not to shudder. Fuck. If he ever got her in bed, he was going to have a hell of a time not embarrassing himself—at least during the first round. He thought he’d understood the boundaries of desire, had been worked up over other women in the past, but this…this was pure lust, and it felt dangerous. Adrenaline-rush, out-of-control dangerous.
And he wasn’t going to waste this high. Hooking a finger around the fabric, he tugged the crotch of her panties to the side, and then palmed her mound.
Jesus effing Christ. “Kinda like my birthday came early this year,” he muttered, his forehead falling to hers, a wry laugh caught in his throat as his fingers stroked back and forth along her creamy slit.
“You saying I’m your present?”
The laugh slipped free. “Oh, please be my present, Fi. I’m beggin’ you.” He captured her lips in a wet, open-mouthed kiss, his tongue sweeping against hers, dancing with her all over again while his middle finger found her entrance and, without ceremony, slid inside.
She whimpered.
The glide into her body was so smooth, the clasp of her cunt so tight around his finger, and when her inner muscles clamped down, he groaned into her mouth. “You’re killin’ me, babe.” And she was. His dick was dying to replace the finger he thrust slowly into her.
Gritting his teeth, he added a second finger to that wet heat, the heel of his palm pressing against her clit. The brick of the alley wall abraded his other hand as he leaned into her again. If he couldn’t touch her upper body, he would at least feel those perfect breasts pressed to his chest, high and soft and… “I want you. God, I wanna be in you, right now.” The words left him before he could worry that he was pushing her for too much, too fast.
But he needn’t have worried. “You turn me on.” She arched into him, releasing his hair to run her hands over his shoulders in a fleeting caress before she grabbed his waist. Her hips rolled, and she nipped at him, a delicious sting on his lower lip that made his brain buzz and his erection pulse behind the too-tight confines of his jeans. “You get me so worked up in sitting my makeup chair, and now I’m thirty seconds away from losing my mind.”
His mouth went dry as her fingernails bit into his sides. “Can I…can you get off like this?” Say yes. She was hot—so hot she’d burn him alive—half shrouded in shadow and head tipped back against the brick as she rode his hand.
Her lashes fluttered closed, and she huffed out a strained laugh. “Honestly, pal, I really think that depends on you at the moment.”
He thrust his two fingers deeper inside her slick sheath, cupping her more firmly, more possessively. He had no real right to her, he knew that, but it was too damn easy to think she belonged to him when she clenched around him so intimately. “I wanna get you off, Fi. Just like this.”
“Then keep—” She broke off as a shiver chased down her spine, a quiet moan escaping between parted lips. “K-keep doing what you�
��re doing.” Her hips gyrated faster with each pump of his hand.
“And you’ll come?”
“I’ll come all over your fingers.”
“Fuckin’ hell.” Her clit brushed his palm, and he plunged into her hot, wet cunt with greater urgency. He curled his fingers forward, finding that spot, the spot that would send her flying. “Do it,” he growled as he took her mouth in a fierce kiss. “Do it for me. I want you to come for me.”
Her release rippled through her, through him, a shuddering sigh coupled with a shaky gasp that rang in his ears like a bomb blast. Her inner walls squeezed him until he swore a phantom vise gripped his aching dick in torment, the worst tease he could imagine. He exhaled on a pained breath, waiting for her spasms to cease, watching the passion fade from her flushed skin.
Leaving her body was one of the hardest things he’d ever done, his limbs awkward and heavy when he pulled away. “Well. That was something.”
Her head fell back against the brick. “That was…yeah.”
“I want your number.” When she didn’t say anything, he shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, trying not to gnash his teeth with frustration. With the exception of her orgasm, getting anything personal out of this woman was starting to seem like a Sisyphean task. “I should have it, regardless. What if I have a makeup emergency?”
“Like, away from the studio?”
He scowled at her. “You don’t know what I do on the weekend.”
“If you’re about to tell me you’re a regular on the drag circuit—”
“Can you just give me your number, Fiona?” Reaching into his back pocket, he withdrew his phone, handed it to her. “Put it in yourself, if sayin’ it aloud is too much for you.”
Hesitantly, she grasped the phone, fingertips glancing his in an electric whisper of physical contact that inconveniently reminded his dick that it had received zero attention, and it was Not Happy about this state of affairs. Watching him warily, she unlocked the screen with a swipe of one finger and started tapping what he hoped was her actual number into a new-contact slot in his address book.