by Edie Harris
Declan filled her with doubt, worry, the fear that this thing between them was something utterly new and without rules or structure or…or boundaries. Even as her eyes fluttered closed, and her breath caught in her throat, and her limbs turned to rubber, a panicked corner of her mind demanded boundaries. Would this be one night only, or the start of many such nights together? Was this just sex, or was this sex with feelings?
Could she even turn off her feelings for him anymore?
She had to. Somehow, somewhere deep within her, she had to stifle the terrifying likelihood that her inconvenient wanting of Declan Murphy was merely a veil overlying something much, much wilder.
There was no room in Fiona’s life for wild, but she would make an exception, just for tonight.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she lifted on tiptoe, aligning their hips to feel the delightfully hard press of his erection against her abdomen. He groaned into her mouth, one hand tugging the elastic from around her ponytail while the other skimmed the length of her spine. When he fisted her loose hair in strong fingers, angling her head to stroke deeper between her lips, she felt her nipples harden to aching points where they rubbed against his firm chest. “Declan.”
Another groan as he palmed her ass, squeezed. “Fi. Let me have you.” He nipped at her bottom lip. “Please let me have you.”
She shuddered. Yes, he could have her—so long as she could have him right back.
Thunder crashed, her body jerking away from his as the lights went out. Utter silence surrounded them as the hum of the AC unit and the refrigerator died away. A sickly greenish gray filtered through the open blinds at her windows, the weird color of a lightning storm at dusk.
Declan peered around the apartment, ostensibly taking in the small living room and even smaller kitchen. She shifted as his arm looped loosely around her waist, suddenly uncomfortable with the barren simplicity of the place. “Welcome to my home?” She bit her lip against the need to apologize, dreading what it might look like to the eyes of a movie star, even one so new to the industry.
The hand on her hip tightened. “There’s a certain part of your home I’m dyin’ to see.”
Fiona could guess, but the power outage had shocked the nerves she’d earlier suppressed back into her system. “The pantry?”
“No.” His head dipped, and she felt his lips brush the side of her neck.
A shiver chased its way down her spine. “The coat closet?”
“Don’t think so.” A soft, open-mouthed kiss just beneath her ear.
She was easy—he made her easy. “The hallway?”
He stepped fully behind her, hands settling at her waist as he whispered, “Does the hallway lead to your bedroom?”
“Yes.”
“Then take me there, darlin’.” And with a playful nudge, he pushed her toward where he wanted to go.
No time for second thoughts. She grabbed his hand in one of hers and led him through the shadowed living room to the narrow hallway, past the bathroom and utility closet, and into the square bedroom at the rear of the apartment, gloomy in the light from the single window. The complete quiet made her breathing overloud in the small room, but thankfully, Declan’s sounded no steadier.
Turning abruptly, she dropped his hand and danced backward a step, deeper into the room, nearer to the bed, tossing the glasses from atop her head to the cluttered bedside table. Her fingers fell to the waistband of her jeans, lingered there. “You’d better tell me some of those things you want from me, Declan.” She could feel the tease in her smile, sense the heat in her gaze as she watched him cross the threshold of her bedroom. He was so tall and dark and very, very male, looking at her as no man had ever looked at her before. That look made her blurt out, “What?”
“Can’t decide where to start.” His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. “There are just…so…many. So many things.”
She could barely take him seriously, though the glint in his eyes said he was damn serious. “Let me make it easier for you.” And she bent at the waist, dragging the jeans over her hips and down her thighs to pool at her ankles. When she straightened, the glint had morphed into a full-blown gleam, and his lips had parted. “Think you can work with that?”
Instead of answering, he lunged for her, tackling her back onto the bed, but he rolled at the last second, sparing her the full impact of his weight. His mouth on hers drove her shoulders into the mattress, his hands racing over her newly bared thighs…and the tank top that had started to ride up, revealing naked flesh at her waist.
But he was groaning as he kissed her, eyes closed and fingers tripping over themselves as he grabbed here, stroked there. So she pretended it didn’t matter, that if he looked down at her belly, he’d see the tail ends of her scars. She pretended, as his lips left hers to trail hot, nipping kisses down her throat, that there was nothing to see. Nothing to shock, nothing to kill the churning need that had her insides in knots.
Because she did need him. She’d built up so many walls in the years since Vegas, but never had she paused to consider the consequences of those walls—that maybe she wouldn’t have the tools to break them down again, not when she was finally ready.
Perhaps destroying all her walls wasn’t necessary. Declan had snuck in through the cracks, anyway, insinuating himself in her consciousness—in her veins—and setting her on fire from the inside out. She could burn with him, for him, tonight…and then they’d call it good, and she’d still be intact.
So yes, leaving those walls in place was a smart idea. Drop the sledgehammer, O’Brien, and take two steps back.
Fisting his shirt in both hands, she yanked upward until he lifted his head and arms and allowed her to pull it from him. She sat upright as she tossed it aside, subtly shifting so her top once again covered her secrets, and began loosening his belt. The heavy swish of leather through metal made her breath catch, and then she was fighting with the button fly of his jeans, knuckles brushing over the dangerous bulge hiding behind that denim.
“Here.” He stood and quickly shucked the jeans, and then it was just Declan in clinging black boxer-briefs, thin cotton hugging the lovely, engorged shape of him. Dark hair dusted his chest, trailing down to disappear into the waistband, bisecting the lean musculature of his torso in a way that called to her fingertips, making them itch with the need to touch, to stroke, to pet.
The pictures from the Internet hadn’t done him justice. He was built lanky, yes, like a runner who’d honed his body with mile after mile of road beneath his feet, but the breadth of his shoulders and the carved definition of his upper body spoke of hours spent scaling climbing walls or swimming distance laps in an Olympic pool. He looked strong. Able.
And very, very willing. “On the bed,” she said, voice huskier than ever.
The temperature of the room seemed to rise as he moved to comply, sitting next to her on the bed. “Like this?” He spoke low, his lilt now a sensual rumble in his throat, and oh, God, they were really doing this.
Her chest went tight. “Lie down on your back,” and again, he had no problem following orders. Soon he was stretched out on her unmade bed, all long limbs and chocolate eyes nestled in turquoise sheets, and even as nerves wracked her, she wanted nothing more than to curl up next to him like a purring cat, breathe in his addictive scent, and take a nap as thunder boomed outside.
That, or screw his brains out. And since he was almost naked, anyway… “You look happy.”
“I’m in your bed. O’ course I’m happy.” He clasped a hand around her elbow, tugged. “Come here.”
She allowed him to pull her to him, over him, so she was draped along his side, their limbs tangling together. He dragged her panties down her legs, immediately slipping his hand between her thighs to cup her. His other hand gripped her nape as his teeth dug into her lower lip. “God, you’re sexy.” The fingers between her legs spread her. “And wet.”
“Are you complaining?”
He shook his head, the tip of his nose
brushing against hers before his mouth took hers. “Tryin’ to remind myself that foreplay is important.”
“Foreplay?” She laughed breathily. “We’ve had weeks of foreplay. We can foreplay next time.” A couple of assertive yanks on the elastic waist of his underwear had him wriggling the underwear down his legs. Her hand curled around his shaft. “Unless you need foreplay.” She pumped her fist once, twice. “Do you, Dec?”
“Fuck no.” His head was thrown back, hips writhing, hands floundering until they landed on her upper arms. Then she was straddling him, her wet center rubbing fluidly along the thick, silky length of him. Her palms flattened on his chest, and she laughed again, husky this time, knowing and confident in the face of his obvious need.
Had there ever been a man who wanted her like this?
No. No, only Declan. “Condom?”
“Wallet.”
As he leaned over the side of the bed to fish the wallet from the pocket of his jeans, she reached beneath her tank top to unclasp her bra, the loosened straps slipping down her shoulders until she could whip it off…without displacing her top.
Declan ripped open the packet and slid the condom in place, the backs of his knuckles brushing her clit in what she knew was a calculated caress. He looked up at her, a slight frown marring his brow. “Why aren’t you naked yet?”
“I— No, wait!”
But it was too late. He’d grabbed the hem of her top, peeling it over her head a split second before she could order her arms not to lift for him.
Then there was nothing but silence. Her eyes squeezed shut as embarrassed tears stung the corners but, thank God, didn’t fall. Her hands fisted at her sides. It was too late to try to shield her body, too late to stop him from staring.
And staring he was. She could feel it, each slow sweep of his gaze over her twisted torso.
“Oh, Fi.” A fluttering stroke of fingertips along her ribcage, so soft, so gentle.
She flinched.
He responded with a firmer touch, his thumb catching the edge of one scar. Deadened nerve endings in the bunched tissue met with a sensitive inch of unmarred flesh, which he found, unerringly. “What happened, baby?”
She opened her eyes, swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I had an...accident. In Vegas.”
“This why you’re not dancin’ anymore?” He stared up at her, dark eyes bright with concern, uneven splotches of heat coloring his cheekbones. His palms rested heavily on the curves between her waist and hips, solid and steady and strangely comforting, even while her mind was in turmoil.
She nodded, no longer able to form words. Declan was the first person outside of her trusted circle to see her scars, much less know about them. This was…God, it was the stuff of nightmares. Because she wanted him so very, very much, and now? Now he’d seen her.
Now he saw her.
His fingertips dug into her back on either side of her spine. “You can tell me about it. After. But now—” he leaned up suddenly to drop a hot, open-mouthed kiss between her breasts before falling back on the bed “—we have something important to finish.”
“So this…these…don’t bother you?” These don’t turn you off?
The look he gave her was almost pitying. “Fuck no. Have you seen you lately, Fiona O’Brien? You’re one inch of stunning after another, from top to bottom.” He lifted his hips off the bed slightly, pressing his erection up between her legs, letting her feel how hard he was. How needy…for her. “And now that you’ve shown me your beautiful scars—”
She had to stop him. “Scars aren’t beautiful.”
“Yours are.”
But she was shaking her head before he’d finished speaking. “No, they’re not. Believe me. I know beauty.” She created it, destroyed it, every single day at the studio.
“Yeah? Well, I know you.” His jaw set, a decidedly mulish expression overtaking his features as he clamped his hands at her waist, the pads of his thumbs stroking along opposite ends of her scars. “And those gashes on your belly are the most beautiful fuckin’ things I’ve ever seen.” His fingers tightened. “Now take me in, baby.”
Another one-two emotional punch from her man, leaving her dizzy and desirous and desperate to have him inside her. She shifted, reaching between them to wrap trembling fingers around the solid length of him before guiding him to her entrance.
They froze when his head, the first inch of him, slid into her. He shuddered. His grip turned bruising. Planting her palms on the hard plane of his chest, she forced herself down on him with a gasp, a moan, a sigh. “Holy…”
The heat generated by their bodies, in the absence of air-conditioning, settled over them like a blanket, but it wasn’t time to curl up, pull the covers over their heads, and call it a night. No, it was time to move, and Declan was already pumping shallowly beneath her in encouragement.
Sweat beaded at her temples as she rolled her hips. Not quite forward and back, but in a languid, subtly sweeping curve. As though she was dancing, but with him inside her. And damn, it felt good. Good to move, good to dance, good to fuck. He was big enough to stretch her, filling her empty spaces with a delicious insistence that sent shivers sprinting down her spine.
Trusting the big, warm hands at her hips to keep her steady, she lifted her arms to tangle in her hair, tipping her head back and closing her eyes on a sigh. She wouldn’t put on her pointe shoes for him, nor would she don any sequined pasties, but she could give him this dance. He’d earned it, again and again, day after day as he showed her how much he cared. To deny that he did would cheapen this act, and Fiona couldn’t do that, not to him. Not to them.
“Fiona. Fi.” His grip suddenly halted her, holding himself deep inside while she writhed, needing the movement, needing the friction.
“Why’d you stop me?”
“Because...because I need to take you. I need it, baby.”
And because she heard the echo of begging in his rumbling lilt, hoarse and desperate, she climbed off him with a whimper, bending down to capture his lips with hers as he rolled them, reversing their positions. The heat of his mouth, his tongue, kept the fire within her stoked high, and she moaned when she felt the head of his cock tease along her wet slit.
“Finally.” He shuddered. “God, finally I’ve got you.” And he slid into her, a slow, smooth glide that filled her up in the best possible way.
But even as she moaned in welcome, her mind couldn’t comprehend his words. Finally. Yes, she felt that finally, too, but— “I don’t understand, Declan. I just…I don’t understand.”
“What, love?”
Love… “Why me?”
“Fiona.” He cupped her cheeks, palms warm, eyes hot. “Why not you?” His kiss was surprisingly gentle, the press of his lips almost soothing even as his body moved over hers, into hers, ratcheting up the piercing tension building low in her belly. His tongue swept into her mouth, playfulness quickly transforming into possession.
She welcomed it. Her legs wrapped around his hips, heels digging into the backs of his thighs as her spine arched. Every inch of her torso found every inch of his, the ridges of her scars pressed to the flat plane of his stomach, and euphoria twisted high in her chest as three years of denied intimacy faded to distant memory. With every thrust, he cracked the protective shell surrounding her fears, until she was gasping his name, fingernails raking across his sweat-slicked shoulders.
He groaned. “Fuckin’ hell, Fi.” Planting his elbows on either side of her, he levered his body over hers, the piston of his hips moving faster, harder. Teeth entered the fray, nipping at her lips, her jaw, her throat as the mood changed yet again, and desperation clogged her senses.
Gripping his damp hair, she dragged his mouth to hers, stole the deep, wet kisses she needed as her thighs tightened around him. “More. More, Dec.”
More he gave, changing the angle of his hips and causing the most wonderful tension to build with each stroke. That tension coiled until she couldn’t take it any longer and, crying out, tore
her lips from his, spine arching as her legs clutched him to her. Ecstasy suffused her, stealing her breath, stopping her heart, and she could do nothing but shake and hold him. Hold him, and refuse to let go.
Muffling his moans against the side of her neck, he shuddered atop her, hands sliding beneath her body to hold her closer. She clung to him, riding the dissipating waves of her own orgasm as he came, pleasure-shivers chasing along her nerve endings. Her eyes closed as she inhaled their mingled scents, reveled in the sticky feel of his chest meshing with hers. Complicated sex stripped down to basics, and God, it had been exactly, exactly, what she’d needed.
He rolled off her with a sigh, stripping off the condom and tossing it…somewhere. It didn’t matter. As they lay side by side, scrambling to catch their breaths, Declan muttered, “That was like screwin’ in a sauna.”
The air-conditioning roared to life, power returning.
She laughed while the sweat cooled on her skin, until he chuckled and pounced. Her laughter turned to delighted shrieks as he dragged her body under his to make her sweat all over again for the next hour.
ELEVEN
She woke up to the foreign sensation of male fingertips tracing her scars. Slowly, gently, finding all the jagged edges and imperfections in her knitted flesh.
Fighting not to tense under his touch, Fiona opened her eyes to find him lying on his belly, head half on her pillow, half on his, and his gaze trained on the steady movements of his fingers. Her voice was strained when she murmured, “Morning.”
“Mornin’.”
Soft light filtered through the blinds covering her bedroom window. The comforter lay twisted at the foot of the bed, but the turquoise top sheet covered Declan to the waist, her to the juncture of her thighs. That she flashed him her privates worried her much less than the visual she was providing with her belly.