No More Masquerade

by Angel Payne

  The hesitant drop-off to his voice was like a button blaring push me. “You also…what?” I set aside my comb and stared harder at him. “Kil?”

  His lips quirked again, this time with awkwardness. “I actually ended up at Margaux’s—Mary’s, whatever—hotel.” He looked up and tilted his head. “I went up and saw her.”

  “Tell me you’re joking.”

  “Nope. I started running, and kept running, and before I knew it, I was in front of the place. It felt like a sign, I guess—so I went in to speak with her. I figured she could probably use a friend.”

  He shrugged—shrugged—like it was no big deal. On the other hand, my mouth still hung open like an idiot.

  “I’ll bet she did,” I responded, words clipped. “And I bet she was more than pleased to let you into her hotel room.”

  Hell. The snarky was alive and well this morning. And then I realized what I’d just said and almost laughed. The next moment—unbelievably—I almost pitied the woman. To Margaux’s mind, her case of “Killian fever” was now all about her brother. The poor woman was probably ready to check out of the Knickerbocker and into the Hotel De Freak-Out.

  Luckily, Kil seemed to read all that in the chagrined twist of my lips. He raised a brow, hit me again with that damn grin then packed the final punch of oh-my-god goodness by whipping his windbreaker and T-shirt off in a couple of tugs.

  “Whoa.” I leaned back on both my hands. “Are you trying to steal the apology off my lips?”

  His brows lowered. The words genuinely confused him. “Apology? Why?”

  I forced myself into a dismissive grunt. “My snark-a-palooza? Just now? I really am sorry. It was out of line. I’m overtired.”

  He walked over as if to kiss me but stopped short. Conflict pulled at his features. Now I could read his thoughts. If he came much closer, the PG-13 part of our conversation would be over—and the R-appropriate section wouldn’t last too long, either. “We’re both tired, fairy,” he stated. “It’s okay.”

  “Stop saying such sweet things when you’re wearing such a sinful grin.”

  His brows arced. “Sinful?”

  I nodded. “And sexy, for that matter.”

  “In that case…” He covered the three steps he hadn’t yet taken, reaching out for me this time. “My forgiveness has a condition.”

  I let out a little squeal. “Dear lord, Chicago. Your skin is freezing.”

  He chuckled while pulling me off the bed and up against him. “Good observation.” Nuzzled his chilled lips against my neck. “Now you can help me get warm.”

  I gasped as his cold fingers snuck beneath my robe, cupping my ass. “That’s your ‘condition’?”

  “Mmmm hmmm.” He pulled the ties of my robe free. His soaked sweats pressed against my crotch, awakening it in a dozen delicious new ways. “My body needs yours, fairy…in all the biggest ways possible.”

  He sure as wasn’t kidding. The pulsing ridge of his erection made me sigh and soften beneath his exploring hands. It was so damn impossible to tell this man no. But I really wanted to talk about what happened in Margaux’s hotel room. Maybe a stall tactic would work.

  “Wh-what about a bath first…to warm up? Want me to run one, my love? Then maybe I can climb in with you?” His mouth dipped to the base of my throat. Then the valley between my breasts. Oh God, that felt good. “I can—umm—” What the hell was I talking about again? A bath. And him. Right. “I can wash your back,” I finally forced out. “You always like that.”

  “Not right now.” He murmured it while teasing his lips up to the rigid peak of my right breast.

  “Oh. Okay.” I swallowed hard as he rolled his tongue along the needy nub. Focus, dammit. He went to Margaux’s room. And they talked. And—

  And holy shit, it was hard to think when he nibbled on my nipple.

  “Well, do you—want to talk—about what happened with—” What the hell was her name again?

  “No.” He shifted his mouth to my other breast. “I don’t want to talk right now.” In one fluid movement, he kicked his sweats off. In another, he lowered me back to the mattress. Within seconds, he pushed aside the halves of my robe so we finally lay skin-to-skin. “I want to fuck you, Claire. Hard and deep. Probably several times. That’s what I want.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Oh.”

  He rolled us both over in order to get me completely out of the robe. As I yanked the thick cotton off, he gazed up with a devilish version of his grin that managed to exude innocence, as well. The effect was intoxicating. I gave in to the temptation to run my fingers over his broad, bronze chest—that still felt like ice.

  “No more running in ice soup, Mr. Stone.” My admonishment was gentle but stern. “You’re going to catch pneumonia.”

  “Psshhh.”

  “Killian!”

  “I grew up in the ‘ice soup’, baby. I’m not going to catch—”

  “I can’t live without you.” I didn’t try to hide the hoarse crack in my voice. “Okay? Happy now?”

  For a long moment, all he did was continue to stare. After that pause, he raised a hand to the space directly over my heart—and pressed it there. “You always make me happy.”

  Slowly, he drew that hand down the center of my torso. Though the action brought a thousand shivers, his face still captivated me the most. I couldn’t stop picturing what he must have been like at five years old, so young and innocent, brought into the middle of a complicated mess by adults wrapped up in their warped and convoluted sense of “doing right”.

  The heart he’d just warmed with his fingers now swelled from the power of his honesty. Then it swelled and ached, bursting with the love I felt for his beautiful, brave soul. If he asked me again to marry him, I’d shout my acceptance at the top of my lungs. As odd as it was, the pain of the last week had finally brought me the Killian I’d been searching for.

  Unable to hold back anymore, I leaned over and kissed him. The pillows billowed around us with the force of my passion—and his in return. His powerful body, especially the part pressing most intimately against me, swelled and grew. He circled both arms around my waist and clutched me tighter, inviting my mouth to stay right where it was as he opened his lips for me.

  Warmth. Invitation. Safety, Solace. Home. He was my home.

  I lost myself in that kiss. Drowned in the luxury of his taste, the perfect feel of his tongue. Moaned as his tongue stroked mine with increasing urgency, growing desire.

  There was so much more to our connection than the physical need of man and woman—and never more than in that moment. The force of his need filled me, pushed me, consumed me.

  When we tore back by a few inches, Killian dug a hand to my scalp. “My queen. My Claire. You’re my anchor in this ocean. My compass in this storm.”

  Peering into his eyes was looking to the depths of that uncharted sea. Fathoms of darkness lived there…gray and black and pewter, liquid and shadows as mysterious as the bottom of the Pacific or Atlantic themselves. When I gazed at him like this, the origins of the world’s labels for him were so easy to understand. Cryptic. Enigmatic. Secluded. Guarded. He was unbeknownst to so many, only allowing the most worthy into his sanctum—and now, all the reasons for that made such sense.

  Right now, he’d made me the most worthy person on the planet. The way he held me in his embrace, touched my skin, kissed my lips…I’d never felt closer to him. I yearned to press him for more. Dammit, why did I always want more? I needed to thank the universe for what it had already given me this week. For now, this connection was enough. More than enough.

  It was perfect.

  “Killian,” I whispered. “When we’re together like this, when it feels like we are the only two people on the planet, I feel like I can take on the world.” I emitted a little girl growl as he reacted to that by slowly wrapping my hair around his fingers. “I know it sounds corny…”

  “It sounds wonderful.” He rasped it, seating my hips more firmly against his, letti
ng his engorged cock slide softly between the moist lips of my sex. “Don’t stop,” he encouraged.

  Denying him wasn’t an option. “We can do anything we set our minds to,” I told him, “as long as we’re together. We’re a force, Killian—you and I. I’m not sure the world’s prepared for it yet. They have no idea what they’re messing with.”

  He growled again, harder and louder. “Hmmm. My fairy has tiger claws, too. Always ready to fight for what’s right.”

  “Damn straight, especially when it comes to the man I’m madly in love with.” I bent and kissed him again.

  “And what about the Killian Stone you’re not so fond of?” He wasn’t playing at the question this time. “Answer me. I’ve seen the look on your face when that bastard comes out to play.”

  “You’re right. He is a bastard. But I love you, Killian. All of you.” I seized the chance to splay my hand to the center of his chest now—to the heart inside that beat so strong and sure. “You’re just one man. And when you are this open and real with me, I love you more than my own life. I want our lives to be one. As sure as I breathe, that’s what I want.”

  We kissed again, but I let my lips linger on his for a very long time, simply tasting him, savoring him. I fitted my body deeper to his, eliciting a deep groan from him, matched by my own aroused sigh. It was no longer time for talk. Nonverbal communication could speak our remaining words—a skill my man knew just as well as fancy boardroom speeches. Thank God.

  As I slid forward then down, capturing his body inside mine, Killian braced his hands to my hips, establishing a rhythm of fire, light, and love that blazed through the room despite the dark clouds swirling outside. Our bodies moved together as our hearts already did, affirming exactly what we’d just promised each other. From now on, we’d handle whatever the world threw in our path—hand-in-hand, side by side—exactly how we should be.

  I wasn’t afraid anymore.

  Chapter Ten

  Killian

  “It’s official. We’re at standing room only down there.”

  Britta issued the news upon reentering one of the second floor conference rooms at SGC headquarters. The rooms were normally reserved by the HR department for functions like employee training sessions and job fairs. No training was happening today, unless one counted “dealing with a media frenzy” on that list. Backing up the accuracy of the “course title” were a little over a hundred media reps and reporters—a.k.a the best-dressed pack of blood-sucking wolves in the city—packed into the lobby below, waiting for me and the two most visible members of the board of directors to appear and make the corporation’s first public statement since the disasters of last week.

  Fletcher Ford and Drake Newland, the two board members who’d accompany me to the podium, rose from the table as I did. Clearly, they were both reluctant to do so. The two men were also on the club’s water polo team with me, and were in the middle of regaling Claire with details of the asses they’d handed to the Diamond Club’s team on the morning we’d been burying Josiah…and Dad. They’d been getting livelier with the play-by-play, not a surprise to me in the least. The pair were also the self-proclaimed founders of the Claire Montgomery Admiration Society, meaning they both had swagger points to gain during the recounting.

  “Well, damn,” I drawled, tugging Claire tightly to my side. “Did you hear that? Lobby’s packed. Guess Claire won’t have time to judge the final outcome of your pissing match, boys.”

  Fletch tugged at both his sleeves, aligning his Ralph Lauren suit perfectly on his lanky frame. “She doesn’t need to. I threw the winning point. Case settled.”

  “As opposed to the twelve shots I blocked?” countered Drake. “Pssssh. Back of the line with you, cretin.”

  Claire’s shoulders shook beneath my grip, betraying her sweet giggle—and lending some needed light to this ordeal for me. Despite the circumstances that had made it necessary, I’d loved the excuse to keep her in the city for this extended time. Between the two weeks in Europe and the long days since we’d returned, it was the longest time we’d been able to spend with each other since the project that had originally brought her to the city, nearly a year ago. This time, her presence counted for more. A vast amount more. Waking up each day with her in my arms then having her by my side every night…I was living the best dream possible and never wanted to wake up. As soon as the chaos was over and life returned to normal—whatever that would be like now—I fully planned on pulling out that ring box again, and putting that jewelry on her finger in the right way.

  “Boys!” she called, breaking up what looked to become a Fletch-versus-Drake pissing match. “Peace accord time, okay? I hereby declare you both king of the pool…at least until Killian gets back in the water.”

  Fletcher shot a mocking chuff. “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, Claire, but our swim suits aren’t forgiving.” He gave me a soft fist in the stomach. “Not sure flab boy here is going to like rocking a muffin top during the next game.”

  I flung him a snort. “Fuck you.” But finished with a smile.

  Britta stepped forward. “Mr. Stone? Speaking of news and bearing it…”

  My respite was over. Britta grimaced as her way of apologizing for being the messenger, but I returned it with a reassuring nod. “You’re right. Thanks, Britta.” Before I reluctantly stepped away from Claire, I gave her a tender kiss on her forehead. Because Fletch and Drake were watching, I lingered.

  “Bastard,” Fletcher groused.

  Drake grunted. “I had something more colorful in mind but ‘bastard’ works too.”

  I curled a gloating grin. “We ready to get this dog-and-pony on the road, boys?”

  Their composures sobered in tandem. Fletcher grabbed my hand and leaned in to give my shoulder a gruff bump. “We’re with you, Kil.”

  Drake nodded his agreement. “Let’s do this shit.”

  He finished by yanking open the door, allowing the din from the throng to flood into the conference room. Though the noise didn’t faze me, as I knew about the hell storm of media phone calls Claire had once again helped Britta to field over the last couple of days, I hadn’t done a very good job of prepping my friends for the cacophony.

  “Holy fuck,” Drake gritted. “And I thought Afghanistan was the loudest fire balling I’d ever have to endure.”

  “What the hell else did you tell them was going on today, Stone?” Fletch added. “You giving away free TVs off the back loading dock and not telling us?”

  I snorted again, if only to mask the sudden urge I had to yank both of them into something more than dumb shit shoulder bumps. Since there was no way we could risk Trey at the podium with me, thereby nixing the possibility of having Lance either, I was grateful that my wingmen were the two best proxies for brothers that I could think of.

  And right in front of me…was the best incentive to keep trudging through this shit.

  Claire exited the room steps ahead of me, looking as regal as a princess in her cream skirt suit topping a light pink cashmere turtleneck. As soon as the reporters noticed she’d emerged, they directed their photographers to start shooting. Flashbulbs ignited, indeed making the lobby look like one of the battlefields Drake had served on in the Marines. But despite the chaos, I was calm. She was my anchor. She turned and reached for my hand, taking my breath away with a soft smile meant for me alone but shareable with the whole world—which I suddenly, really, did not want to do. Gazing at her from head to toe in that outfit, with her legs enhanced by her heels and her makeup all dewy and prim, made me want to hoist her over my shoulder, march her back into the room, and fuck every pin out of her perfect chignon in the middle of the conference table. If I remembered right, this was one of the tables in the building we hadn’t christened in that way yet.

  “Ready?” she asked, gripping my hand tighter.

  I tilted my head so our eyes would directly meet before I responded. “With you by my side, baby, I’m ready to slay fucking dragons.”

  She answered
by lifting her lips to mine. She tasted like breath mints and rain, and the simple, sweet ambrosia of Claire. I wanted so much more, and dared just a tiny slide of my tongue against hers, resulting in a spatter of applause from the reporters.

  “Awww, shit,” Fletch grumbled. “Kil, you seriously need to keep it PG, man.”

  “Yo, Prince Charming.” Drake smacked me on the back. “That’s enough slobbering on the fairy queen for now.”

  As I pulled away, Claire giggled. “Dragons, baby,” she prompted. “Go get ’em.”

  I grinned then winked. “Dragon stew for dinner, then?”

  “I’ll be waiting right here with the wine to match it.”

  I squared my shoulders then moved ahead of Drake and Fletch, leading the way toward the staircase that consumed one wall of the lobby in a dramatic sweep. The piece was designed by Olafur Eliasson in crackled glass and wood, making it nearly a crime to cover the bottom six steps with a small riser and platform, put there to give us space to address the throng. But the effect, conceived by Claire, was brilliant. All the images from this event would show the SGC logos everywhere, from the modernistic globes etched into the lobby’s glass to the dozen custom banners that had been mounted just for today’s announcements. The messaging would be crystal clear. It was business as usual at the Stone Global Companies—in short, we were still the corporate powerhouse we always were and always would be.

  Both my fathers expected no less of me.

  With every step I took down the stairs to the podium and microphone, I vowed they’d receive no less. And I knew, without any doubt, it was their pride warming my chest as I approached the plexiglass pedestal. I also knew they’d found ways to infuse themselves into the encouraging dual shoulder claps delivered by my friends as I spread my grip to both sides of the thing. In Drake’s forceful grip, I felt the fortitude of Josiah Stone. In Fletcher’s firm squeeze, I felt the moral and spiritual compass that Nolan Banyan Klarke had always lent to my life.