by Angel Payne
Why did I sense she said the same thing to herself tonight?
Why had I stared into her eyes this afternoon, detecting the fires there that concealed their own secrets?
Why did I feel her fear of me, of us, as something that extended beyond trepidation about sleeping with the boss?
“Claire.” I etched her name on the air in a croak. Even in my trashed state, her name sounded like a poem from magical realms. “What are you keeping from me, fairy queen?”
The invocation was all it took to conjure her in my mind’s eye. So stunning…she still wore that cute gray suit but had taken her hair down, letting it tumble in deep-copper waves around her heart-shaped face. A Mona Lisa smile played on her lips.
You’ll never know, Killian Stone. You’ll never know.
With a groan, I slammed my empty glass to the desk. Before I turned my chair to face the window, I shut off the desk lamp. The darkness consuming the room, along with the wind howling past the windows, should’ve eased the heat in my body. Fat fucking chance. I tore off my T-shirt, letting it fall to the floor as I watched the strands of car lights, white and red, along both sides of Lakeshore Drive. They turned into wet splotches as rain began to mix with the gusts.
In my mind, the two of us were in one of those cars.
We were wearing trenches against the rain. Beneath our coats, we were naked.
My head fell back as the fantasy took over.
“Tell me your secrets, Claire…and I’ll tell you mine.”
“Never, Killian. Ever.”
I kissed her to silence her. Slid my hand inside her cloak to thumb one of her nipples and then the other. As she mewled against my lips, her flesh puckered beneath my fingers. Her skin was silken and soft, except for the stiff nubs that turned harder for me by the second…
My groan sliced the stillness of the office. I chopped it short by clenching my teeth—and reaching beneath my sweats. As my fingers reached the moisture at the head of my cock, I laid my dream Claire back on the car seat. My free hand slid between her thighs. She gasped, arching into my touch. My dick swelled against my fingers. “Yesssss,” I hissed. Her body was hot and wet and ready, slicking my skin, enticing me to delve deeper…
“Killian!”
“Sssshhh, my queen. This is just the beginning.”
“Of— Of what?”
“Your pleasure. At the mercy of my hands…and my mouth.”
“Ohhhh…God…”
“Spread yourself for me. Let me into your pussy, sweet Claire.”
Her sigh filled my head as my grunt mixed with the howls of the storm. With a feverish jerk, I pulled my erection out of my sweats. My cock throbbed against my hand, veins distended, skin taut, blood pounding. I stroked myself with a mix of relief and anger, thankful to give in to my lust, furious it had to be like this.
I slid my tongue through her slick pink folds, lowering my head to reach deeper. I could almost taste her now, tangy and rich and perfect…
“Ohhh, Killian…”
She grabbed my hair. I pushed on her thighs, spreading her wider. She hooked one ankle over the top of the car seat. The other, she wrapped around my back. I ran my hands along her inner thighs until I got to her ankles, shoving off her heels so I could explore the contours of her feet. Moving back to the middle of her body, I tugged at the tie on her overcoat, fully exposing her.
In the dark office, I pumped harder at my cock. My precome was distributed everywhere now, even trickling along my balls. They throbbed an encouraging refrain in return. Soon. Soon. Soon.
In the back seat of my dream car, the city lights flowed across Claire’s perfect body. She was aqua then pink then orange, my carnal queen, my private fairy to be fucked. Alfred buzzed on the intercom, asking if there was anywhere we wanted to go before returning to the condo. I slammed on the Return button, issuing two terse words in response. “Yes. Canada.”
The wind whipped harder. The rain began pelting the office window. I pumped harder at my erection, all the while clenching my thighs. Not yet. I didn’t want to let it go. Not before the best part of the fantasy.
“Killian. I need you inside me. Please…please!”
Thank fuck the best part wasn’t far off.
“Take the condom, Claire. I want to watch you roll it on me.”
The perfect smile on her lips as she took the rubber. The perfect pressure of her fingers with every inch she sheathed me. The perfect angle of her hips, offered so sweetly to me.
The pure, perfect paradise of her body.
“Claire.” I rasped it aloud, needing at least a part of the dream to be real. “Dear God, Claire. Your pussy is pure heaven.”
“Can you fuck me deeper? Please. Oh, please…”
I thrust my hips, ramming my flesh ruthlessly through my fingers. I rocked my head back as I imagined hers doing the same thing in the car, her breasts jutting up, her bare body a brazen offering to me.
“Killian! I’m…it’s…”
“I know. I know.”
And I did. With blinding, blazing heat that rocketed up my shaft and burst from me in a thick torrent, saving me and damning me in the same cataclysm of sensation.
Because now my fantasy fairy smiled up at me with idyllic acceptance, cupping my face, pulling me close for a soft kiss, lulling me into the spell of her adoration.
“It’s all right, Killian. You can tell me anything. You know I’ll keep it all safe for you.”
“No.” I knew my lips had formed the sound, but it seemed a part of the dream now too. “No,” I repeated, “you won’t keep it safe. In the end, nobody will.”
None of that felt real either. But I’d said it, hadn’t I? I’d felt it, right?
I dragged my head up but then laughed. Did I expect the blackness beyond the windows to render answers? Or the shadows in here? Between the Scotch dulling my mind and the orgasm draining my body, the answer to that was a blur. Which turned this darkness into my new best friend.
Who the fuck was I kidding? The shadows had been my closest companions for years. Nearly twenty-three of them, to be exact—since the day Josiah and Willa Stone had signed the papers, including my damn birth certificate, to falsify me as their son. The week after that, they’d bought out half the Navy Pier for my fifth birthday party.
And my life of lies had begun.
But tonight, just this once, I’d speak the truth to my friends…and to my dream lover. They’d hear my secret, and when they vanished in the morning, my lie would be safe again.
I inhaled. Exhaled.
Then spoke.
“My name is Killian Aidan James Klarke. I’m the son of Nolan and Damrys Klarke, and I swear that I’ll never forget it—as long as I live.”
Chapter Six
Claire
“Hi, Daddy.”
I waited for his tender greeting to wrap me in its embrace. The day had been impossibly long, and I really wanted to hear the familiar cadence of his voice.
No. Not wanted. Needed.
“There’s my li’l Claire bear.” I sensed his smile through the phone line. Remnants of his Irish brogue slipped through when he spoke with affection. Picturing the laugh lines around his mouth along with the twinkles in his dark-green eyes made me tear up as I leaned back in the conference-room chair. As usual, the rest of the team had left for the day.
“Yeah,” I replied softly. “Here I am. Still in the Windy City. Yay, me.”
“Hmmm.”
Uh-oh.
His response had that ring to it. The I’m-looking-into-your-soul-and-reading-it-like-a-book ring. But his tone was still as comforting as hot cocoa as he went on. “Why don’t you just get it out, honey?”
I sighed, the verbal version of rolling my eyes. “Get what out?”
“Come, now. Tell me what’s going on, and don’t toss me off with it’s fine, because I see right through you. Besides, my big-shot daughter never just calls to say hi to her boring old dad anymore.”
Ouch.
Th
e arrow to my heart couldn’t have taken a more direct path. Or carried more painful debris in its path in the process.
We’d been in Chicago for three weeks—that felt like three months. My nerves were frazzled, my sleep patterns shot, and even my fingernails, once the object of Killian’s admiration for their sleek creativity, had half the color picked off. I gave them a forlorn stare while attempting another self-therapy session, hoping the outcome would be different this time. That my pretense would prove true, and my stress really could be written off to all the pressure on the team.
Riiiggght.
The retort belonged to the mocking little voice inside my head. Even she was fed up with my crap.
It was time to come clean. To admit that my anxiety had nothing to do with Trey Stone and everything to do with his brother.
Who sure as hell was a man of his word. To excruciating detail.
Be careful what you wish for.
My mandate in his office on that stormy afternoon? The one about backing the hell off? In twenty-one days, he’d honored it to the letter—while also finding every way possible to violate it. I was plunged into a crazy science-fiction universe where nothing was as it seemed, especially him. He was SGC’s personal Loki, shape-shifting at will, controlling my emotions with the whims that accompanied each new face.
Would I encounter the CEO who matched his last name, hard and cold, seeing me as nothing but another subcontracted employee? Or would I be inexplicably drawn to stop in the middle of a task, turning to discover his shadowed stare waiting for me? Or perhaps he was in the mood to toy with me asshole-style, demanding a news release be rewritten for the fiftieth time—before disappearing from the office for fifteen inexplicable minutes, only to return and set my favorite coffee drink in front of me. There were more examples than that, a growing pile of memories of the man who’d decided to make himself my bad cop and good cop, my shark and my dolphin—and yes, my Loki and my Thor.
Except he was a hundred times more sinful than Loki and a thousand times better than Thor in the god-come-to-Earth department. As if my dread about Margaux and her blackmail ax, aimed at my neck in constant little reminders from the woman herself, didn’t fit the bill for my anxiety quotient on their own.
What the hell had I wished for?
I offered a dismissive laugh. “Nothing’s wrong, Dad. I’m just tired. We’ve really got a mess on our hands this time. The strategy we’re using for the project is unconventional too. Exciting but unconventional.”
“Yes,” he replied, “Andrea told me a little about it. I know her new approach means you’re all working harder, but I also told her that I support the idea. A positive campaign will make your boy a winner, not just a survivor. Remember, honey, in the end, the rainbow wins over the gloom.”
“Her approach, huh?” Gritting my teeth around a smile, I forced out, “Sure. Winners. Rainbows. You’re right, Dad.”
“Of course I am.” He added a self-deprecating chuckle. I didn’t echo the sound.
“Dad, I don’t want to talk about…all this.” I waved my hand in the air as if he could see me. “I called to see how you’re doing. Distract me.” I didn’t hide the desperation from my final word. “Please.”
I kicked off my heels and put my feet up on the neighboring chair while he launched into a narrative about his latest bid, a terrace in the garden at one of my favorite wineries back home. His tender brogue was a natural balm on my nerves, exactly what I needed. With a grateful sigh, I worked the bobby pins loose from my updo, welcoming the smell of lavender shampoo from my unfurling hair. I closed my eyes and smiled. This was exactly what I needed, listening to Dad go on about climbing roses, coastal sage, salvias, grasses…
As I injected coos of interest in the right places, I ran my fingers through my hair again, letting my mind drift. And my fantasies.
How different would it feel if Killian tousled my hair instead? Then let his touch travel to other places…
Chills ran through my whole body, followed by a wave of intense heat…pooling between my thighs. In my mind, his fingers coasted down my neck. Along my collarbones. Then lower, sliding beneath my blouse and then my bra as his ink-dark gaze penetrated mine…
Oh, God.
I shivered again. And forced myself to a hateful admission. These feelings had become much too synonymous with Stone. They needed to stop, period. Right now would be a good time. I was on the phone with my father.
I forced my attention back to Dad—though all too fast, my mind wandered back to the one man who truly held me prisoner. His force field of presence. His intensity of attention. His fusion of strength, beauty, grace, and power—of never touching me once while invading every free thought in my head.
Who—what—the hell was Killian Stone that he kept me shackled in this needy cage?
“Claire?”
“Hmm? What?” I shook my head, fighting to rid it of images of Killian with shackles in hand, approaching me with the devil’s glint in his eyes. “Sorry, Dad. I zoned out.”
“It’s fine, honey. I’ll let you go. I know you have work to do. It was so good to hear your voice, though. Call me again soon, okay?”
“I will. I promise.” I hated how the words cracked with emotion. I was ashamed to feel this unsteady, though I recognized it as another clear sign of how my common-sense radar was blown to hell.
“Claire?”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“You’re still my lucky little garden fairy. You know that, right?”
I spewed a watery giggle before telling Dad how much I loved him, at least one feeling I could completely trust. But after ending the call, a golf ball still stuck in my throat. Was it from Dad bringing up Andrea, the Ice Queen of the Western World? Or the special memories he’d evoked of Mom? Or was it option number three…that every time I had a spare moment of sanity to call my own, a dark-eyed god in a custom-fitted suit strode in to override it?
My breath spilled out, shaking on a sob. “Damn it!” I choked. “Stop!”
Great. Now I spouted orders as if the thin air would manifest Killian. Like that would do any good. He’d just glower and tell me to hold still while he pinned me in a chair and rendered me motionless or whipped up his shiny town car for my next ride.
I swept my printouts into a heap and shoved them into my briefcase. My coffee—from the cafeteria this time, since Stone had been in a meeting with SGC Asia all afternoon—was untouched. I ditched it and my uneaten protein bar in the trash, packing up the rest of my crap in record time.
I had to get out of here. Now. I needed fresh air. A lot of it. Confusion stormed my mind. I struggled for breath, certain I was suffocating. My cheeks burned, yet my palms were cold and clammy. I’d grabbed a bottle of water on my way out and cracked it open in the elevator during the descent to the lobby but quickly changed my mind. I wasn’t thirsty at all.
What the hell?
I wasn’t sure what a panic attack felt like, but this had to come close. I didn’t have the time or desire to sit and run a Google pass at the subject, either.
Only one path made sense. Outside. I needed to be free from this building, where everything I saw, everything I touched, reminded me of Killian. The onyx marble floor was the exact shade of his eyes. It was newly polished, gleaming like his irises when he plunged into deep thought. All the architecture educed his body, sculpted into graceful, towering lines. The paneled walls were like his skin, hard and dark and smooth, begging me to touch…so I did. I skimmed the perfect surface with one hand, tracing the grooves in the wood, imagining they were the contours of his skin instead…
I dropped my hand while emerging into the well-lit lobby. My face flamed again, embarrassment now the cause. I dipped my head and hunched my shoulders, shoving at the large, brass-encased pane rather than waiting for the doorman.
Have to get away.
I didn’t look back. If I did, there’d even be something about that damn door that evoked Killian, ready to mock me.
Have
to get away.
I was in uncharted emotional territory but certain this was the approach to a meltdown. I had to escape. The floors, the walls, the pillars, the building. His building. Watching me. Caging me. Taunting me.
Have to get away!
“Good evening, Miss Montgomery.”
I jumped as a hand descended to my shoulder. All of SGC’s doormen had come to know us all from our daily comings and goings. “H-Hi, Walter.”
“Hang tight just a moment. I’ll have the car brought up.”
“No.” I battled to summon a smile. “Thanks, but not tonight.”
“You trying to get me fired? You know what Mr. Stone says about you going home unescorted.”
Shit. He had to go and do it. Speak the man’s name aloud. Call to life every reason, from Margaux’s blackmail to my own churning heart, why I could hardly call any breath my own anymore.
The golf ball in my throat gave way to a hunk of glass-covered granite. Tears pushed at the backs of my eyes.
“I’m all right.” The waterworks broke through as I yelled it over my shoulder, racing down the stairs to the sidewalk. “Good night, Walter!”
Out on the street, I quickly blended in with the crowd, grateful as hell for every drop in the human ocean. I fell in step with the late commuters and started walking toward our hotel, setting my mind on recovering my clarity and self-control, hoping lucidity wouldn’t be too far behind. In, out. In, out. I filled my lungs with each breath, inserting a mental chill, brah after each cycle. Chad would’ve been proud.
I resolved to have a balanced dinner at the hotel and then focus on sleeping well tonight. I was worn down, and this unnatural thing for Killian had made it worse. I’d just stared into a horrible darkness and never wanted to revisit that place again.
I was done with Killian Jamison Stone.
Officially, completely, agonizingly done.
The bustle of the city boosted my confidence. Lively music played from street-level shops. Savory food aromas, representing cultures from across the globe, wafted out from eateries. People around me laughed and swore and yelled. Car horns blasted as traffic rules were bent and broken.