Stripped (14 page)

His smile faded. “You weren’t worried, were you, darlin’?”

Worried was the wrong word, because she trusted that he wouldn’t be injured—at least not badly—during filming. But she couldn’t shake the final image of him before the director had yelled, “Cut!” Unconscious. Swaying. Bleeding. The echo of his broken laughter hanging in the empty air. She shrugged as she tried to wriggle from his hold.

His arms didn’t budge. “You know none of that was real.”

“I know.” It had felt real, though, making it difficult to compromise with the memory of him kneeling at her feet in the trailer that morning, licking her to a swift and violent orgasm as she clutched his head between her thighs.
 

“You made it
look
real, though.” He tipped his forehead against hers. “Imagine how silly all that fuss would’ve seemed if I’d been my bright-eyed, pink-cheeked, non-bloodstained self?”

His teasing made her laugh, and her hands moved to rest on his chest, curling into the fabric of his tee. “Good point.”

“Hmm. You don’t sound convinced.” So he kissed her.

The exciting, now-familiar taste of him zinged through her veins as his lips slanted over hers. She clutched him closer, spine curving to mold her body to his, and opened her mouth to him. His tongue stroked deep, causing abrupt bursts of pleasure to spark along the exposed skin of her arms.

She moaned. Her reaction to him, as ever, astounded her. With him, she flirted more dangerously and played more recklessly than she had with any other person, any other
possibility
since Vegas.

Spiraling into a glitzy world far different from the glitter of her Hollywood childhood, Fiona had managed to find a path in Vegas—structure in the rehearsals for the burlesque shows, familiarity in the process of costume fittings. And after, in the hospital and the physical therapy, the routineness of it all had comforted her, guided her into believing that she could, someday, recover. Her apprenticeship in makeup artistry, followed by the jobs growing in both league and scale, had provided a route she could travel with eager, confident footsteps, never doubting that, if she made the correct choices, A would lead to B, and eventually to C, D, and E, with little deviation or room for doubt.
 

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—”