And fuck, she knew exactly what she was doing to me. I could see it in the mischievous twinkle in her eye. Her smile was a sly thing, sliding in from the side, pushing her lips out into a flirty smirk and I listened to her chatter on about the show, the crowd, various songs, my mind bending with each scratch of her nails down my stomach, with every press of her soft body to my hips. I weathered the torture in silence, eyes never leaving her face, absorbing the treasure offered with each giddy word. With every jolt of the subway, every sway along the tracks, I mentally calculated how long it would be until I could devour her.
We rose from the station and she seemed to pause for air. Long enough, in fact, that I could press her against the wall of a building just down from our hotel, bend to inhale the honeyed rose of her skin and hiss, “What are you doing to me?”
“Hmm?” She stretched, catlike in my arms.
“Where is the order in my brain? Where is my sense that I need to tread carefully with you?”
“You don’t.”
“You’re muddling my every thought. We were doing so well taking our time.”
Her hands slid up around my neck, pulling me into a kiss so intimate I felt something turn over in my chest. The soft slide of her mouth shattered me, the way she offered up her lips and tongue so earnestly, her quiet whimper when she felt me licking her bottom lip, sucking it between my teeth.
“We’re still doing so well. I won’t make love to you until it is love for you,” she said.
No, not said—reassured. She was telling me that she knew she’d stolen my mind, possibly my heart, and would treat both things with care.
Somehow this promise that we wouldn’t make love until I was sure only heightened my delirium. I drew away, pulling her down the street.
Two seconds inside the hotel room and I’d jerked her coat off, thrown mine across the room, and had her flat on her back just inside the door. Her trainers landed somewhere near the bed; her jeans were roughly tugged down her legs and tossed aside.
I’d never known a hunger like this; my skin was tight and practically vibrating. Ruby stared up at me, washed only in the streetlight coming in the window, her eyes wide with thrill. Her expression of anticipation and the rigid ache of my cock pressed equally in my thoughts. Somewhere far in the back of my mind I knew I needed to temper myself but in the moment, with my heart drumming so hard I could hear it in my ears, I couldn’t be fucking bothered to slow down.
“What are you—” she began before I shoved my own jeans to my knees and fell heavily over her, my boxers and her knickers the only thing keeping me from taking her for the first time on the floor.
Between her legs, my cock pressed against where I could enter her through the thin material, and I felt how slick she was beneath the satin. Groaning, I thrust my hips against her again and again, hurried and desperate, shoving her top and her bra up over her breasts to grip her, plump her in my hand.
I could imagine how it would be—how it will be—her legs around my waist and her eager hips pressing up and around, up and around, meeting every single one of my greedy thrusts. Ruby’s hands gripped my backside, urging me faster, crying out.
I held my weight from her, perched on my elbows but kissed her madly, too frenzied; my teeth slid over her skin, mouth sucking at her tongue, her lips, her neck. She didn’t seem to mind my recklessness—it seemed to thrill her, rather—and her sounds and lips and grabbing hands made me feel bloody savage.
I was close so soon—too soon—but I could take my time with her after. I needed relief from the wildness that built in me being so near her, tasting her, feeling her under me. Aching relief gathered in my back, shooting electrically down and building until, with a deep rock of my hips forward, I came, shouting into the dark room.
Ruby gasped, hands in my hair as I immediately pulled away, jerking the satin down her legs and off, bending to press my mouth to the sweetest slickness, burying my tongue between her legs.
Oh, the relief of it, of taking her, of tasting her this way.
Her cry came out choked, her hips left the floor and somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I needed to be gentle and loving but as I spread her open with my fingers, sucked her and fucked her with my tongue, she only grew more frantic.
“Niall—” My name disintegrated into a gasping, breathless cry. She tugged at my hair, pulling my mouth from her. “Put me on the bed,” she managed. “Let me watch you.”
I stood, kicking out of my pants and pulling my shirt over my head before lifting her, carrying her to the mattress and helping her out of the tangle of her rumpled top. My body had slowed enough that I could stop and gaze down at her, kissing her neck until she pulled me up to her face.
“I love this,” she whispered between kisses, repeating my words to her the other night, our first intimate night in her hotel room. “Love to taste myself on your tongue.”
I felt her goose bumps beneath my palms and closed my eyes, let myself enjoy the sweet sucking kisses she gave me, the way she took my hand and led it down her body and between her legs.
Pulling my lips away, I moved to her neck, her chest, giving attention to her breasts and stomach, before settling between her legs, kissing her hip.
She ran her fingers into my hair, studying my face as I let my eyes move up and down her naked body.
“You’re so quiet all of a sudden,” she whispered.
I spread her with my fingers, and relished the feel of the pad of my thumb, wet from her, tripping back and forth over her clit. “I’m concentrating.”
And why would I want to speak over the sweet, rasping sound of her breath catching, of the sheets pulled tight in her fists?
I made pressing, steady circles and her hips rose slightly up from the mattress, rocking.
“I . . .” she started, words falling away in a strangled gasp.
“Shhhh . . .” I bent, pressing my mouth over my thumb, licking and stroking her in tandem. I’d stopped letting myself fantasize about oral sex—giving or receiving—as it was never something Portia wanted to do after our first few years together. She wanted missionary sex, music in the background so our noises weren’t so obvious, eyes closed, lights off.
But I loved the taste of a woman, loved the way this act felt at once sweet and devious. Kissing a woman here always seemed like the pinnacle of fevered sensuality: a man wanting to taste the source of his pleasure. And here, on the bed, Ruby pushed herself onto her elbows to watch me with wide eyes, her lashes so thick and dark and seeming to draw her lids down under the weight.
As I swirled my thumb and circled my tongue, her chest rose and fell under sharp breaths, her mouth opened slightly, her tongue sliding back and forth over her bottom lip.
“Do you like doing this to me?” she asked, voice barely audible.
“I don’t think like is the word I would use,” I told her, kissing her, teasing. “I don’t think anything in the world would give me more pleasure right now.”
Her breathing slowed, hips pressed up and froze when I pulled my mouth away. So close.
“Niall. Please.”
“Please what, darling?” I nibbled her hip, the delicate skin beside my hand, slowing the movements of my thumb.
“Put your mouth back . . . there.”
I fought my smile. “Where, exactly?”
Her eyes met mine, softening. “You know where.”
“Your cunt, darling?” I whispered.
She squirmed under me. “I need it.”
“You still only want it,” I told her, relishing this return to our game when I could actually touch her, taste her, and make good on my promise to let her come against my kiss.
I saw her lip shake before she trapped it between her teeth, her eyes pleading with me.
It was so easy to bring her here, to this point. Nothing made it sink in more fully that she’d fantasized about this hundreds of times than the way her body fell so easily into pleasure under my touch.
“Tell me,” I whispered, ben
ding to exhale over her clit.
She squeezed her eyes shut, reached out to wrap her fingers around my wrist, urging and needful. She was so wet; she shook against my hand, her body clenched so tight, breath trapped in her throat.
I was delirious for her pleasure, lost in the sight of her mouth parted, her pulse ticking wildly in her throat, the taste of her still on my lips. “Tell me, dove.”
Bending, I slid my tongue over her, again and again, and again.
Her thighs shook beside my head. “I’m so close.”
“No, tell me,” I repeated into her skin, pulling away again.
She seemed to have to force her eyes to open, and they looked down at me, confused. “Please, I—”
“I have all of these idle fingers,” I observed, giving her a tiny smile. “That seems incredibly wasteful. Tell me . . . is there something I should do with them?”
She groaned when I bent and licked her in earnest, her entire body shaking, and I could feel the way my question sent her tumbling over the edge.
I’d simply wanted her to know what was coming, and without hesitation, I pressed my fingers together and into her, deep—hard—as I sucked her into my mouth and nearly lost my mind when she screamed, back arching sharply from the bed and she came violently, legs closing against my shoulders, thighs trembling beside me.
* * *
I carried her into the bathroom, her legs wrapped around my waist and lips on my neck, kissing, scratchy voice quietly confessing she’d never felt anything like what I’d given her just now.
I hadn’t, either.
Ruby shook in my arms, weak and overwhelmed, and I carefully lowered her into the shower, shielding her body from the pounding spray as I followed after her and lathered every inch of her skin. She braced her hands on my waist, watching me silently, with eyes full of an emotion I was suddenly terrified she would name aloud. Ruby’s eyes hid nothing: I knew, without a doubt, that she was in love with me, and that it wasn’t just the pleasure of my mouth just now, or the idea of my stoic reserve melting under her charm, but honestly in love. With me.
And if it were that simple, I would be making love to her right now, for I knew my feelings had quickly crossed over from initial attraction to a far deeper emotion. Love, maybe. But having stayed with Portia for so long under the pretense of what I sincerely believed was love, how could I trust my own definition? I was dedicated to her, yes. Loyal to a fault. But love? I wasn’t so sure anymore.
A memory burst through me, from the evening of my wedding, while we danced in front of every guest, and when I felt oddly effervescent, brightly hopeful.
“Why is it so alluring you’re wearing white? It’s like a secret.” I’d bent, kissed Portia’s neck. “Our secret.”
“What do you mean?” she’d asked, and if I were a smarter man then, I might have caught the edge in her voice, the look I would come to know so well that suggested I tread carefully.
But I was not a smarter man. “I’ve already had you, love,” I said. “I’ll have you again and again tonight.”
Portia fell still in my arms, letting me sweep her ’round the floor. The song ended, and guests broke out into applause.
I looked down at her face, steely and cold in the warm glow cast from the overhead tent lighting. “What is it?”
She smiled stiffly at me, stretched to kiss my cheek and said, “You just called me a trollop at our wedding.”
The beginning. Though it hadn’t always been like that, just mostly. I had proposed to Portia with a ring I’d bought in a sweet shop and she’d laughed so hard she’d cried and then kissed me properly in front of whoever may have walked by at that moment in Piccadilly Circus.
Our engagement was a memory that often got lost in the shuffle of all of the flat, emotionless ones that followed. I struggled to remember the brighter times whenever I spoke with Portia lately, held on to them with an admittedly strange fever for a man who had no desire to reconcile with his ex-wife. I replayed them because I needed to remember there had been a time when marrying her wasn’t only a clear expectation, but a rather lovely idea.
It was jarring to feel things for Ruby—crippling lust, admiration, worship, and a willing defenselessness—that I’d never before felt, even with the woman I’d married.
Guilt lingered in my chest—guilt that I’d wasted time, that I’d had more to give Portia than I’d bothered to. Guilt that I was thinking about all of this while I washed the body of the woman I was falling for.
Ruby left me feeling exhilarated, but I was terrified. Terrified of the speed at which it was happening, terrified that it wasn’t in fact fleeting.
I smoothed my hands over her breasts, her hips, her backside, and down each leg, washing her feet. My body stirred for her again, insatiable, and more than anything I was terrified that I’d already grown addicted to the way she looked at me, that I’d come to rely on her affection and devotion in a way I never had with Portia. That I knew I never would have, no matter how many years we suffered through.
I stood, turning Ruby into the water to let her rinse and unable to keep my hands from roaming over her curves, and—when she’d finished—guiding her hand to stroke where I’d stiffened painfully between us, bending and practically begging without words for her mouth on mine.
She stretched to kiss me, pulling me with one arm down until our mouths met beneath the water, her other hand moving sensuously along my length.
With her eyes squeezed closed and tiny whimpers escaping from her mouth into mine, her lips shook when she kissed me. I wouldn’t be able to distinguish tears from the water running down her face, but I knew I loved her when it registered how desperately I cherished seeing her so overcome. And the twin realization followed, with a single, stabbing heartbeat, that if Ruby’s affection for me ever cooled, it would break me.
Thirteen
Ruby
That I was in love with Niall Stella was only a secret in theory. He knew it, I knew it. The fact that the actual words had yet to be said was nothing more than a mere formality. I saw the realization as it flickered across his face—expression adoring if not slightly wary—behaving as if I were a glass he might drop, then be left to pick up the pieces.
The sentiment hung in the space around us and it was hard not to feel even the smallest flash of irritation. My wild adoration, his almost constant wariness—I wasn’t sure which was worse. My silent admission was as good as graffiti across my chest, and yet he didn’t say anything.
So neither did I.
Niall had toweled us both off, and we’d fallen almost immediately into bed. His? Mine? I wasn’t even sure anymore. Did it matter? My orgasm had left me boneless, but I was still wide-awake.
“If you could be anywhere right now, where would you be?”
We’d been quiet for a while now, lights off and only the sounds of traffic, or the occasional bump or voice from down the hall to break into our thoughts. He’d assumed the position—stretched out on his stomach, pillow clutched tight—and looked up at me in the dark. I loved that I knew how he slept now. It was such an intimate thing, to know the way a person arranges themselves to depart at night, and a part of me delighted that I was one of the very few who knew this tiny, secret thing about him.
“And you can’t say ‘right here,’ ” I added, running a finger along the back of his arm. His skin was smooth and still warm from the shower. I dug in a little, kneading the muscle, and he sighed in pleasure. “Anywhere else.”
The moon was high in the sky, and a swath of light cut across the bed, angling up and over his body. I watched him frown in thought as he considered my question.
I wasn’t even sure why I’d asked. It might have been that I was feeling vulnerable after our shower, and that tiny seed of doubt was making me homesick. Maybe it was the wall I felt had been knocked down tonight, seeing him lose himself to the music and the crowd moving all around us. Or maybe it was just my way of trying to get inside that maddeningly complicated head of his. I didn
’t even know.
“Hmm, anywhere?”
I nodded from my spot next to him. The sheets were cool against my naked body, but I could feel the heat of him next to me.
“Why can’t I say ‘right here’?” he asked, reaching out to brush the tip of my nose.
I shrugged and he moved his leg, hooking it over mine to bring me just a breath closer. It was a tiny thing that had me smiling into my pillow.
“When we were small, our dad had a friend who worked at Elland Road, the football stadium in West Yorkshire. Max was old enough to drive and sometimes he’d bring me with him—the irritating little brother. Drive us both down there to kick balls ’round on the pitch. Leeds United play at Elland Road,” he said with reverence, “the club I’ve watched my entire life on telly at home. I’d been up in those stands, cheering them on, and here I was, standing on the same green as the men I’d worshipped. I’d like to go back there someday with my brother. See if it still felt as big.”
“I’d like to see that,” I said, grinning now. “You and Max as teenagers, running up and down the field. You’d both be shirtless in this scenario, yes?”
Niall pinned me with a glare that had me erupting in giggles.
“And what about you, where would you be, Miss Ruby?”
“I miss San Diego.”
“Do you not enjoy London?”
“I love London, getting to live there has been sort of a dream, but it’s expensive, it rains a lot, and I miss everyone.”
“Everyone?”
“My roommates, Lola and London. And especially my brother.”
“It must have been hard being away from them.”
“The time difference sucks,” I said, groaning. “It’s like we get four hours to be awake in the same day and those are early in the morning or late at night.”
Niall nodded, continuing to run his fingers through the front of my hair. I began to feel my eyes droop. “But you’ll stay in London?” he asked, and I wondered if I imagined the hint of anxiousness there.
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