by Naima Simone
Gradually, she quieted, her body calmed, loosened, her breath like blasts of heat against his neck. He eased his fingers from the still-quivering clasp of her core, and she whimpered in weary protest.
“Shh,” he soothed, lapping at the perspiration dotting the slim column of her neck and beading her shoulders. “I got you. It’s okay.”
Liar, his conscience taunted.
Things would never be okay—the same—again.
Chapter Twelve
Okay, it was time to come out the closet.
Not the proverbial, hey-family-I’m-gay closet, but her literal closet. But Jesus Christ. Sloane twisted her fingers, staring at the closed door. She sympathized with the gay population. Because part of her would rather walk downstairs and announce to her firmly Catholic parents that she was sexually attracted to Christina instead of Christopher before emerging from the sanctuary of her walk-in and confronting Ciaran the morning after the hottest, most mind-blowing finger-fuck she’d ever received.
She squeezed her thighs together against the phantom ache still pulsing in her sex, and flattened her palms against her lower belly. She closed her eyes, but immediately opened them as flashes from the night before flashed across her lids. Ciaran’s hand tugging and plucking her nipples. Both of his big hands between her widely spread thighs, filling her, rubbing her. Her back and hips arching and twisting to the erotic tune he played on her body. Coming like she’d invented the damn phenomenon.
Heat razed her cheeks until she probably resembled a sunburned tomato. Hanging her head, she smothered a mortified groan. She’d been so…uninhibited. Sexual. No man had ever elicited that kind of unrestraint from her. Granted, no man had ever touched her with such patience, passion, and skill like Ciaran had. No man had ever kissed her with the tangy taste of her…her desire still on his tongue. Still… She hadn’t held back, instead had bucked and sweated and been freaking noisy. God, she’d never been noisy.
But her total sex-starved-kitten act hadn’t been the ultimate humiliation. That honor belonged to the moments after the glow of orgasm had faded.
When Ciaran had laid her on the bed and then retreated to the small sofa to sleep.
She ground the heels of her palms against her eye sockets. He’d chosen to fold his ridiculously tall frame on that Lilliputian couch rather than sleep beside her. Yes, that had been the crowning glory. Logically, she should be grateful he’d distanced himself. Last night had been a…cataclysmic event…mistake. A mistake. One she would be an idiot to repeat. The kind of passion and lust she experienced with him would chain her to him tighter than the most Houdini-proof cuffs. And he hadn’t even been inside her, yet. No. No way. She’d just discovered her freedom; she refused to sign up for another tour of duty.
Still…he’d treated her like one of those coyote-ugly chicks…
And now she had to walk out of this closet and face him like she was wrecked by cataclysmic orgasms every day. Yawn.
Pearls dissolve in vinegar.
She inhaled. Exhaled. Shit, even her usual calming mechanisms weren’t working. Swiping her damp hands over hair and down her high ponytail, she straightened her shoulders and…
“Grow a pair,” she ordered herself. For God’s sake, she couldn’t remain hidden in the damn closet for the rest of the morning, no matter how much appeal the idea held. Tilting her chin up, she stalked toward the door and pulled it open before she could do a backward shuffle toward the evening wear.
She skidded to a halt as if an invisible brick wall sprang up in front of her.
Oh for the love of…
Ciaran sat on the sofa he’d slept on, studying the screen of a laptop perched on the coffee table he’d pulled up. Skin. Miles and miles of taut, golden skin etched with reds, blues, greens, and black ink. Not an ounce of fat in sight, just intriguing, sexy dips and ridges that called for a woman to run her fingertips and tongue over. Her gaze latched on to the thin trail of dark hair that bisected his unbelievably ripped abs and disappeared beneath the waist of his gray pants. Last night, what lay underneath those pants had pressed against her back. Even now she could feel the rock-hard column nudging and grinding against her. Moisture fled her mouth as she jerked her gaze back up to his face. Safe territory.
Or not.
Ciaran had noticed her standing just outside the closet, and his gaze was fixed on her. Unlike last night, his bright eyes didn’t burn with desire. Instead the blue reminded her of ice—cold, hard, flat. She shivered and smoothed her palms down the wide, flowing legs of her dark green jumpsuit, fighting not to wrap her arms around herself.
“Do you think Phillip could be capable of attacking you?”
That quick, images from the attack bombarded her. Heart thudding against her sternum, she absently massaged one shoulder and then the other. This morning, the bathroom mirror had revealed the bruises had started to darken and mottle. She’d purposefully chosen the jumpsuit with its wide straps to hide the violence marring her skin. Sticky, obsidian remnants of fear tried clawing their way up her throat, but she shoved them back down. Focused. And frowned.
“You think he could be responsible for last night?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I can’t rule anyone out. That’s why I’m asking for your opinion.”
“Phillip has always been”—she twirled her hand as if trying to conjure up the accurate description for her ex—“arrogant. In the beginning of our relationship, I saw it as confidence, and it was part of his attraction. Only later did he devolve into a condescending, verbally abusive asshole.”
“Abusive?” Another shudder tracked down her spine at the quiet, but ominous tone.
“Verbally,” she hurried to assure him.
A dark eyebrow jacked high. “And that makes a difference?”
“No, it’s just…” She waved a hand. “I got through it. I’m over it.”
“Really?” he drawled.
Warmth flooded her face as his words from the night before haunted her.
You wear your pain as clearly as your sexy-ass curves… It’s a damn shame you don’t seem to realize it—or that someone made you doubt it.
“I thought we were talking about whether Phillip is capable of coming after me,” she said, voice devoid of the hurt and shame rioting through her. “The answer is no. He broke up with me. He has no reason to hate me enough to break into my house, have people attack me, and come after me himself.”
“Normally, I would agree with you on that.” Ciaran leaned back against the couch. She forced her gaze to remain above his neck to keep from leering at the stretch and pull of all that muscle. “But last night, that wasn’t a man with no hard feelings. There was anger there. And if he didn’t care about you, he wouldn’t have called you those ugly names. No, he followed you out on that patio for a purpose, and he was going to see it through if I hadn’t interrupted.”
“I don’t know what he wanted.” She held out her hands, palms up. “When he walked out he was very clear”—Fucking you is charity work—“that we were over.”
He watched her with narrowed scrutiny. “You’ve just reaffirmed my opinion that he’s a stupid motherfucker but not convinced me he’s innocent.” Returning his attention to the laptop, he started tapping on the keyboard, his dark brows drawn down in a V over his eyes as he continued to peer at the screen.
“What are you looking at?”
“Phillip’s phone and bank records,” he murmured.
Wait…what? “Did you request a subpoena for that?” She crossed the room, perching on the arm of the couch and leaning over to glimpse at the laptop monitor. He couldn’t really be…nope, he was. Phillip’s name, address, and service provider jumped out at her as if blinking a neon red.
“Do you really want the answer to that question?”
Yeah…probably not. “What are you looking for?”
His glanced at her. “Phone calls that are a break in his usual pattern. We know whoever is behind the stalking and attacks hasn’t been workin
g alone. We’re checking the calls that have nothing to do with family, friends, or are business or social-related. The same goes for his finances. Outside of his usual pattern of expenses, we’re searching for unusual payouts or even payments. Has he been receiving money from someone that is out of the ordinary?”
A fist of emotion—disbelief, sadness, anger—wedged in her throat. “Have you found anything?”
“Not yet,” Ciaran said, his gaze narrowing as if he could peer inside her and see the tumultuous clash of feelings. “Do you want it to be him?”
She stood, evading his too incisive stare on the pretense of retrieving her jewelry from the dresser. “No,” she whispered, choosing a diamond stud and rolling it between her fingers. “Because that would mean I slept with, gave my heart to, and intended to marry a man who hated—and hates—me enough to terrorize and kill me.” And she’d been too blind or naive to see it. Maybe even hadn’t wanted to see it. Inhaling a deep breath, she slid the first post into her pierced lobe. “Who else are you looking at?”
“The student you told us about, his parents. Your father.”
Jesus. She flinched. The man needed to wear a bell or something. Without her detecting him, he’d crossed the room and stood behind her. Close behind her. God, she swore pure animal heat emanated from his bare skin, sending flames licking her belly and lower south. Focus, dammit. She wouldn’t make a fool of herself again with him like she had last night.
“My father?” She frowned.
“He’s a very wealthy man, Sloane. And that alone makes him a target for enemies or those who envy what he has.”
“I don’t know,” she murmured, picking up the back of the earring. “This whole thing has felt kind of”—she lifted a shoulder—“personal.”
“I agree. But we have to examine every angle.” Long fingers reached around and plucked the jewelry from her hand. He gently fixed the earring back to the stud with an ease and skill that had her tamping down an irrational surge of jealousy. Not my business. He retrieved the matching diamond and, with a gentle, expert touch, slid the gem into her lobe. “If it is Phillip, not recognizing the darkness he hid doesn’t make you stupid or blind or any of the other names I know you’re calling yourself.”
“How about needy?” she scoffed, regretting the slip when his hands stilled on her.
“If he couldn’t appreciate the passion and beauty in you than that’s his shame, not yours,” he said, the rumble in his voice low and gravel-rough.
“Says the man who couldn’t get away from me fast enough last night,” she drawled, going for nonchalant and sarcastic and, to her own ears, falling somewhere between hurt and miffed.
Silently he finished fastening her earring, then backed away, taking his body heat with him.
“You don’t understand,” he murmured.
“Understand that you would prefer to sleep on a cramped couch rather than a bed big enough to fit the entire Patriots’ defensive line because I was in it.” She turned around and offered him her best don’t-bullshit-the-bullshitter smile. “Don’t worry. I received your message loud and clear. You regret last night, and it won’t happen again.”
“You don’t get shit, duchess,” he growled. His full, sensual lips hardened into a grim line. He shoved his fingers through his black waves, and she couldn’t help but notice the delicious dance of muscles and tendons under his inked skin. He glanced away for a moment before pinning his laser bright gaze on her. Part of her wanted to step back, retreat from the glint of steel in his eyes, but she held her ground, squaring her shoulders. “I haven’t slept with a woman in four years.”
She stared at him. Snorted. “Okay.”
“Not fucking.” His shadowed eyes dipped to her mouth before returning to meet her scrutiny. “Sleeping. I haven’t slept beside a woman in years.”
The implications of his quiet statement slammed into her like a sledgehammer. At face value, the words could sound like those uttered by a man-whore. But underneath…underneath the admission something dark, painful—something haunting—lurked. Christ. What had happened?
She moved toward him. “Ciaran—”
A knock reverberated on the bedroom door. Frustration and relief poured through her. Frustration because whatever she’d been about to say had been interrupted. And relief because whatever she’d been about to say had been interrupted.
“I’ll get it.” Clearing her throat, she crossed the room and opened the door to reveal Chelsea on the other side.
“Hey,” she greeted. Leaning around Sloane, she waved at Ciaran. “Good morning, Ciaran. Oops, didn’t know you still were still in the middle of dressing. I apologize.” She straightened with a sweet smile, but as she withdrew from Ciaran’s view, her eyes rounded comically wide, and she mouthed, Oh. My. God.
Oh, if she only knew the half of it.
“No problem,” Ciaran said from behind her. “I’m going to finish getting ready.”
“You don’t have to on my account,” Chelsea grumbled.
“Stop!” Sloane hissed, slapping her sister on the arm as the click of the bathroom door closing reached her.
“What?” She lifted her hands, palms up. “You did good. I’m just saying.”
“Come in.” Sloane stepped to the side, granting Chelsea room to pass by her. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, anyway,” she said, shutting the door behind her. “Mom told me about you and Greg divorcing. Are you okay?”
Chelsea tossed back her thick mane of blonde hair and beamed. “Nope. Not in the slightest.”
“Oh honey…”
She extended her arm toward Chelsea, but a beat of indecision pulsed within her, holding her back. Their relationship had never been close. Hell, cordial would be putting a nice face on it. There had always existed this tension between them—competition, sibling rivalry—and, it had prevented them from forming a close bond. Not to mention that though Sloane was the older child, she’d always felt like she’d forever been in Chelsea’s shadow. And it wasn’t a comfortable or enviable place to be. Still, as she stared into her sister’s overly bright smile and glistening eyes, none of that mattered. Especially when Chelsea met her halfway and grabbed her hand, hanging on as if Sloane were her only lifeline in a raging storm.
“I feel so stupid.” Chelsea chuckled, the abrupt bark of laughter water-logged though she didn’t allow a tear to fall. “Right in our bed. With his secretary, too. How fucking cliché is that?”
Before Sloane could reply, could assure her that his cheating didn’t reflect on her, Chelsea clasped Sloane’s hand, squeezed it, then dropped it just as quickly. Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she groaned and frantically waved a hand in front of her face. “Ciaran, you caught us at a bad moment.”
“No problem,” came his deep timbre from behind Sloane.
Slowly she turned around and found herself pinned in place by his searching regard.
“I came up here with a purpose, actually,” Chelsea continued. “Mother has an excursion planned for today and sent me to fetch you two. Golf.”
Jumping on a reason to evade Ciaran, Sloane pivoted to face her sister. “Golf?” A boulder of dread sank to the bottom of her stomach. Not only did she hate the boring sport, but surely Ciaran hadn’t received his big, rangy build by putting a tiny white ball across an immaculately manicured green. He seemed more the physical, football type. She didn’t want him to feel awkward or out of place. “I don’t know—”
“We’ll be there shortly,” Ciaran interjected, moving up beside her and sliding an arm around her waist. The simple touch rocked her more than it should have. But considering the last time his hands had been on her, they’d been finger-deep inside her, she could be forgiven her reaction.
“Golf?” Sloane repeated, doing a God-awful job of lassoing the skepticism in her voice. “Are you sure?”
He nodded, and Chelsea grinned. “Great! See you there.”
As the bedroom door closed behind her sister, Sloane arched an eyebrow and stepped to
the side so his fingers fell away from her hip. She’d set the rules after all: No touching outside of what was necessary to pull off the pretense.
Yes, they had failed spectacularly with that one so far, but if she were going to emerge from this long weekend with her sanity and heart intact, she had to get it together. Stand her ground on the no-contact rule. Stop being a sex-starved wuss.
“You can play golf?”
He returned her arched brow, the gesture rife with arrogance. “Of course.”
Well, of course. How silly of her to ask.
Chapter Thirteen
“This isn’t what I meant, and you know it,” Sloane muttered.
“What? You asked me if I could play golf. I can’t read your mind,” Ciaran said, swinging his club back and then forward. The iron connected with the bright pink ball, and it sailed down the green—and disappeared through the mouth of an enormous hippopotamus squatting in the middle of the course. He circled the hulking, purple monstrosity, and with another stroke of his gold club, sank the ball into the hole. “Two strokes,” he bragged, retrieving his ball and stepping off the green.
“Bragging that you finished in two strokes. Just like a man.” Sloane lined up her shot.
Ciaran grinned at the smart-ass comeback, and as she drew back to swing, he drawled, “It’s not the quickness that matters, sweetheart. It’s what you do with the time you’re given that counts.”
“Damn!” She swung, barely clipping the ball.
“That counts,” Ciaran pointed out.
“Shut it.” Scowling, she jabbed her club in his direction. “I didn’t try to distract you when you were up.” Resettling herself, she swung again, and three strokes later, landed her ball into the hole.
“Hmm.” Rubbing his chin, Ciaran gave her a mock frown as she straightened from picking up her ball. “I thought you were supposed to be good at this.”
