Stripped

by Edie Harris

  “Perhaps I’ve been too subtle.”

  She finished off the Diet Coke and leaned her head back on the chair, feeling the plaits of her loose braid give against the supple leather. Eyes closed, she allowed herself to smile, to sigh, and to settle her hands over her stomach. For once, she could play with him and not worry about him discovering her scars. “Much too subtle. You should just tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “I don’t know, Fi,” and his hesitancy didn’t sound like an act. “I don’t know.”

  Thrilling chill bumps lifted along her arms and at her nape. “Why not?”

  “Because if I told you what I think about, when I think about you, I’d probably have to leave the country. Or your dad would have me murdered.”

  She shifted in the chair, bringing her heels up to rest on the desk’s edge again. “Tell me anyway.”

  He was quiet a moment, as though deciding whether to indulge her, indulge them both. When he spoke, there was a sensual promise she’d never before heard in his voice. “What are you wearing right now?”

  “Exactly what I wore to work today, except my feet are bare.” She wriggled her toes. “What about you?”

  “I took a shower when I got back to the hotel, which is why I didn’t see your text right away. Only thing I’m wearin’ is a towel.”

  Her entire body went hot. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  She knew what he’d look like shirtless—she’d seen enough photos online, stills from the soapy television drama series he did over in the UK. Lightly defined musculature, dark hair dusting his chest, fair Irish skin. Lean and scrappy, a man ready to brawl but who you might be surprised to see win.

  Except Declan always won, she was learning.

  She imagined the towel drooping over his hips, the divots over his hip bones calling to her fingertips, and her hand curled into a fist. “Now who’s the tease?”

  “Does that turn you on? Me, in a towel?”

  “Yes.” She squirmed again. Hell yeah, he turned her on. The man had magic transform-Fiona-into-a-writhing-ball-of-lust powers, even having only given her the one orgasm.

  Though, admittedly, it had been one hell of an orgasm.

  “I’m turned on. I’m hard right now, thinkin’ of you and everything I want to do to you.”

  Bottom lip caught between her teeth, she drew a deep breath. “Like what?”

  “Like peeling those jegging things down your legs, kneeling at your feet and stroking your calves, your thighs. Finding the sensitive spot behind your knee.” His voiced lowered. “Kissin’ you there.”

  “Where?”

  “The back of your knee. The inside of your thigh. Between your legs.”

  “You want that?”

  “Fuck yes. My biggest regret is that I didn’t lick my fingers clean that night.”

  “Oh. Oh, God.”

  “I wanna taste you, Fi. Dip my tongue into your pussy and lick you up. Lick you deep.” A rustling noise sounded on his end of the phone. “Are you wet?”

  As the Pacific. “Yeah. Yes.”

  His breath hitched audibly. “You want my tongue in you, darlin’? Want me to swallow down all that sweetness?”

  “How do you know I taste sweet?” She rubbed her thighs together, the swish of denim overloud in her ears.

  “Oh, baby, how could you be anythin’ else?”

  “God.”

  Panting breaths through the speaker. “Are you touching yourself?”

  “No.” But it was a close thing.

  “Good. Don’t.”

  Her eyes opened to scowl at her screensaver. “Why not?” Just because she wasn’t masturbating to his dirty talk didn’t mean her fingers didn’t itch to slip into her panties and provide some relief. “Are you touching yourself?”

  “I’ve got a fist on my cock, yeah. But not movin’ it.”

  “So why can’t I?”

  “I can feel you glaring at me through the phone, darlin’.” His voice lowered. “Don’t slide your hand between your legs and play with all that slick heat.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t stroke your little clit until you’re right on the edge.”

  “Declan—”

  “And whatever you do, don’t lift those wet fingertips to your lips and taste that sweetness. Don’t do that, Fi.”

  “Damn it—”

  “Because that sweetness is mine. All mine. The next fingers in you will be mine. The next tongue. The next cock. And the next time you come, it’s gonna be me who got you there, and my name you’re gonna scream.”

  Dying. She was dying. “And what makes you think I’m going to listen to you?”

  “Because it’s my birthday.”

  Her lungs were pumping like she’d just run a marathon. “Declan…”

  A pained chuckle. “Can you wait, Fi? Can you wait the few hours until I see you again?”

  She shook her head vehemently, even knowing he couldn’t see the movement. “We can’t mess around at work.”

  “Fine. After work?”

  She and this maddening man could be blowing each other’s minds in the bedroom, as soon as tomorrow night. The hands resting on her belly twitched. “Okay.”

  He made a choking sound. “Okay? Really?”

  “Really.” Her brain felt fuzzy, her limbs tingly and weird, and she suddenly couldn’t bear hearing his voice another second. “Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll…see you tomorrow.” She ended the call, not allowing him a good-bye.

  Shit. She stared blindly at the computer in front of her, lungs like bellows as she panted, panicked. Her fingers curled protectively over the scar tissue lacerating her stomach, then slid beneath the hem of her shirt, lifting the fabric until she could peer down at her exposed flesh.

  Three jagged, uneven ridges of healed skin branded her torso, raking from the bottom of her lowest right rib down to the soft curve of her abdomen, to the left of her navel. Pink and shiny, the scars spanned her midsection, deforming and discoloring what had once been a toned, tanned stomach into a startlingly ugly mess.

  She had been in the hospital for three weeks after being attacked in Vegas, every waking minute of every day spent hoping the stitches held, hoping she healed, hoping her guts wouldn’t spill out—literally—like the innards of Han Solo’s Tauntaun in the second Star Wars movie.

  Because gross.

  There’d been no insurance to cover a plastic surgeon’s exorbitant fees, so the scars had stayed, twisting and bunching until she barely recognized that part of her body as her own. She hid that body in overlarge shirts and draping sweaters—first out of fear that anything touching the wounds would reopen them, and then because it was easier to pretend the scars didn’t exist if she didn’t have to constantly feel the abrasion of fabric against them. A friend of her parents’ had volunteered to provide free physical therapy, and a year after her lifesaving surgeries, Fiona could move with nearly ninety percent of the flexibility she’d once had as a dancer.

  But she would be lying if she said she was even close to ninety percent of the woman she’d once been.

  Everything had changed, and those changes had shaped her into someone new, someone she hadn’t expected to grow into back when she was determined to dance through life. She’d forged a new career, apprenticing with her makeup-artist aunt for months until she had been hired on at a television studio. A few indie films had broken up the monotony of working on scripted dramas and provided her with some much-needed extra income, and then Vendetta had come along—Vendetta and Declan Murphy.

  Fiona smoothed the shirt over her stomach and pushed away from the desk, grabbing her dirty dishes and heading for the kitchen to dump them in the sink for later cleaning. She needed to make peace with her body, somehow—before tomorrow—and that meant clearing her head. Leaning against the counter, she considered her options.

  Too early for bed, her mind was too troubled to let her sleep.

  Going for an early evening run didn’t appeal, not
when she’d need to dig out her Nikes from the bottom of her closet in order to hit the pavement.

  She sighed. There was nothing for it but to dance.

  Stripping down to her bra and underwear in the middle of her living room, she began to stretch. When the stiff ache of her scars gave way to the languid liquidity of warmed muscles, she woke up her computer, found the track she wanted, and flowed into movement to the haunting strains of Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet.

  Her heart broke only a little when the music finally stopped.

  NINE

  Declan started his day on a perfect note—by grabbing Fiona the moment he arrived in the makeup trailer and kissing the living daylights out of her.

  His day got infinitely better when, instead of resisting as he’d feared she might, she melted against him with a hitching sigh. Her graceful arms looped around his neck, one hand buried in his hair, and she parted her lips in invitation. Rising on tiptoe, she pressed her breasts to his chest, and the tension that had wracked him since their conversation the night before evaporated into nothingness.

  His tongue swept over hers, tasting the fresh bite of toothpaste and lingering when she tangled with him, generous and eager. “You’re early,” she breathed against his lips.

  “Had to see you,” he muttered, and broke the circle of her arms to place a palm on either side of her face, maneuvering her until her back hit the door. “Had to kiss you.” He absolutely had to kiss her, before the other cast and crew showed up to deprive him of the opportunity.

  Last night had been pure torture—of the self-inflicted kind. He’d stroked himself to the sound of her uneven breathing, the teasing huskiness of her aroused voice, until some angry, possessive animal inside him had risen up and gone all growly on her, ordering her not to touch herself. The height of selfishness would’ve been for him to get off, regardless.

  But God, it had been hell to stop.

  So he’d fisted the base of his dick in a fight for calm, tossing the towel aside as he had paced the length of the luxury hotel room that was his home for two months during their first block of shooting at the studio. With each step of his bare feet across the lush carpet, he’d regained a sliver of control, over his hard-on and his head space, and when Fiona had hurried him off the phone, Declan had breathed a sigh of confused relief.

  He had wanted to keep talking to her as much as he’d needed a bit of silence. His pursuit of her might have been three weeks in the making, but now it felt a bit like staring down a tsunami while standing on a beach all alone. He needed to brace himself for impact.

  Arriving on the lot at five-thirty in the morning when he knew that was the time she started her workday had been a subconscious decision more than anything. His restless mind had woken him an hour before his alarm, but he wasn’t complaining. Good on you, subconscious.

  Her lips gave beneath his, soft and open, and her fingers curled around his wrists as she sighed into his mouth. “Better make it good, then.” She lifted her chin, a dare and an invitation, and he accepted without hesitation.

  His tongue wound around hers, the kiss turning hot, hotter, and a groan rumbled deep in his chest. Kissing hadn’t ever been like this for him, either on-screen or in real life. With each passing second, she grew more responsive under his demands, until he couldn’t tell if she was reacting or initiating. It didn’t matter—she was addictive perfection against his lips. Pressing her into the door with the weight of his aroused body, he let his hands slip from her cheeks to her shoulders, shaping the luscious curves she hid beneath another man-sized shirt.

  Ripping off those buttons with his teeth sounded like an excellent idea, come to think of it.

  As if hearing his thoughts, she stiffened, lifting a hand to his chest and breaking the kiss. “We’ve got to stop. Amy and Beth will arrive any second,” she said.

  Not that Declan cared. “Lock the door.”

  She scowled, gently shoving at him and finding him immovable. “I’m adding ‘bossy men’ to my list. I don’t like bossy men.”

  “O’ course you don’t. Now lock the damn door, Fiona.”

  Her hand hovered over the dead bolt. “This is a terrible idea.”

  He fell to his knees in front of her, fingers digging into her hips as he stared up at the most interesting, confusing woman he’d ever met, and said nothing.

  She flipped the lock. “You’ve got, like, five minutes before everyone else starts showing up.”

  “You don’t think I can make you come in five minutes?”

  “Declan—”

  “I love the way you say my name, darlin’. Like you can’t decide if you want to kiss me or kill me.” It took him half a second to determine that the button at the top of those jegging things was useless, and instead tugged the skintight denim blend down her hips and thighs, past her knees to pool at her ankles. He urged one leg to bend, her foot rising free of the discarded garment, and hooked her knee over his shoulder. “Lift your shirt out of my way.”

  She hesitated, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

  “Four minutes, Fi.” And he wasn’t sure he had a four-minute tongue. Six, maybe, and five was pushing it, but four would be breaking new ground for him.

  The hand that gripped her shirt hem trembled lightly, and he fought a frown. She couldn’t be scared of him, could she? Or was it the thought of getting caught that made her shake? But she lifted the shirt nonetheless, until the sleek curve of her abdomen was revealed, golden and smooth. Her knuckles curved into a fist, hiding her navel, but he had what he needed—her lower body revealed to him, with only the thinnest swatch of pale blue lace guarding her from his view.

  He pulled the fabric aside with two fingers, and there she was, and it was better—so much better—than in the dark alley behind the cantina. Here in the trailer, under the bright glow of her workstation lights, he took in the plump pussy, the beckoning softness of her intimate lips, the glimpse of her shy clit peeking up at him.

  “Gorgeous,” he whispered. Stroking a fingertip over the soft curls covering her mound, he noted that even here her skin was a handful of shades darker than his own stereotypically pale Irish-ness. She was sun-kissed all over, every inch of her body, and he couldn’t resist the urge to lean in and kiss her, just a fleeting brush of lips over the tempting curve where belly gave way to pubis.

  She shivered, her free hand falling to his head, fingers tangling in his hair.

  Giving in, he nipped her playfully as he parted her lips with his fingertips, finding her already slick. Christ. “You want this.”

  “Yes.”

  “You want me.”

  “Declan…”

  “You’re so wet, baby.” So fucking wet, and he’d barely touched her. His mouth watered, wanting to do what he’d teased her with yesterday on the phone. “Were you thinkin’ about me all night? Is that what’s got you so bothered?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I made you toss and turn, wantin’ me to do this.” He slid a finger inside her, fighting a shudder as silken heat gripped him. “You’re gonna feel so good around my dick.” Steadying her with a hand on her hip, he dipped his head and tasted her for the first time.

  She was sweet, all right. Sweet and salty, earthy but ambrosial, and he wished he had more than three minutes, because he could get drunk on her, so, so easily. Adding another finger, he started a steady rhythm that mimicked exactly what he wanted to do to her, only with the erection he was once again forced to ignore. He closed his lips around her clit, sucking as he stroked. His other hand tightened on her hip with near-bruising force, and she jerked forward with a moan.

  Her fingers clenched in his hair as she rocked into his mouth. “Declan. Dec. Oh, God.” When he growled against her, tonguing her feverishly, she shuddered. “Please…please don’t stop.”

  No way in hell was he stopping, but they were running out of time. The hand on her hip slid around to grip her bare ass, and he groaned at the taut, round cheek cupped perfectly in
his palm. He curled the fingers thrusting inside her, providing friction for her G-spot, and sucked her clit between his lips again. He wanted her to come, hard and fast.

  He wanted her to come now.

  The thigh draped over his shoulder tensed, muscles trembling. “I’m gonna come. Declan—” Her voice broke on a gasp, and she shook, clamping around his fingers as her orgasm overtook her. She gripped his hair as he licked her through her peak, through the aftershocks that rolled over her, savoring her as he’d never savored another woman.

  Turning his head, he trailed open-mouthed kisses along her inner thigh, withdrawing from her body and eliciting another shudder from her. “You’re fuckin’ beautiful when you come,” he murmured against her skin before lowering her leg from his shoulder.

  She sagged against the door, head lolling to the side, eyes closed behind her glasses. “I wouldn’t know.”

  He gritted his teeth as he tugged the lace back into place over her mound. The woman didn’t know what to do with a compliment, it seemed—snark was her immediate default, almost before he offered the words.

  They would need to work on that.

  Helping her find the leg of her pants, he shimmied them up her legs until she grabbed the waistband. One cute little hop and a wiggle later, she was completely put to rights, the only sign of their encounter a slow-fading passion flush riding high on her cheeks.

  Just in time, too. They heard the voices at the same moment, and their eyes locked, hers relaying panic. He simply shook his head and limp-walked over to the makeup chair, falling into it with a sigh. “Better get that bib on me, or they’re getting a show.” He gestured at his lap and the aching hard-on that bulged obscenely against the placket of his jeans.

  Gaze darting around the trailer, she nodded, flipping back the lock on the door at the last second before rushing to her station. “It smells like sex in here,” she whispered as she unfolded the cloth drape and whipped it over his body, clipping it swiftly closed.

  He tried not to shiver at the brief caress of fingertips through the curls above his nape. “No one can tell.”

  “But—”