Stripped

by Edie Harris

  Underneath, though…

  Underneath, Fiona was hurting.

  She supposed she ought to be thankful that Declan had been able to set aside his anger at her—because he had been angry, no doubt about that—and find a way to work with her. And then there was no small amount of pride in herself, for behaving like a responsible adult and not letting her personal life interfere with her professional life.

  Except that the clash of her personal and professional lives was what had gotten her into this situation to begin with, and she couldn’t decide if she was very stupid or very smart to have allowed fear to drive a wedge straight into the heart of her relationship with Declan.

  Her dad thought she’d made the right choice, she knew. There’d been the consoling hug that night, when she’d walked back into the soundstage, met his gaze, and shook her head. There had also been the repeated invitations to dinner at her parents’ house, which she had found herself accepting. Her mom had even managed to coerce her into sleeping over a few nights in her childhood bedroom.

  Nothing like coming home to soothe a broken heart, she was learning.

  Fiona sighed as she slid into the driver’s seat of her Prius and slowly backed out of the lot. There was no denying it—Fiona’s heart was broken, or at least very, very bruised. Calling the sensation uncomfortable would be an understatement.

  Stopping at a red light, she fiddled with the radio until something sad and country was crooning out of her speakers, and glanced out the passenger window, noting that she was in front of a hotel.

  Recognition hit her. This was Declan’s hotel.

  Before she could think better of it, she turned into the circle drive leading to the Deco-style portico and killed the engine. Handing the approaching valet her keys, she slung her purse over her shoulder and entered the lobby.

  She may never have been in Declan’s hotel room, but she’d memorized the room number when he’d told it to her, curled together late at night in her bed. “I don’t see why you’d rather be in my apartment than your hotel. I’m sure the hotel’s nicer.”

  “This is your space.” He rubbed the tip of his nose against hers. “I like getting my stuff all over your space.”

  “Perv.” But she’d nuzzled him right back, nestling deeper into the circle of his arms, bare legs tangling with his beneath the sheets. “I want to see your space.”

  “Darlin’, you can go see it anytime. Room 1236. Just know that I won’t be there. I’m too busy bein’ here.”

  A sleek glass elevator whisked her from the ground floor to level twelve. Following the sign, she turned right upon exiting, and soon found herself standing in front of a heavy, cream-colored door bearing the number “1236” on a small placard beneath the peephole. She raised her hand, prepared to knock, and was immediately seized with doubt.

  What the hell was she doing here? They were over—because of her. Because she had wanted to know what was next for them, and when what was next turned out to be the prospect of months’ worth of separation from one another, she’d balked. Not just because her potential boyfriend would be, for the most part, of the long-distance variety, but because he had tried using those three terrifying words to make her okay with that distance.

  She’d felt cornered in that moment, manipulated in the next. The worst of it was, she didn’t think he’d meant her to feel either. It had been obvious that he was putting his heart on the line, but he hadn’t bothered to wait around and see whether she’d place her own heart there, as well.

  In the end, it had been smarter—easier?—to let him stalk away from her, all fierce and wounded. She’d been selfish, just as Rick had encouraged her to be, and put herself first. No struggling to find a balance between work and a relationship, no worrying that she wasn’t giving her partner enough of herself—or that she was, perhaps, giving him too much. She’d lost herself once before to infatuation, when she had allowed her affair with Alexei Wolkov to not simply derail her, but destroy her.

  Like clay. She’d been like shapable wet clay that, once dry, had crumbled into dust. The last time she’d thought herself in love she had been weak.

  Fiona couldn’t afford to be weak again. Where would she go if she crumbled this time? Even if she didn’t run—and she wouldn’t, because she was an adult now, not a girl. Dance was her past, makeup her present…and for ten crazy days, she may have wondered if Declan could be her future. But she’d come to her senses, hadn’t she, and rebuilt those walls that had come crashing down the first time she and Declan had made love.

  Messing around with Declan hadn’t cost her reputation in Hollywood anything, though that was only due to sheer luck and Rick’s timely intervention. So, really, she needed to just…let this go. Let Declan go.

  Which meant she needed to walk away from Room 1236 right this second.

  “Fiona?”

  She whirled, hand still raised, to find a sweaty, out-of-breath Declan walking toward her from the elevator bank. His workout gear left his arms bare and gleaming with perspiration as he tugged free a pair of earbuds, draping the cord around his neck. Shadows lurked in his eyes as he stared at her coldly, questioningly.

  Dropping her hand, she shifted back a step. “Um. Hi.”

  “Hi.” He stopped in front of the door, close to her. Too close—she could see the vibrant pink flush to his skin in the dim light of the hallway, smell the scent of his exertion in her nostrils, and it was so familiar to her that every inch of her ached with the need to wrap her arms around him and burrow into his chest.

  Coming here had been a mistake.

  Withdrawing a keycard from the pocket of his shorts, he slid it into the reader until it flashed green, then pushed the door open. “You comin’ in?” he asked gruffly, holding the door for her.

  She nodded, and followed him.

  Immediately blanketed by the cool air of the room, she stood just inside the door, waiting for Declan to hit the lights. Instead, he strode away from her, through the darkness. Seconds later, faint light spilled from deep within the room, and the sound of a shower being turned on hit her ears.

  Evidently he wasn’t in the mood to talk.

  It only took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark, the layout of the room coming into focus. A sofa and armchair were positioned in front of an electric fireplace, over which hung a flat-screen television. Beyond that, away from the large expanse of curtained window, was a king-size bed covered in creamy linens, the light from the open bathroom door to the right of the bed casting the sleeping area in warmth. A tiny kitchenette was situated near the entrance to the suite, mirrored and marbled.

  All in all, it was luxurious but understated; certainly not the best set of rooms this hotel had to offer, but nothing that would insult a rising movie star who had to bunk here for a few months. Declan wasn’t roughing it in the least.

  Moving to the wall of windows, she flung back the curtains, casting the room in that eerie city-never-sleeps glow. Blues and yellows and greens and reds mingled with the abundance of white light streaming from the buildings surrounding the hotel. Dropping her purse on the chair nearest the window, she stared down at the street below, sliding her hands into the back pockets of her jeggings.

  She liked the view. She liked being in Declan’s space.

  The shower shut off, and tension crept into her shoulders as she listened to the sounds of him grabbing a towel from the bar, imagined him rubbing the terry cloth over his limbs and knotting that towel low over his hips…as shown by his reflection in the window when he stepped from the bathroom. Not content with the distorted view provided by the glass, she turned to watch him walk toward her, and her breath caught in her throat.

  Well, then. She liked this view much, much better. Didn’t matter that she’d seen it a dozen times before—Declan got her blood pumping as nothing and no one had before, not Alexei, not even dancing.

  “Why are you here, Fiona?” He sounded tired, as though having to deal with her fatigued him.

  A p
ang pierced her heart. “I…” She swallowed around the lump that had formed in her throat. “We finished the first block.”

  “I know. I was there.”

  “Right.” Squeezing her eyes shut momentarily, she loosened the stranglehold she’d been keeping on her emotions for the past three weeks. “I hate the way things are between us.”

  He shoved a hand through his damp hair. “It’s not like I enjoy it, either, but this is what you wanted, remember?”

  She shook her head, wrapping her arms around her waist. “It’s not what I wanted, at all.” Her gaze drifted to the window, taking in the streams of traffic, the Technicolor glow radiating from the clubs lining the street below. “I don’t know how people in this business make their relationships work.”

  “I think they start by actually being in a relationship. And not runnin’ away the first time things get difficult.”

  Anger had her turning abruptly to face him. “I didn’t run away.” She poked an irate finger to the middle of his naked chest. “I asked questions, and the answers you gave weren’t what I was prepared for, so you got mad.”

  He grabbed her wrist, stilling her. “Damn right I got mad. I thought we were on the same page, Fi. I thought it was obvious, what you meant to me.”

  Meant. Past tense. As in, she didn’t mean that to him any longer. The ache in her heart grew worse, but she didn’t pull away—it felt too good to have him touching her again, holding her. She felt her body soften in all the right—and wrong—places. “And I thought you knew me well enough to understand that I would need time to process everything you said.”

  “Because you don’t like flirty men, or presumptuous men, right?” His grip on her tightened. “You don’t like being pushed even an inch outside your comfort zone, because that means you can’t control the outcome.”

  “You make me sound like a control freak.”

  “Aren’t you?” A slight tug pulled her into his body, stomachs brushing, hips aligning. He might be pissed, but that didn’t appear to affect his ability to get aroused. “I told you I loved you.”

  Her hand flattened on his firm chest, fingertips tangling in the black curls covering his pecs. “You told me you loved me after I said I wasn’t interested in a relationship where I only saw you a couple months a year.” The nearness of him was starting to affect her breathing, which in turn made her a little lightheaded. “Then you ran away. From me.”

  Displeasure rumbled beneath her hand. “Why’d you really come here tonight, Fiona? What do you want?”

  That lump in her throat was going to choke her. “I miss you,” she whispered, hoarse. “I miss you, Declan.” Her desires were so tied up in the missing of him, the longing of her body and heart left her almost inarticulate. Tears stung the corners of her eyes, and, embarrassed, she blinked, averting her gaze.

  His thumb stroked the sensitive inside of her wrist. “Damn it.” His free hand rose to grip her chin, lifting her face to his. “Fi.” Lowering his forehead to hers, he maneuvered her until her shoulder blades pressed against the window, the coolness of the pane seeping through the thin cotton of her shirt.

  With both palms now splayed across his chest, she arched her body into his, sensing the moment his towel came loose and fell to their feet. “I miss you,” she murmured again, and inhaled sharply when his mouth captured hers in harsh demand.

  Harsh, but not angry. No, his lips might have momentarily lost their finesse, but they coaxed and teased her, same as ever. His hands fell to the buttons of her top, movements as jerky as his breathing, and then he was cupping her over her bra, shaping her through satin until her nipples hardened to insistent points. After shrugging out of her shirt, she wriggled her pants down her legs, nearly losing her balance when she realized she’d forgotten to kick off her sneakers, and everything had caught around her ankles.

  She grabbed at his arms, needing him to steady her. “Sorry, hold on—”

  “Don’t apologize, darlin’. I’ve got you.”

  She froze, one shoe off, one shoe on, and risked a peek at his beautiful face, so close to hers and illuminated by city light. Her heart stuttered in her chest. “Declan.” She couldn’t spare a thought for the awkward picture she must present, with her pants around her ankles, her bra straps falling down her shoulders, her ponytail a mess, and her glasses askew. What was imperative was looking at the picture that was him, all clean and fit and fresh and gorgeous, and absolutely nothing at all like the lumberjack from her makeup chair that first morning. He was solid under her hands, as solid as he’d always been these last two months—never letting her down, and never letting her go.

  Even when he’d walked away, his hold on her had never let her go. “I love you.” Words she’d never, never considered giving to Alexei Wolkov all those years ago, even at her most emotionally vulnerable, but here she stood, desperate to tell Declan Murphy, again and again, “I love you.”

  “Don’t.” His fingers curled around her upper arms in a bruising grip. “Not unless you mean it.”

  She nodded, almost frantic. “I do. I do mean it.” Kicking free her other shoe, and her panties and jeggings along with it, she fumbled with the clasp of her bra, eyes never leaving his. “I don’t know what to do about it, but I promise, I promise, Declan, that I mean it.”

  Just as her bra fell to the ground, he pushed her back against the window once more, the chill of the glass making her breath catch as she stared up at him. “Prove it,” he growled, whipping off her glasses and tossing them to the sofa. His fingers gripped her shoulders with almost painful tightness as his mouth trailed hot, wet kisses down her throat.

  She arched into him as his hands followed the path of his lips. Those hands touched her with confidence, with knowledge. After ten days of loving, he knew her body—he knew what turned her on, what she craved, what she needed, from him and only him.

  The scrape of end-of-the-day stubble over the tops of her breasts loosened her tongue. “Tell me what you want.” Her fingertips sifted through chest hair, petting, stroking. “Anything you want, Dec.”

  His hands found her hips, settled there with a firmness that promised no escape. “I want to fuck you like I planned before you broke up with me.”

  The whip-like sting of his words—before you broke up with me—lashed open a wound on her heart. Would it, too, scar over in time, like the wounds on her stomach? God, she hoped so, or this, tonight, might just kill her. “Against the wall?”

  “Against the window.”

  She shivered.

  “You tell me if that’s okay.”

  “Okay?” She was here, wasn’t she? She wouldn’t be naked and panting and shaking with lust if she wasn’t okay with what he was proposing.

  Cold air drenched her body as he released her. “I don’t have much patience tonight, Fiona. Yes or no.”

  Her thighs clenched reflexively at the darkness in his voice. “Yes.”

  He stalked to the nightstand, digging around until he produced a condom, which he quickly rolled on. “Are you ready for me?” he growled as he crowded her against the window once more. He reached for one of her legs, hooking her knee over his hip. “Are you wet enough to take me?”

  She could only assume that yes, yes she was, because she was pretty sure her body was actually on fire, burning from the inside out from needing him, missing him, loving him. When he leaned into her, his erection finding her mound and offering a moment of perfect stimulation to her clit, she moaned. “Yes. Declan, please.”

  “Up,” he commanded, and she leapt, wrapping both legs around his waist. One of his hands grabbed her butt as the other planted on the window next to her head. Anger still threaded his gruff voice. “Put me in.”

  Reaching between them, she guided the head of his cock toward her entrance, taking a moment to tease them both before she sank onto him. Her thighs tightened around him as she held onto his strong shoulders.

  Skinny kid from Dublin, my ass.

  “Guess you were ready,” he grun
ted, whipping his hips forward in a harsh, lovely thrust that had him fully seated inside her. “Christ, you feel good.”

  She moaned when he thrust again. “I missed you.” She’d missed him so much. The emptiness she hadn’t understood well enough to recognize disappeared completely as he filled her, one heartbeat after another. “Kiss me.”

  His lips fell to hers, bruising, biting. He was punishing her, she knew, because he was hurting. Because she had broken his heart just as surely as he’d broken hers, and she wanted this punishment. She needed it.

  Scant moments later, his kisses changed, growing tender, almost…loving. “Now. You tell me, baby,” he whispered, his tongue stroking hers. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”

  “I want more than a few stolen minutes with you,” she confessed into his mouth on a breath. His stubble abraded her palms when she cupped his face. “I want more than a few stolen days.”

  The arm holding them away from the window, holding his weight and hers, flexed abruptly, all corded muscle cloaked in smooth skin. “You don’t think I want the same?” He nipped her bottom lip. “All day, every day, Fiona. But we both know it doesn’t work like that.”

  Her fingers moved to fist in his curls. “Shut up.” Her shoulders squeaked against the window, damp from her sweat. “Just shut up and fuck me.” Locking her ankles over his backside and using the leverage she got from the window, she thrust her hips toward his, drawing his cock deeper inside her.

  Groaning, the hand on her ass clenched, and he pounded into her. Hard, aching thrusts, staccato in rhythm and demanding in their punctuation, and rubbing her just right. Her sex began to clamp around him, making demands all its own, as she clutched him to her. One of her hands left his hair to rake nails across his sweat-slicked shoulders. She bit his ear and whimpered, breathless and needy, as her orgasm struck her. “Declan.”