Beautiful Secret (Beautiful Bastard #4) (22 page)

Oh, she was a fucking wonder.

“Let me taste you,” she begged. “Let me
touch
you.”

Her words sent a spike of electricity down my spine and along my cock. “Wait, darling.”

“I
can’t
.”

I pushed the top elastic of her knickers aside, kissing the softest skin of her navel, just above her pubic bone.

She hissed out a
Yes
and gasped when I slid the light yellow lace down her hips and thighs, undressing her entirely.

Ruby was completely naked and she was fucking
perfect
.

I felt her eyes on me as I slid my hand up her leg, watching my fingers move over her skin, mine darker than hers, tan against pale. Her inner thigh was the softest skin I’d ever felt, and my fingers trembled slightly as I moved them higher. Inside my chest, my heart hammered. I’d touched her between her legs before, of course, but it was different at the office: rushed and intense. Here, I had hours. I could keep her up all night with my hands giving her pleasure and my mouth on her breasts, her ribs, her stomach.

My fingers reached the juncture where hip met thigh and I lingered, barely an inch away from where she wanted me. Under my hand, she shook, pushing her hips off the bed.

“You’re killing me with the teasing,” she whispered, reaching to wrap her hand around my wrist. “I swear I’m going to come the second you touch me.”

The way she said
come
, and the idea that she was this worked up—that my touch could do this so easily—rocked me. With a smile pressed to her hip, I slid my fingers over her, groaning at the sound of her sharp cry. She was
drenched
, and slick and warm and it was all I could do to not bend to kiss her there, or—even more tempting—lift my body over hers and simply slide inside. I couldn’t begin to fathom how it would feel to be inside her.

I was grateful for the barrier of my trousers, and of the kernel of hesitation still residing in my thoughts, the constant reminder to
take this slowly
.

It was impossible not to compare this experience to
the only other one I’d really had—late-night pub fumbling aside—even though guilt tried to shove the thoughts away. I knew I shouldn’t think of Portia right now, not even in relief of my independence from her, but with Ruby naked against me and my brain fried to bits at the thought of giving this sublime creature pleasure, I didn’t have the discipline of thought to which I was accustomed. Ruby unraveled me, opened something inside me, and made me want to be more transparent with myself, with her.

And as I touched her, and gave her pleasure with first two fingers, and then three, I let my thoughts flap wildly in my mind.
This is what it should feel like to be intimate
,
giving pleasure to someone who wants it hungrily, both partners wholly giving in to it
. She’d opened up to me tonight—it was the entire purpose of her admission, I realized—and in turn it had given me some freedom to relax with her, with
this
. With each circle of my hand and each moan that pushed past her lips, my confidence multiplied until I was convinced no man had ever wanted a woman more than I wanted the one beside me just now.

I wanted to kiss her and lick her and fuck her, but a baser part of me—a dark piece I’d never acknowledged—wanted a greater ownership over her lips, her glowing skin, aching sounds, soft thighs and—I let myself admit it—the most beautiful, soaking-wet pussy I’d ever dreamed of. I wanted to look at her and have a deeper sense that she was
mine
.

She started to clench under my movements and my insides began to simmer, thrilled.
How odd it is
, I thought,
that my whole body should ache for the curve of her shoulder, the straight, downward slope of her navel, the pounding pulse at the side of her neck
.

Watching her unravel under my touch seemed to literally bring my heart into my throat. I lifted my gaze from where I touched her to move up and suck savagely at her breast as she first seemed to calm—her breaths came out slow and deep—and then she pushed her head back into the pillow and nearly screamed as her orgasm tore through her and pressed down against my fingers inside.

She stilled for only a breath before pulling me by my hair so we were face-to-face and I could lick away the quick, relieved exhales falling from her lips.

“
Holy shit
.” She closed her eyes, going limp beneath me. “I just . . .”

“You’re exquisite when you come,” I whispered, sucking at her jaw, her neck, her mouth.

“That . . .” she began, looking up at me. “Right now you seem like something I made up when I was lying awake at night.”

I ran my wet fingers up over her stomach, to her ribs, quietly giving voice to the crude thought that slipped into my mind, sharing my most exposed self: “I love the way you smell. I fear I’ll lose my mind when I finally feel you on my tongue.”

After the words left my mouth, Ruby pulled me back to her with eager hands and renewed desire. I was wild and she was nearly out of her mind—sweaty,
mouth wet and messy over mine. Teeth scraped chins, kisses turned sloppy, and she whipped my belt across my stomach in her haste to get my trousers off.

Oddly, the sharp sting only made me more unhinged.

With my pants pushed to my knees, Ruby reached for me, her hand strong and warm as she gripped my shaft. “Holy shit,” she said. “You’re . . .”

I pulled back, looking down at her with what I was sure were savage eyes. She was only the third woman in my life to have touched my cock, and I honestly didn’t care what she was going to say to finish the sentence; I pulsed in her palm, practically begging her to give me relief.

“Big,” she said, looking down at me. “
Jesus
.” And then she slid her hand over the head with such perfect pressure that I nearly missed her words through my loud, relieved groan: “I’ve never been with a guy who wasn’t . . .”

My mind fogged with the feel of her slowly stroking up, and slowly stroking down.
Wasn’t what? American? Willing to take his time? Experienced with scores of women?

And then it occurred to me, where her hand lingered, exploring. “Wasn’t circumcised?”

She nodded, ducking her head to press her mouth to my neck.

“I imagine it’s much the same, only perhaps easier in some ways.”

“Easier?” She sounded as dazed as I felt.

If you moved your bloody hand a bit
faster, maybe you’d see what I mean
.

I reached between us, wrapping my hand around hers to make her move. I could feel the hot tension in my lower back, my growing need to fuck into her, fuck her fist, fuck
something
, and she whimpered a little as I think my words registered: my foreskin slid easily over the head of my cock as she worked me.

“It’s so fucking
hot
,” she groaned. “Oh fuck, I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe—”

“Shh,” I whispered, wanting her lost in me, not the
idea
that she was doing this. This was a reality: I was over her, my cock in her fist, my mouth on her neck, and my heart slowly bleeding into hers. “Stay with me.”

My words transitioned from this to a steady mantra of
give me

Give me

Give me

Oh, fuck, Ruby, Ruby

Give me

Give me—

—I wasn’t even sure what I meant.

Give me pleasure and your achingly honest words and the reassurance that this is real. Give me the freedom to let my words fall easily. Give me permission to let go and lose myself the way I’ve needed to for so long. Give me a place to be safe and open and unguarded.

Her hand slowed, thumb sliding over the taut, slick head, eyes wide as she watched herself.
And I watched, too. The sight of her hand wrapped around me caused me to groan, jump in her palm.

“I love that I made you hard,” she barely whispered.

“You do,” I admitted. “Hard enough to feel nearly mad, all the time.”

I sounded desperate. Hell, I
felt
desperate.

She looked up at my mouth and I bent to kiss her, sucking at her wet, plump lips.

Her nipples grew tight, skin pebbled, and it struck me that she behaved almost as if this was all for her, that my pleasure was a gift in some way. I had to admit it made me high to be wanted like this, with such awed abandon. At the same time, I wanted her to feel the same ease with me when we were intimate like this as when we were conversing or simply walking down Fifth Avenue in easy silence.

I ran my finger over her lip, trapping it with a kiss and hissing at the taste of her on my skin.

Her fist stroked up, down, sliding and gripping perfectly.

“I can taste you on my finger,” I murmured into her mouth, shifting, beginning to move my hips as I kissed down to her chest.

I swelled in her hand, feeling the pleasure climb my legs and descend along my spine until I was savagely fucking her fist, my mouth sucking ferociously at her breast until the blood pooled beneath the skin and her tight breaths in my ear begged me to
come, come, come, come
 . . .

With a deep groan, I let go, spilling into her hand, her hip,
her navel, and even across the breast I’d marked with my mouth. Even after my orgasm dissolved and the only sound in the room was my heaving breaths, she didn’t let go of me. Instead, with her other hand she reached up, pressing her palm across where I’d come on her skin.

Only once I stilled over her did I realize how wild we’d been, how savage in our touches and kisses. Her chest was red from the scratch of my stubble; her lips looked swollen and abused. Sweat covered the surface of our skin. Without having kissed her between her legs, without having made love to her, I’d just had the wildest sexual experience of my life.

She closed her eyes, chin wobbling slightly before she admitted, “I’m terrified that what I feel for you is going to get too big for—”

I quieted her words with a kiss, sucking at her full bottom lip and reaching to distract her, my fingers sliding between her legs again.

I was barely able to escape the chaos of my own thoughts. This was more intense than anything I’d experienced in my marriage. This was more intense than anything I’d experienced,
ever
.

Something about that felt terrifying, and wrong.

I needed to dive back down into sensation before panic over this enormous emotion swelled and made me mute.

I expected him to sleep like he worked—stiffly, everything about him as adult as an adult can be.
Adult
as a verb and adjective. But he didn’t. He was asleep on his stomach, hands dug under his pillow, curled around it and with his face pressed to his arm. Like a kid or a drunk frat boy, complete with the occasional mumbled word and soft, snuffling breaths.

The arm I was propped up on began to fall asleep, and with a quiet groan I rolled to my back, careful to not jostle him. I wanted to keep watching him. I wanted to keep this feeling—completely blissed out—alive just a little longer. If I thought keeping him primed on a steady dose of sleeping pills would make this moment last, I might have considered it. The sheets smelled like him, my skin still hummed with the memory of his fingertips, and lips and—
holy shit, his come
—everywhere. If I closed my eyes I could still feel the faint press of his fingers pumping between my legs.

But with the quiet, soft sounds of Niall sleeping came
the familiar doubt. It was still faint enough to ignore, like hearing someone shout from the other side of a wall, but I wondered how long it would stay that way. If there was one thing my parents encouraged us to do, it was to listen to our gut, to take note when something felt worrisome or scary. And this definitely felt scary. It was fucking terrifying.

Niall seemed to approach our relationship with fits and starts. I knew he was hesitant about his ability to be a good partner, but was that all it was?

The room was still dark, and I rolled over again, tucking myself back into the warm space at his side. His skin smelled faintly of soap and his breaths were soft and even. I closed my eyes, rationalizing that it was too early to worry about things I couldn’t control. There would be plenty of time for that later.

When I opened them again, I was alone, blinking up at the ceiling overhead.

The blue curtains glowed, backlit from the morning on the other side, and the bathroom light flooded the carpet near the hotel room door.

I could hear water running and the faint
tap tap tap
of something knocking against the sink.

“Niall?” I called out, pushing up onto an elbow. The water shut off and a head of dark hair peeked out the doorway.

“Good morning,” he said, one side of his face still
covered in an even layer of shaving cream. “I hope I didn’t wake you?”

I frowned when I realized that he was shirtless—
yay
—but he was wearing dress pants—
boo
. “Where are you going?” I asked through a yawn.

He’d stepped back into the bathroom, and I heard his voice over the running water. “I woke to a message from Tony,” he said, and I felt the involuntary eye roll that somehow always accompanied that name. “He’s set up an early meeting across town I need to get to.”

“At . . .” I glanced at the clock. “Seven in the morning?”

“Sadly, yes.”

I was hoping we’d have breakfast together. Actually, I’d hoped we’d have room service and maybe feed each other bite-size pieces of fruit followed by rigorous shower sex.

“Okay,” I said instead. The bed suddenly seemed less empty as my doubts from last night resurfaced and slipped back between the sheets.

Niall walked out of the bathroom and slid his arms into the sleeves of a dress shirt. I stared as his torso disappeared with each button slipped through its hole. “You’ll meet me at the office later?” he asked.

“Of course.” I propped myself up on two pillows, and a thought occurred to me. “Last night—?”