The Millionaire Makeover (Bachelor Auction) (14 page)

“Niall,” she repeated his name, a subtle plea. To stop or to continue? Maybe even she didn’t know.

“Just for tonight. Tell me I have the right.” He dropped his hand away from her face.

Her choice. It had to be hers. He could persuade her with a kiss or a touch, essentially taking control out of her hands. When she looked back on this, he didn’t want her to use grief, anger, or lust as excuses for surrendering to him. She wanted him—her soft pants, dark eyes, and trembling body relayed her desire. But she had to
own
it.

She blinked, confusion skating across her expressive features.

“I need to hear you say the words. Tell me.”

“I—” She closed her eyes, her indecision obvious. Finally, her lashes lifted, and though uncertainty clouded her gaze, strength steadied her voice. “I give you the right.” Pause. “For tonight.”

Fierce triumph rushed through him even as a tinge of restless dissatisfaction tainted it. Ignoring the niggling discontent, he extended his arm. “Come here,” he murmured.

Toeing off her shoes, she drew her knees under her and shifting, straddled his lap. Her scent of vanilla and warm skin enveloped him, teased him. Bracing her palms on the head rest behind him, she slowly lowered until her nose nudged his and their breath mingled, mated in a precursor to the kiss he ached for from her. Firm thighs bracketed his, and though her panties and his trousers separated them, he swore the heat of her sex branded his cock.

Sliding his palms up her calves and under her wide skirt, he gloried in the silken texture that had nothing to do with the stockings encasing her legs and everything to do with smooth, beautiful skin. She shivered, her hips flexing, grinding against him, and he gritted his teeth against the sensual rub and pressure over his dick. Easing higher, closer to the sweet flesh he fantasized about, he buried his face in the fragrant crook between her neck and shoulder. The vanilla aroma was stronger, headier there, as if she’d dabbed perfume to this spot. Where else had she added it? The pulse points at her wrists? The tender skin inside her…

“What the fuck?” he rasped. Leaning back, he yanked his hands from under her dress, flipped the skirt back…baring the thigh-high stockings with lace borders. “Oh, baby…” he whispered, brushing the delicate material before stroking the toned flesh and muscle above. “Like a fantasy come to life.”

He trailed a meandering caress to the crease where torso and thigh met. Followed the edge of her underwear before dipping between her legs and tracing the damp panel gloving her feminine folds. She cried out, hips bucking, but he gripped her waist, murmuring a soothing sound, controlling the movement. Captivated, he circled a fingertip over the top of her sex, coaxing the bud of her clitoris out. A shudder rippled through her body, and her fingers tangled in his hair, twisting in the strands. But he could bear the slight nip of pain—enjoyed it.

“You want to come now, yeah? Take the edge off?”

“God, yes. Please,” she breathed.

He dipped a finger beneath the edge of her panties and encountered hot, wet flesh. Following the slit between her folds, he honed in on her clit. Pressed it. Flicked it. Strummed and teased it. Her pants quickened, her gyrations increased in speed and power. So close. He’d only been touching her for mere seconds, and already she hovered on the edge of orgasm. Her very responsiveness and inhibition were like strokes to his own flesh. Surging forward, he released his hold on her waist and buried his fingers in her hair, tugging her head back. Clamping his teeth over the tendon running the length of her slender neck, he worked the pulsing nub, relentlessly driving her closer and closer to orgasm.

With a long, tortured whimper, she came.

Goddamn, she was beautiful in her ecstasy. Eyes squeezed shut, teeth sunk into her lush bottom lip, convulsing in pleasure. This image would be forever branded on his brain. When he was ninety years old, the memory of her shuddering and crying out with her cream coating his finger would have his dick hard. When he returned home, and the loneliness at night dogged him, he would have this.

“I’ll buy you another pair,” he growled, his only warning before twisting the side of her panties in his fist and yanking. Her sharp intake of breath preceded another rip on the other side. He removed the material, tossing it to the floor of the limo. “I need inside you.”

“Wait,” she whispered, her voice still hoarse from her release.

He jerked his gaze to her flushed features, softened by satisfaction. Even though his heart thumped against his chest at her objection, he couldn’t prevent the warm glow of pride blooming inside him. He’d done that. Not Bennett. Not any man. Only he’d seen her like this.

“I want to…” she repeated, sliding off his lap.

“What—?” But her hands at the closure of his pants stole whatever words would’ve followed. “Baby,” he breathed, tunneling his hands in her dark, thick hair, and gripping her scalp. His cock throbbed as if in anticipation of being freed, of being in her hands. Her heaven-and-hell mouth.

She rose on her knees, and he spread his thighs wider, granting her more room to move closer. Curling over him, she reached inside his black boxer briefs, encircled his dick, and squeezed. He cursed, low and harsh. The warm air of the limo kissed the slick head as she yanked down his underwear, baring him.

“I’ve wanted this,” she whispered, her fist leisurely pumping his rigid flesh. “Dreamed about it,” she softly admitted.

“Take me, baby.” He asserted a small amount of pressure on her head, but allowing the decision to be hers. And when her lips opened over him, her tongue flicking over the head, tasting him, he groaned long and deep in his throat. The heat. The wetness. The suction of her greedy mouth.

He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the sight of her sucking him in, loving him. Almost…worshipping him. Pleasure suffused her features. Her muted hums vibrated over his flesh, adding another sensation on top of the tight grip of her fist and the sweet ring of her mouth. He tried to let her grab the reins, take control, but before long, his fingers pressed into her scalp, holding her steady while he fucked her lips and tongue. She didn’t seem to mind, though—not from the moans and cries caressing his flesh.

So damn good. His lashes fluttered.
Too
damn good. Pleasure sizzled at the base of his spine, drew his balls taut…

“Enough,” he ground out, raising her head. She made a move to return to his dick, but he squeezed lightly, halting her. “I’m about to come.”

“Okay,” she rasped, continuing to stroke him.

He covered her hand with one of his. “As much as I love your mouth, I want to be inside you when that happens. And I want to feel you rain down on me. Come here.”

She reclaimed her position over his thighs, and he gathered her flowing skirt in his fist, holding it up and to the side so he could watch her swallow him. Watch it and feel it. Just as her folds pressed to the tip, he stopped her.

“Condom,” he growled. Levering up, he snatched his wallet from his back pocket, yanked the foil square out, and quickly sheathed himself. “Now, Khloe,” he murmured. “Fuck me.”

Palms pressed to the back of the seat, she sank down on him, squeezing him tighter than the protection separating him from her. Breathing became impossible as her pussy squeezed his length, flexed and worked to accommodate him. The dominant position allowed her control of her movements and him, and she took full advantage. Sweat dampened his brow and skin by the time she completely accepted him. Her flesh quivered and spasmed around him, and for several long moments, they remained still, forehead to forehead, enduring and enjoying the erotic embrace.

Before long, she began to shift, dancing on his dick with sensual twists and circles of her hips. Being encased in her mouth had nothing on being gripped by her sex. She wrecked him with her carnal rising and falling, her teasing clenching and releasing, her teeth-grinding rubbing and rolling.

“Stop playing with me,” he snarled, his fingers digging into the firm flesh of her ass. “Ride me. Hard.”

She did. Like a woman possessed, chasing her pleasure. Long drags up his cock, fast, hard plunges down. The first warning of her orgasm rippled over him seconds before her flesh clamped down on him with the power of a vise. Her high, keening cry snapped the remnants of control he’d possessed. Digging his fingers into her hips, he held her still and pistoned into her. One. Two. Three more strokes, and he exploded. It seemed as if everything he was surged down to his cock and streamed into the condom, trying to fill her. To mark her.

Tongues of fire continued to lick at him as he slowed his thrusts, eventually stopping to draw her close. Fold his arms around her. Hold her for however long he could.

“Stay with me,” he whispered against the tangled strands of her hair. “I can’t give you forever, but tonight. Stay with me.”

Beats of silence passed while his lungs ceased pumping, waiting for an answer that had suddenly become as vital to him as breathing.

“Okay.”

And he exhaled.

Chapter Eleven

“I have a confession to make,” Khloe murmured, tracing the flat, dark brown male nipple inches from her face.

A big hand covered hers, halting the caress.

“You expect me to listen much less think while you’re doing that?” Niall asked, his low voice rumbling in his chest beneath her ear.

“Sorry.”
Not
. How could she resist touching him when he was laid out before and under her like a sensual feast. She flattened her palm over his abdomen…then couldn’t help tracing the delineated ridges.

“You’re killing me.” He half groaned-half chuckled. “Stop distracting me and spill about this confession. I’ve been waiting for some dirt on you.”

She sighed, debating with herself about admitting to this particular sin, even though she’d brought it up. “Tonight,” she said, pressing her cheek harder to his skin. “Tonight I was jealous.”

The fingers stroking her hair stilled.

“When?”

Rolling over, she fell back against the mattress and pillow. Tugging the sheet over her breasts, she trained her gaze on the ceiling and gold molding.

“When you were talking with Morgan. Something she said made you laugh, and I…” Damn. She should’ve kept her mouth shut. “All evening, you hadn’t even smiled at me unless it was part of the act. I…hated she’d been able to bring you even a moment of joy when I couldn’t.” She crossed her arms over her chest, forced herself to finish the admission. “Not to mention, she’s the type of woman you’re used to—gorgeous, skinny, elegant, polished…”

“You can doubt how beautiful men find you after that dinner party?” he demanded seconds before the bed dipped, and he shifted on top of her. Instinctively, she widened her legs, making room for his hips and torso. Would she do that for another man? For…Bennett? Her belly pitched at the thought of a man other than Niall moving over her, inside her.

Well, damn
. When had that happened?

“Khloe,” Niall said, dragging her back from the town limits of What-the-Hell-Have-I-Done-ville with a breath-stealing rock of his hips. His thick and newly revived erection ground over her sex, the head nudging her clit.

“Again?” she gasped. “Seriously? We just finished having sex not twenty minutes ago.”

He chuckled, the wickedness in it not eclipsing the chagrin twisting his lips. “What can I say? I stay hard around you. You blink, I’m hard. Nothing I can do about it.” He delivered another of those delicious strokes. “Well, actually there
is
something I can do about it.”

Laughing, she slapped his shoulder. “That’s awful. Funny, but awful.”

“Stop stalling. How can you doubt men find you attractive?”

“A week ago, I would’ve have counted the ways then listed them alphabetically.”

“And I would’ve slapped down each one,” he growled, resting his elbows on either side of her head. “A week ago your hair and clothes were changed, not you. Not the lovely, sexy, smart, kind, funny—”

“Stop,” she ordered, heat and pleasure that had nothing to do with his naked body pressed to hers flowing into her face. “I’m being serious.”

“Me, too. Khloe,” he murmured, brushing his lips over hers. “I didn’t need any of those changes to see you. But
you
did. In my eyes you’re still the same incredibly sensual, gorgeous woman whether you’re wearing hot ass stilettoes…or those orthopedic shoes you seem to favor.”

A huge, cleansing laugh welled up from deep inside her and rolled out, filling the bedroom. He grinned, and her heart skipped a beat. As if it’d snagged on something and tripped.

Oh shit
. She closed her eyes.
I’m not falling for him again. I’m
not.

“Hey.” He cradled her face between his palms. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, lifting her lashes and forcing a smile to her lips.
Nothing except that schoolgirl crush I believed was a thing of the past looks like it might have returned only squared by a thousand
. “Nothing,” she repeated softly.

He studied her, his eyes seeking, penetrating. Calling on her best acting skills, she schooled her features into a mask she hoped revealed none of the confusion brewing inside her.

“Okay,” he murmured, but somehow she didn’t believe he’d bought her pretense, but was biding his time. Like the patient but merciless hunter he resembled. “Are you hungry?”

She glanced at the clock on the far wall. “It’s one o’clock in the morning.”

He shrugged. “So we won’t eat steak and potatoes.” As he sprang off the bed and dragged on his pants, she couldn’t help but admire the flex of muscles in his arms and back. They looked like a carefully coordinated, beautiful dance under his golden skin. “Cheese, crackers, and wine, okay?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Sure.” She cleared her throat, and tried to pretend as if she weren’t just ogling him. “That sounds per—is that your fiddle?” Excitement trilled through her. Clutching the sheet to her breasts, she scooted across the bed, her gaze fixed on the dark brown instrument case half-hidden behind a chair in the corner. “Oh my God, it’s been years—”

His utter silence drew her attention to him. She blinked, her voice breaking off like a snapped twig. Tension had invaded his body, and he’d gone unnaturally still. A small muscle jumped along his rigid jaw, his mouth drawn into a grim, straight line.

“Niall,” she said, worry creeping into her voice.

“I usually bring it with me when I leave on trips,” he stated flatly. “Playing helps me to unwind, especially if it’s been a day full of tedious meetings.” He turned, his hooded gaze shuttered. “I don’t play in front of other people… Ever.”

Bleak. She’d thought his eyes were blank, but no. Shadows like old wounds that had never healed shaded his eyes. Bruised eyes.

A week ago in the pub, he’d shut her down when she’d asked about his music.

I’m a businessman, not an artist
.

The stark declaration had contradicted her memory of the boy who’d worn a soft, half-smile as he’d coaxed beautiful melody after melody out of his Irish violin. She’d rarely been allowed to tag along with Michael to the gorgeous Beacon Hill brownstone where he and Niall often gathered at when Niall’s parents weren’t home. But the few times she’d heard and seen him play had been…magical.

“Why?” she asked gently. “From what I remember, you were wonderful.”

For a moment, she didn’t believe he would answer. From the clenching and unclenching of his jaw, a war seemed to be occurring inside him. Almost as if he fought to keep an explanation inside him. Finally, he slid his hands into the front pockets of his unbuttoned slacks and stared straight ahead at the painting of a Victorian home at the end of a long, tree-lined lane. The art was beautiful, but she doubted he even saw it.

“From the time I was old enough to walk, my father carried me to his office. He wanted to entrench the business in me early. Wanted me to fully comprehend the Hunter empire would one day rest on my shoulders. I enjoyed it. Since he lived and breathed Duir Music, I felt closer to him there. And back then, I would do anything to please him. Anything to hear a small bit of praise from a man who so rarely doled it out.”

She’d only met Andrew Hunter twice. Tall. Imposing. Handsome. Niall had inherited the best of genes from his Irish father and American mother. But neither had been particularly effusive with affection toward their son. Theirs had been a reserved household with Diana Hunter perpetually involved in some charity or fundraiser and Andrew most often running his business from Dublin, visiting home about two times a month.

“As I grew older, I started to spend more time in the recording studios. The musicians there…” He shook his head, and the first hints of warmth started to thaw the cold monotone. “They were amazing. So gifted. And generous to the owner’s son.” His mouth curved into a wry smile. “I picked up my first fiddle at ten. The music just came to me. By the time I was twelve, I could play difficult pieces without fumbling. One artist called me a natural. Said my father would be proud to have a talent like me for a son.” The smile twisted into something darker, uglier. “And fool that I was, I believed him. One afternoon, I burst into Da’s office, excited about the new song I’d learned. ‘The Irish Washerwoman.’ I’ll never forget it. He was sitting behind his desk, and I ran up to it, said, ‘listen to this,’ and started playing.”

He turned, hands still in his pockets, and faced her. Once more, the ice had returned to his face and voice. But his eyes…

“When I finished, I stood there, grinning, because it had been flawless. For a few seconds I didn’t even notice his fury. That’s when I realized he hadn’t been alone. Not only had I violated the cardinal rule of not interrupting business, but I’d embarrassed him. He dragged me from the office and tore into me about my blatant disregard for his rules, for humiliating him with my ‘amateurish squawking.’ ‘You’re a Hunter, goddammit. We produce music, make money off it. Not play it like some common busker.’ He never carried me with him to his office again. For almost a year, I didn’t play. Not until we moved to Boston, and he stayed in Dublin. And even then, only where no one could hear. Until Michael.” He paused. “And you.”

Tears burned her eyes for the rejected, hurt boy who’d sought his father’s approval only to be cut down, his joy stolen by careless, thoughtless words and injured pride. Tears stung for the man who found solace in music but was also bound by it. Still afraid of sharing that hidden part of his soul with another person. Still afraid of rejection.

“Will you play for me?”

Her breath caught in her throat. She was asking for more than a song, a performance. She asked him to take a risk on her. She asked him to let go of the past.

She asked him for his trust.

When his abrupt nod came, she almost sagged back on the bed. The importance of his trust sank into her bones, her spirit…her heart. Its value exceeded the most precious jewel because this powerful, proud Irishman didn’t bestow it often or easily.

Niall strode to the case and within seconds, had the gorgeous fiddle in his hands. Reverence poured from him. Quiet delight and peace softened his mouth, lightened his gaze as he sat in the chair and quickly tuned the fiddle. Moments later, he rose, tucked the broad end of the instrument beneath his chin, and rested the body of it on his collarbone and left shoulder. His left hand tenderly grasped the neck, his fingers positioned and ready to play.

Bow in hand, he arched an eyebrow. “What do you want to hear?”

“‘The Irish Washerwoman.’” The song he’d played in his father’s office. The song that should’ve garnered praise and instead won him ridicule.

After a heartbeat of silence, he lifted the bow and strummed it across the cords. A lively jig soon filled the room, the harmony dancing in the air, inviting hand claps and foot stomps. She couldn’t help but smile. His expert hands didn’t falter. Not one melody jarred or clang. The song transported her to a smoky, Irish pub with cold rain tapping on the roof and windows while laughter, beer, and music abounded inside around a welcoming fire.

The last note vibrated in the air, and he segued into a lovely ballad that had tears spilling over onto her cheeks. The lilting, almost sad melody reached into her heart and squeezed. And Niall…he’d never been more beautiful to her with his eyes closed, lips parted, tall, lean frame slightly swaying with the harmony. This was the man he concealed from the world—the tender, sensitive man. The artist.

When he lowered his bow and his lashes lifted, she didn’t bother to hide the moist tracks on her face. He needed to see her reaction. See that she found him—his passion—remarkable.

“Those are good tears, yeah?” he teased, the Irish lilt more pronounced. As if he concealed a deeper emotion behind the gentle banter.

“You are beautiful,” she whispered. “You and your music.”

Surprise flashed across his features, followed by a fierceness that snatched the breath from her lungs.

“Thank you,” he rasped. Two simple words, but then, not simple at all.

“Thank
you
,” she said in return. Drawing her legs under her and crossing them, she asked, “What was the name of the second song?”

“‘There is No Night.’”

Maybe that’s why it had resonated with her. With no night, the day or time with a loved one couldn’t end. She shivered, wrapped her arms around herself. And maybe that was why the song contained a hint of sadness. Because time always passed, always came to a conclusion.

“Will you play another?” she murmured.

Niall nodded, and as his music soared into the room, once more she let it carry her away to a land of misty, emerald hills, magic, tragic battles, and doomed love.

Let it carry her far from the hotel room where foolish women fell for unavailable, guarded men with heartbreak written all over them.