Beautiful Secret (Beautiful Bastard 4)

This conversation had leapt off the cliff and was sailing through the air. I could barely hold on. “I’m going to make a completely unscientific guess and say it’s seventy-thirty, in favor of not swallowing.”

His eyes lit up with a teasing smile. “And which category do you fall into? The seventy or the thirty?”

“With you?” I said in a whisper, leaning in, “I will.”

Niall inhaled, his head jerking back slightly. The room seemed to shrink until I felt like it was just the two of us at this table, looking at each other. “I want it, too,” he admitted.

The image, the idea seemed to take up the tiny remainder of empty space between us until it was this alive, pulsing thing.

“Say something filthy,” I whispered, feeling brave. Feeling wild. “Tell me the craziest, dirtiest thing you can think of. Render me speechless.”

He nodded as if I’d given him a normal request, and glanced at his clasped hands on the table for several breaths before blinking up to me. His brown eyes were so thickly lined with lashes and once again he looked just like a man, and less like the intimidating conquest I’d idolized for months.

I wanted him even more.

He leaned closer, saying, “I very much enjoy—”

“Dirtier,” I cut in, breath catching. “Stop thinking so much.”

His eyes seemed to darken as he looked down at my mouth. “I want it.”

“Want what? Don’t filter.”

“For you to suck my cock, and suck it so hungrily that you beg me with your eyes to let you swallow.”

Oh.

Niall Stella was a fast learner.

The waitress came by with our food, setting it down before asking us if there was anything else we needed. I wanted to ask her for a bucket of ice. For my lap.

I bit back a laugh, but Niall replied with a smile, “We’re good. Cheers.”

“Wow. Well played,” I mumbled when we were alone again, still dazed. “I’m not sure how I’ll eat now.”

The noise around us seemed to return in a roar, reminding me that we weren’t alone in a hotel room. We were leaning toward each other, nearly kissing across the table.

“What are we doing to each other?” he whispered.

I shrugged. “We’re . . . trying?”

He lifted his knife and fork, cutting into his steak. “I’m actually famished now.”

“Postcoital?” I joked.

“Not hardly,” he growled, taking a bite.

He looked up at me as he chewed. I watched his sharp jaw flex with the motion, his lips press together. How did he make eating sexy? Not even a little fair.

Swallowing, he asked, “What?”

“Nothing. You’re just a sexy eater. It’s distracting after what you just said about oral sex.”

He pushed his lips together in an adorably dubious reaction before asking, “Normal topic then?”

“Good idea.” Finally, I took a bite of my salmon.

“Favorite word?” he asked.

“Cunt,” I said without hesitation.

He gasped in mock horror. “You stole mine.”

I nearly choked. “I can’t even imagine you thinking that word, let alone saying it.”

Laughing, he shook his head as he cut another bite, chewed, and swallowed. “I imagine there are a great many things I think but never say. I love that word. It’s true I rarely say it aloud.”

“What’s your favorite context for it?”

Humming in thought, he finally said, “I like it as an insult in a game of footie, you know? Like, ‘Stop grabbing me shirt, yer cunt.’ ” He bent, taking a bite of green bean and oblivious to my wide-eyed swoon at his thick northern accent when he said it. He swallowed, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and then said, “What’s your favorite context for it?”

I gulped down about half of my wine. “Probably something a bit cruder than that.”

“Yeah?” he asked, grinning in understanding. “I thought Americans hated that word.”

“I don’t.”

Niall lifted his wineglass to his lips, and took a long swallow. “I’ll remember that.”

EIGHT

Niall

The playful banter slipped into something a bit quieter after we’d finished our meals. Conversation flowed as easily as did the wine. Ruby had youthful attitudes about sex, but surprisingly traditional attitudes about relationships themselves. She admitted, between dinner and dessert, that despite all the flirting, she didn’t like the idea of sex without some sort of understanding.

I studied Ruby—soft mouth, wide eyes, hands gesturing sweetly in front of her to punctuate every thought she shared—and marveled over how effortless it seemed for her. She was patient with my inexperience and hesitations. Indeed, they didn’t even seem to surprise her.