Beautiful Secret (Beautiful Bastard 4)

“Where have you been?” he asked. Not accusing, not upset. Just wanting to know.

“I had coffee with Max and Will.” When his eyebrows rose, I added, “They found me taking selfies in Midtown.”

“Did you have a good time?” he asked.

“They’re . . . nice.” Tucking my hair behind my ear, I added quietly, “We talked about you. He’s quite a fan, that big brother of yours.”

Niall’s smile curled one side of his mouth and he pushed back from his desk and stood, walking around to face me. I expected him to ask what we’d said, but he didn’t. He simply let his attention move over my face. I’m sure it was obvious that we’d talked about my feelings, about Niall and me together; I could feel how warm my cheeks were.

“How was your meeting earlier?” I asked, out of breath. I’d taken the elevator; it wasn’t from exertion. It was the nearness of him, the way he was looking at me as if he was reeling through every touch from last night. This morning he’d been so brusque, and with the intensity of his stare now, I was able to acknowledge without triggering an internal panic that Niall had seemed to be freaking out—as if fleeing the scene of a crime.

But had I misread him entirely?

Had he simply wanted it to feel familiar? Or had he needed to know that I was okay, that this was okay?

“It was good,” he said. “We’re very nearly done with our proposal.” His eyes barely strayed from my mouth.

“That’s good,” I agreed.

“Quite.”

I bit my lip, pulling in a nervous smile before saying, “You seem a bit distracted.”

Niall nodded, reaching up to carefully touch my bottom lip. “I’ve never seen you wear this color.”

“Is it too red?” I asked.

He blinked, shaking his head in two tiny movements. “No. Not too red.”

Was this how I chipped away at the outside? By reminding him again and again that I wasn’t Portia, that I wanted him, and that it was okay to want me, too?

My heart hammering, I turned to the door and locked it as quietly as possible before turning back to him. Pulling my purse up, I dug inside it for my lipstick. I still had no real idea what I was doing, only that he was transfixed by the color of my mouth and I felt physically unwilling to redirect his attention.

While he watched, rapt, I uncapped it, rolled it up, and reapplied it.

“You can’t be real,” he whispered.

My pulse pounded so powerfully beneath my breastbone that I still couldn’t catch my breath. I set the lipstick behind him on the desk and then reached up, undoing his tie, releasing the top two buttons of his shirt. He stood completely still as I bent, pressing my mouth to the warm skin just over his heart.

I lifted my head to look up at him, catching his expression of wonder.

“Again,” he rasped.

I leaned forward, kissing lower, releasing another button, and then another. I kissed over his rib, bending to kiss again where chest turned into stomach.

He remained silent, breaths coming out in sharp exhales that jerked his abdomen beneath my mouth.

I looked over the red marks along his chest and stomach, starting to relish the idea of Niall walking around the rest of the day wearing me beneath his clothes. But I didn’t want to be done with this, and he didn’t seem to want it, either.

“I can keep going,” I told him.

He wants my kiss there. I can see it in his eyes.

My fingers toyed with his belt, eyes studying his expression. If it tightened, if I saw even an inch of retreat there, I would back off.

Instead, I saw relief, acquiescence, something just shy of desperation.

His belt came free with a tiny clang of metal on metal. His zipper ticked down in the silent room. And then I waited, my fingers holding the open fabric of his dress pants. The straining tip of his cock pressed up against the elastic waistband of his boxers. The quiet was sliced apart every time he exhaled in a gust.

I saw his eyes flicker to the door and then return to my face.

I shook my head. “I can st—”

His “no” was sharply hissed.

With a little nod, I kissed the soft trail of hair on his abdomen, licked it.

“Dear God,” he gasped.

I slid my hand into his boxers, nearly undone by the dip of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, let his head fall back. I was struck all over again by the weight of him, the heavy length I pulled free as I kneeled in front of him.

“I probably need more lipstick,” I whispered.

With effort, he raised his head, looking down at me, and then blinked into awareness. “Of course.” His fingers fumbled behind him on the desk, knocking pens and papers to the floor before finding the silver tube.