Beautiful Secret (Beautiful Bastard #4) (15 page)

Traffic whizzed by as I followed Niall down into the newly reopened station, my eyes on his broad shoulders as he descended the stairs in front of me. He looked Serious Business today. His expression had remained neutral throughout our cab ride to the station, conversation kept to a minimum. He wore a dark suit and darker overcoat, his brown cashmere scarf continually escaping the lapels of his coat and trailing over his shoulder behind him. There was purpose when Niall Stella walked.

A handful of engineers was
there to meet us, and Niall introduced us both, taking the time to get each person’s name, and listening attentively as they took us from one end of the tunnel to the other. It was dizzying to see him like this—so knowledgeable and completely in his element—while simultaneously remembering what he’d looked like last night. In six months I’d amassed a catalog of Niall Stella memories, and the few unguarded ones I’d made since coming to New York seemed to eclipse them all.

Niall called me over to stand next to him, and I watched as he crouched down, took measurements, and inspected one of the proposed entrances. My brain was a mess of focus and inattention: I wanted to absorb everything around me, but having him so close after last night turned me into a complete mental maniac.
Was he thinking about it? Was he pretending it didn’t happen?

A horrifying thought occurred to me:
Was it even possible he didn’t remember?

He called out numbers or various notes while he worked, but it was noisy, the sound of trains and people making it difficult to hear him. I had to stay close, so close that his shoulder would occasionally brush against the side of my leg.

I assumed it was accidental, and tried not to react as goose bumps spread along my skin. But by the second and third time, I began to wonder.

“Ruby,” he asked me, looking up quickly.
“Did you make note that this was the last of the stations to reopen?”

I nodded. Of course I had. But given how important it seemed to him, I took down the information again anyway, my pen stopping, tip pressed into the paper as I felt his palm wrap around my calf. It lingered there for only a moment, fingers trailing slowly up toward my knee, gripping ever so slightly, before they were gone.

Every nerve in my body seemed to run on a circuit, beginning at where he’d touched me and stopping just between my legs. I swayed on my feet, my nipples tight and my breasts heavy as an ache moved up my thighs.

My heart twisted. He remembered; he just had to wrestle his way out of his own head.

The more time we spent near each other, the more he seemed to unwind around me and his wordless flirtation slowly built over the rest of the afternoon: his hand pressed to my lower back as we left the station, his fingers quickly brushing the hair off my forehead as we stood in line for coffee, and, once, his thumb sweeping across my lower lip, back and forth and back and forth as our subway train moved through a dark tunnel.

I couldn’t breathe. Could barely remain upright.

When a seat opened up on the train and he urged me to sit down, he stepped close enough that his belt buckle was only inches from my face. In front of me was the long expanse of his torso, slim
shirt tucked neatly into his pants. And, lower, the clear downward line of his cock against his thigh, already half hard.

Sweet Lord
.

I reached up, hooking a finger through his belt loop as he gazed down at me, wordless and rapt.

When we rose from the station, he came up behind me as I stopped to get my bearings. His large hands curled around my hips and he pressed into me.

I
felt
him.

I mean, I felt
him
.

I lost my breath when his mouth came against my ear and he said simply, “We’re headed to the left.”

By the time we got back to the temporary offices I was ready to explode. I felt tight and swollen between my legs, the skin of my thighs slick and wet. My senses seemed to be dialed up to a ten, and even the most basic things—the lace of my bra brushing across my breasts—felt wanton.

But what I thought had to be leading up to something . . . didn’t. Instead of closing the door to our empty office and touching me—I didn’t care for one second that we were at work—he moved to his small desk and sorted through a few files while I stood there, hot and confused and speechless.

It was torture to feel this way. To be infatuated, to feel his interest grow but see him continually close back up after each tiny step of progress. I wanted to simply
ask
him, but worried that would close
him up for good.

Beyond that, I
ached
. It was an entire afternoon of quiet, gentle foreplay and my body felt like a pitchfork struck against an iron beam. I was practically vibrating.

Our bathroom was private, thank God, and going into it I flipped the lock, taking what had to be my first real breath all day. I could still smell the faint scent of his cologne, as if it had somehow been burned into my senses. As I crossed the room to the small leather bench that sat just under the window, I let myself imagine how he would smell up close, with my nose pressed directly against his skin.

With that image in mind, I took a seat and slipped my panties down my legs as I imagined the warmth of that skin under my touch. My fingertips became his, and they skirted up my thigh and between my legs. If I listened closely, I could hear his voice as he spoke to someone on the phone. I pretended he was speaking only for me.

I was so sensitive, so wet, that the slightest touch, the graze of a fingertip over my clit had my hips rocking forward, wanting more. With my eyes closed, I listened to him talk, his accent curving the words into something that sent a current of awareness from my nipples to my pussy. I imagined him pushing those words into my neck; the rise and fall of his voice became the rhythm of him moving in and out of me. I imagined him just on the other side of the door,
knowing
that I was touching myself, and begging that he be the one to do it next time.

The very idea was enough to send
me over the edge, and I came against my own hand, my body arching into the touch.

Only then did I notice how quiet the outside office had grown, and that I might possibly have been too loud. I could hear the even tick of the watch on my wrist, the faint hum of traffic on the street below, but no more voices, no footsteps pacing through the office.

Once my legs were steady, I stood and righted my clothes, moving to the sink to freshen up.

Stepping out of the bathroom, I crept into the hall, nearly crashing into him on the way out.

“Sorry!” I gasped, attempting to catch a stack of files as they scattered across the floor. “Let me get those!” I exclaimed, definitely emphasizing my growing undercurrent of embarrassment.

Niall ignored me, and bent to gather the papers himself.

I tried to avoid meeting his gaze, certain what I’d just done had to be written in flashing, neon ink across my forehead.

I smoothed my skirt and tucked my bangs to the side before I looked up at him. He was studying me, head tilted.

“What?” I asked, feigning innocence.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course I am.”

“You’re flushed. Are you quite sure you’re not feeling poorly? I can certainly manage by myself today
if—”

“I’m fine,” I said, shrugging out of his reach, feeling a small flash of irritation.

He followed me to my desk, watchful gaze nearly burning a hole through the back of my head.

“You haven’t been . . . running up stairs?” he asked haltingly, as if he knew it wasn’t quite right.

“No, I . . .” I considered lying, but knew he’d never buy that. “Jesus, you’re like a dog with a bone. Can we change the subject, please?”

His eyes softened as they scanned my face, and then he inhaled sharply, glancing over my shoulder as if remembering where we were. “Come on then. Out with it.”

“I was . . .” I started, wondering who I’d have to kill to get the ground to just open up and swallow me whole. Seriously, this playing field was starting to feel a little uneven. “I was just . . .”

“You were . . .” His brows drew together and his gaze flickered to my hand at my throat as he seemed to understand. “In the ladies’ room? Just now?”

“Yes.”

“At
work
?”

Ugh
.

“I’m sorry . . . After last night and then today . . .”

“Wait,” he said, swallowing thickly. “You were thinking of
me
in there?”

“Of course, I—” I began and then stopped, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath.
How did he stay so quiet, so still? “You touch me, but then you turn aloof. The mixed signals make me feel crazy.”

And now I felt crazy with a side of humiliation.

I almost jumped when I felt the gentle prod of his finger under my chin. “Did you come, my darling?”

Fire slid into my veins, and when I looked up at him, I saw the same burning in his.

I licked my lips, nodding.

“Tell me specifically what were you thinking about.”

“Touching you,” I said, my mouth suddenly dry. “Kissing you.”

He nodded, eyes unfocused as he stared at my lips.

It was all the invitation I needed. I stood on my tiptoes, running my nose along the warm skin of his neck. He made a sound that was something between a whimper and a groan, and tried to put the smallest amount of space between us. Looking down at me, he seemed to struggle to work through a hundred different things. I could immediately tell he was torn. Maybe I was right, and post-divorce, he felt a little gun-shy. Maybe he was worried this was all moving too fast. Or maybe he simply wasn’t comfortable doing things my way: sprinting headlong into what was sure to be mind-blowing sex and staying in bed until our return flight left for London.

In that moment, I felt like I’d take whatever I could get, even if that meant ten years of flirtation leading up to a single, careful kiss.

“Are you okay?” I asked quietly.

“I just wonder if we should . . .” He swallowed, wincing slightly.

“Ship me back to London and never speak to me again?”

He laughed but shook his head. “Please, no.”

“Talk about what happened last night?”

He reached up, ran his thumb across my chin. “Yes.”

Relief and anxiety threaded together in my chest. “My mom always said if you can’t talk about it, you shouldn’t be doing it.”

His brow lifted at this, and he studied my face, lips curled up in the sweetest, hopeful smile. “Quiet dinner it is, then.”

Niall met me at my hotel room door, dressed again in my favorite charcoal suit and tie. It was cut perfectly for his long, muscular frame and the gray brought out the yellow in his honey-brown eyes. Those eyes would be focused on me all night. Just me.

I might combust.

We took a cab to Perry St, an upscale restaurant housed in a high-rise glass building just off—you guessed it—Perry Street. It was elegant and chic, with floor-to-ceiling windows and minimal décor. Tables and earth-toned booths packed with diners filled the large dining room, and I was suddenly worried
we wouldn’t be able to get a table.

“Table for two,” he told the hostess. “Reservation under the name Stella.”

I tried to ignore the way my heart leapt at the idea of him making dinner reservations for the two of us.

We followed her to a small booth in the very corner of the room.

“Oh my God, this is gorgeous,” I said, taking in the breathtaking view of the Hudson River. “How did you know about this place?”

“Max, of course,” he said, taking his seat.

“Right. Max,” I said, praying that didn’t sound as breathless to his ears as it did to mine. He’d called his brother asking about dinner. If I couldn’t feel his foot pressed up against mine under the table, I might have floated away. “Has he lived here long?”

He nodded, taking a sip of his water. “A few years.”

“He seems
so
happy,” I said. “They all do.”

He smiled. “They are, it seems. Max and Sara just had a baby, you know?” I nodded, and he hesitated a moment before asking, “Would you like to see a picture?”

“I’d love to.”
Love to
might be too small an exclamation,
dying to
might be a bit more accurate.

Niall retrieved his phone and flipped through his camera roll.

“There she is,” he said, fondly, finger running along the edge of the screen. It was a picture of Niall holding a tiny bundle, a small hand reaching out from
the blanket to grip his thumb. But it wasn’t the beautiful baby that had my heart dropping into the depths of my stomach—though she was gorgeous—it was the look of adoration he wore as he looked down at her. The Niall in this photo was happy, practically blissed out. He was relaxed and smiling and absolutely in awe of the little girl.

“What’s her name?” I asked, looking up to find him wearing the exact same expression now.

Dear God
.

Ovulation in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .

“Annabel Dillon Stella. Beautiful little thing, in’t she?”

My eyes widened at the softening of his accent. “Gorgeous. She looks a little like you, I think. Look at that nose.”