Beautiful Secret (Beautiful Bastard #4) (31 page)

She ran her hands up the back of my neck, lifting to kiss, possibly in an attempt to shut me up. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” I said into another kiss.

“It is,” she insisted, her voice uncharacteristically stiff. “I’m sure it’s weird to be with someone for the first time after only having been with her before.”

“It’s not that . . .” I began, and then trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished. I needed to fix this. It was bad enough that I’d gone mute when she’d said she loved me; I couldn’t let this be a disaster, too. “Ruby, my timing may be horrendous and I apologize for that, but I feel I need to explain how different this is for me.”

She nodded, relaxing a bit beneath me. As I searched for words, I struggled to hold on to the clarity of only minutes before, when I felt completely joined to her,
knowing
her. She’d given me something so rare—true insight into what it was to make love—and I’d fucked it up immediately.

“At some early point in our relationship, Portia read some article explaining that men needed sex at least once a week in order to not cheat. It was bollocks, but it became part of her mental relationship canon. Sex once a week. No more, no less. She was very organized,
you see,” I said, hoping to add a bit of levity. “Staff meeting Mondays. Sex with husband Tuesdays. Rubbish pickup Thursdays.”

Her eyes went soft with sympathy. “Ouch.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” I said, and then tilted my head, considering this. “It simply wasn’t very good, either.” I met her eyes, swallowing thickly as the words took shape in my mind. “And see . . . that, right there. Please understand I feel uncomfortable even saying this much, particularly given our
current
circumstances.” I made a show of looking down the length of our bodies, as if to emphasize the point, to which she smiled. “As a general rule I don’t discuss my personal life. But now
you
are my personal life. I want you to know every facet of me, and how different I am with you. And unfortunately that often means knowing things about my relationship with Portia. Somehow her view on it made sex both a special occasion and a chore.”

Ruby drew one fingertip across my bottom lip, tracing the shape of my mouth as she said, “Did you ever tell her any of these things? When it ended?”

I felt myself frown. “There wasn’t really a chance. Or maybe, more accurately, we’d both grown so weary by that point, that it was easier to just walk away.”

Ruby’s question pricked at some thought I’d long since buried. Why hadn’t we ever spoken of these things? Surely if I was unhappy, Portia had been as well. I could only imagine how self-aware Ruby—with her psychologist parents and need to always express herself—would view the way I’d reacted after the divorce. There
was no attempt at reconciliation, no attempts to fix what was wrong, no search for closure. I’d packed up my things and gone. The decision to end our marriage had been filled with as much passion as we’d had during it.

Always able to read my expressions, Ruby tipped my chin back in her direction. “Hey, I’m not saying you should have, everyone deals with things differently. I saw your face before the divorce, and after. I know you’re happy with me. I didn’t ask that because I’m jealous. I hate to think you didn’t get the sort of adoration you deserve, but—and as horrible as it sounds to say it out loud—it turns me on to think about how much
I
can give you.” Her hand ran down my stomach and wrapped around where my body seemed to return to life. “You were so different just now. Like”—she closed her eyes, thinking as she absently stroked me—“kind of dominating and rough.”

Just as I opened my mouth to apologize on instinct, she stilled me with a look, then said, “I liked it.”

Without any words, I returned to her, pressing my chest to hers as we kissed.

I felt her reach for me, guide me into her again, and just like that we were moving together frantically, vocal, grasping. I tried to restrain myself, tried to remain gentle, but the tightness in my chest over her admission made me feel demanding, possessive, and desperate to deserve
her.

I opened my eyes and blinked in confusion at the walls and ceiling, at the soft dark sheets wrapped around me. Everything looked completely foreign. For a moment I was wildly disoriented. I wasn’t in the hotel room in New York. I wasn’t in my own flat.

Oh
.

I was with Niall, in his bed,
naked
, with his heavy arm slung over my hip.

A glance at the clock told me it was one minute before seven, and in the time it took for the numbers to turn over, I remembered: Niall Stella fucked my brains out last night.

I nearly rolled into my pillow to scream.

I closed my eyes and relished every memory: Niall beneath me, thick and rigid inside me, his hips arching and desperate to get deeper. And after I came: Niall flipping me over, laying me down on the rug, Niall growing so rough and wild with his hands holding my hips off the floor as he drove and drove and
drove . . .

My eyes opened wide as I was punched with the memory of the
rest
of it—what had happened before the perfect, obliterating sex. More specifically, the way I’d managed to blurt that I loved him, and the way he’d blinked a thousand times, long lashes fluttering, lips awkwardly forming a hundred different evasions before he kissed my forehead and declared: “You’re lovely.”

You’re. Lovely.

That was easily the most mortifying event of my life. Followed closely by him bringing up Portia mere seconds after being inside me.

Number of Times I Told Niall Stella I Loved Him and He Had Sex with Me to Distract Me from the Fact That He Hadn’t Said It Back: one.

Number of Times Niall Stella Ruined Post-Coital Bliss by Bringing Up Sex with His Ex-Wife: also one.

Well, technically, he had sex with me twice.

Carefully, I slipped out from under the weight of his arm. My body was worn-out, limbs and joints stretched, breasts tender in the most amazing way. With each step toward the bathroom, the ache in my muscles and between my legs reminded me
exactly
how good all that pent-up lust and frustration felt when he unleashed it. Max was right, New York should definitely consider hooking Niall up to the grid.

But the feelings after? Not so good. In fact, when he’d initially brought her up—my first instinct had been
to knee him in the balls. Niall’s marriage had seriously skewed his idea of what relationships could be, and it seemed he was only beginning to realize it. What worked for one couple didn’t always work for another, and thankfully, he appeared to be letting those ideas go.

My body . . . my body was exhausted and still humming from what was easily the most mind-blowing, intense sex I’d ever had. My
body
knew it had been good for both of us.

But my heart had its own hesitations. I hated the gnawing sense that if I hadn’t declared my feelings last night, we would have kissed, cuddled, gotten each other off, and then happily fallen asleep. Niall was my cautious, courteous giant and I knew that his desire to treat sex with reverence was eclipsed only by his new desire to show me he could try to be what I needed.

It took me only a few minutes to use the bathroom and wash my hands and face. The soap, the towels, the entire room smelled like Niall. I’m sure if I were to press my nose to my skin I’d find that I smelled like him, too.

I tiptoed out of the bathroom and down the hall, where our clothes were scattered all over the floor. The chair sat empty in the middle—a reminder that he hadn’t taken me to his bed, but had me right there in the living room. Twice. I tried not to read too much into that. Maybe he simply needed me right then. Or, maybe sex in his bed felt like a new, scary frontier.

My bra hung off one arm, my skirt was a few feet away on the rug. I gathered everything up, a flash of memory replaying with each item I found.

His eyes as he’d slipped off my shirt.

The sight of him sucking my breasts.

The shape of his mouth when I’d pulled off his belt.

The way it felt when he finally,
finally
pushed inside me.

The flash of fear on his face when I’d told him I loved him.

I could hear Niall beginning to stir as I pulled on my clothes, and I wished I’d managed to slip out before he’d woken. I was embarrassed. But I knew
he
would never bring up the fact that we had sex last night way before either of us expected to, so of course I would have to.

But not even I, compulsive discusser of all things, wanted to have the conversation we needed to have.

So, about last night . . . did I unintentionally manipulate you into having sex with me? Or are you just so unwilling to trust your own instincts that you gave in to what you thought I wanted?

“Ruby?” he called out, voice gravelly with sleep.

I walked down the hall in bare feet, my steps muted on the wood floors. He sat up when I entered, the sheet falling to his waist as he took in my clothes, the shoes in my hands.

“Hey,” he said, but it was more like a question. His expression still carried the weight of
drowsiness but in his eyes was a clear note of confusion. Guilt and irritation wrestled in my stomach and I pressed my hand there, telling them both to knock it off.

“I forgot something,” I said. It was a lie, and I could tell by the way his face fell slightly that we both knew it. “I need to run home before work.”

“Now?” He sat up at the side of the bed, his hair an adorable mess and miles and miles of bare leg stretching to the floor. Wow. “I can drive you.”

“No, it’s okay, I—”

“Ruby, stop,” he said, voice deep and firm. “Let me just get some clothes on.”

He stood, completely naked, and out of some spontaneously polite instinct I looked away—very obviously—instead staring at the far corner of his room.

He noticed, and of
course
he did. I was acting like a twitchy lunatic.

“Are you all right?” he asked, stepping into a pair of track pants. “It’s not like you to avert your gaze when I’m nude. In fact, you’re usually quite the leering pervert. ”

He was teasing me. He was
trying
.

I shrugged, looking back at him but only able to really look at his face. “Just mildly panicking.”

Just realizing that I told you I loved you after only a few weeks together and the craziest part is it wasn’t a lie.

Just realizing I think you had pity sex with me last night.

Just realizing I’m probably freaking out for no reason and really should just leave right now
and get some coffee and food before I do something stupid like overshare all of this
.

“Do you want to sit on my bed and tell me what has you ‘mildly panicking’ after I shagged you roundly until only a couple of hours ago? I would think you’d be too worn-out for conscious thought before seven thirty in the morning. I certainly am.”

I looked up at him, at his teasing tone, and smiled weakly. “Maybe over dinner tonight?”

He nodded, eyes narrowed as he studied me. And like that, I’d flipped the switch in him. The overthinking switch. The holy-shit-what-happened-last-night switch. “Okay.”

Fuck
.

I slipped into my flats and ran my fingers through my hair, attempting to tame it just as his phone rang on the bedside table.

He bent, looking at the screen and then at the clock. Hesitating, he murmured, “I’d better take this. If you’d just . . . ?”

He held up one finger, asking me to wait, and then stepped into the bathroom off his bedroom, closing the door.

Well, that’s awkward
. If it was a work call he’d have taken it in front of me.

All I needed to hear was his gentle voice saying, “Portia? It’s seven in the morning. What is it, love?” before I grabbed my bag and
headed out of the flat.

One of the amazing things about London is that you don’t have to drive anywhere. Want coffee? There are a dozen shops lining the street. Need to pop into Selfridges at lunch? Oxford Street Tube is across the street. Iconic red buses stop at virtually every corner and there’s even the River Bus to take you down the Thames. Need to avoid an awkward taxi ride with someone you may or may not have manipulated into sleeping with you? Thankfully, a short trip on the Tube and the Southwark stop is just a few doors down from my office!

It was still raining when I stepped out onto the street, because of course it was. I’d showered quickly at home but needn’t have bothered. My little flats were immediately drenched by the puddles and the constant downpour, and made soppy squishing noises with every step. Cars splashed water up onto the narrow sidewalk and even my umbrella was no match for the storm. Luckily, if I moved close enough to the storefronts, the various awnings offered me some small measure of cover.

By the time I stepped into Richardson-Corbett, I was drenched. I squeezed the excess water from my skirt and jacket, reminding myself that my hair would dry the same as it probably did every day. And besides, the shower at home, the walk to work—it had given me time to talk myself down.