Stripped (7 page)

Heat climbed his neck, and he swallowed, hard. Crush be damned—this was so much more. So much
better
.

She turned her gaze on Declan, silver and brilliant without the usual shield of her glasses. “Mr. Murphy.”

He couldn’t resist. “Miss O’Brien.”

A beat of silence passed between them, even with the brassy blare of the band blistering their eardrums. Her lips twitched. Her eyebrow arched, a perfect, feminine mimic of her father’s. “Wanna dance?” She held out her hand.

He’d be a fool not to take it, and Declan wasn’t a fool. “Thought you’d never ask.”

FIVE

It felt good to be dancing, but it felt even better to be dancing with him.

Her hips swayed as they wove through the tables, her hand gripped firmly in his as she led him onto the dance floor. His fingers were strong, his palm warm, and his thumb kept rubbing across her knuckles.
 

She wondered if Declan even realized he was doing it.
 

Her heels clicked onto the battered parquet floor in front of the stage, the band just starting a mambo-driven number. Music blasted them, quick and bright and loud, and Fiona turned immediately, laying her palms flat on Declan’s chest. Firm muscles instantly flexed beneath his tee shirt. “I should’ve asked before,” she said, pitching her voice over the noise. “
Can
you salsa?”

Leaning down, he placed his lips next to her ear.
Heat
. Pure heat, hurtling through her veins like a rollercoaster on acid. “I can, but not as well as you.” He paused, and his lower lip brushed her earlobe.
 

She shivered. “You’ve been watching me?”

He nodded, the tip of his nose grazing the sensitive shell of her ear.

More heat, consuming her bared skin in waves. Her fingers curled, digging into him before she could tell herself that
no
, she didn’t like being near him, or breathing in his scent. She didn’t like touching him every day, morning and night, just as she didn’t like the soft silk of his curly hair or the rough stubble she shaved away.

Fiona certainly didn’t like how his hand had just found the small of her back, or how his other picked up one of hers from his chest. Her hand felt weightless cupped in his palm, at odds with the heaviness of her body as he drew her closer. When her breasts brushed against him, she had to swallow a gasp. It had been so long since she’d held her body against the body of a man she desired, not only for the lustful thoughts he inspired, but for how he looked at her all of those mornings and nights. He looked at her the same way she’d looked at another tall, handsome man, once upon a time, and she knew how well
that
had ended.

Not well at all, that’s how.

There was nothing good about this situation, nothing at all, but she’d had just enough to drink that recklessness felt so freakin’
right
at that moment. Which meant the dance floor and Declan Murphy were hers until common sense came crawling back. “All right, then. Let’s dance.”

Ready to guide him into the first steps—
she
had been the one to ask him to dance, which made it
her
responsibility to see if he really could dance in the first place—she was surprised when he unerringly moved forward.
Quick, quick, slow. Quick, quick, slow
. The hand on her spine lifted as they caught the rhythm together, falling easily into the fast-paced fluidity of the mambo.
 

Quick, quick, slow
.
 

She spun on the axis of his fingers, holding their joined hands overhead.
 

Quick, quick, slow
.
 

Light pressure on her shoulder blade, and they switched places, so that she now faced the band.

Quick, quick, slow
.
 

He turned on the third beat, hand finding her hip for purchase, rising again to spin her.
 

Quick, quick, slow
.
 

Her short skirt shifted over her thighs, floating scandalously high with every twist.

Quick, quick, slow
.
 

He gripped her wrist, fingers so strong, so sure. He held her body apart from his for one beat, then two, but it was too long to stand in place awaiting his direction, so her hips moved. Her hips moved, and moved, and moved, forward and back, until he turned her, putting her back to his front but still apart. No touching, just his fingers around her wrist, lifting her arm away from her body. The scant touch shot pure adrenaline into her veins.
I want to misbehave
, he’d told her, right before he’d nearly kissed her. Well, tonight,
she
wanted to misbehave.

Her hips writhed.
 

His hold on her wrist tightened.

Sensuality was a key component of the mambo, an introduction of lower bodies that never touched, only teased. With every passing second, the exaggeration of the steps grew. Spins were faster, arms longer, hips wilder. The band ran away with the music, and it was up to the dancers to keep up or give up.
 

Declan and Fiona kept up. Spin and touch and twist and spin again. Each caress of his hand on her back, her hip, her shoulder electrified her, a jolt to her heart that couldn’t be denied.
 

Attraction. That goddamn attraction that had nearly strangled her the first day she’d met him. It put her on edge. It made her scowl and stiffen and generally behave like a frozen bitch at work, because she didn’t know how to handle it. Fiona wasn’t merely out of practice—she was out of her depth.
 

There’d been no men since Vegas, and the men in Vegas hadn’t been men at all, only bodies with faces indistinct and names unmemorable, and the man before that was…too memorable. Even then, Declan was different from all of them—better, too. He wouldn’t see her as merely a willing body or sex on display.

The song ended as abruptly as it had begun, and, without thought, Fiona fell into his arms—open arms ready to catch her, as if he already knew this was how she ended every song she danced. A hug for her partner, in thanks, in happiness.

Being held by Declan was…new. Terrifying. Thrilling.

The singer announced a slow number in cheerful Spanglish as Fiona stood in the circle of Declan’s arms, happiness warming all the places tequila-fueled hormones couldn’t reach, deep inside. He smiled at her, a sideways quirk of mobile lips, linking his fingers at the small of her back.
 

She leaned against his hold, hands drifting from where they’d landed on his shoulders to the hot, naked skin of his perfect biceps. His pale blue tee, bearing the faded screen print of a propeller plane over the words
Fly With Me
, stretched oh, so nicely across the planes of his chest, highlighting the firm musculature she’d had the earlier pleasure of testing with her fingertips. The shirt fabric was loose around his waist, highlighting the innate leanness that his costuming tended to hide and that his height and breadth often belied. He wore the same faded jeans he’d had on that first morning in the makeup trailer, the ones that reminded a woman that, yes, that’s
exactly
how jeans are supposed to be worn.
 

Because
damn
.

Then there was that face. He had such a face, with his black hair, dark eyes, and pale skin. He’d never pass for Prince Charming, but Fiona had a suspicion that he could give Lucifer a run for his money. Lips she wanted to kiss, stubble she wanted to rub against her cheek, a jaw she wanted to cup in both hands as she pulled him in for that kiss…but there wasn’t going to be a kiss. Only a dance.
 

A dance, with a side of conversation, it seemed. “Are you seein’ anyone?”

She shook her head as they moved effortlessly into the next dance together, a jazzy number reminiscent of the big-band standards of the fifties. Seeing anyone? Ha. As if she had the time to date.
 

Her subconscious body-checked her brain.
As if you had the
confidence
to date.

Stupid subconscious.
 

With one hand on her back, his other holding hers, he didn’t allow her the same space the mambo had demanded. “Think I’m gonna need you to say it out loud, darlin’.”

Her jaw clenched. “I’m single.” When relief relaxed his expression, she was goaded into adding, “And I like it that way.” Single was a good look on her. A partner would only complicate the routine she had going, test the controls she’d so carefully constructed over the past three years, forcing her to make room for someone else in her life and potentially losing all that she’d fought to rebuild in the process.

So why was she tempted to clear a space for Declan? That nonsense would have to stop. Immediately. “If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, I’m just telling you right now—bad idea.”

He wove them through the other couples on the floor, every step and turn aligning their bodies another inch, until she felt as though both her shirt and his were on the verge of combustion. “Why?”

If their shirts disappeared, it would be her flesh against his. Her stomach against his.

Her insides knotted at the prospect.
Not in a million years
. “Because I’m not ever going to be easy.” Not again.

His head dipped toward hers, and she jerked back…in time to see a hurt look flash across his face. Slower this time, he bent, his lips hovering over her ear. “Never said I wanted easy.”

She scoffed. “All men want easy.”

“Do I look like all men to you?” Before she could manage a retort, he shook his head. “You say you’re not ‘easy.’” His grip on her hand tightened. “What makes you think that?” A pause. “Did someone tell you that?”

It was as if he held her throat instead of her fingers, a lump forming until tears threatened and swallowing became impossible. She dropped her gaze to his chest, staring at that faded plane.
Fly With Me
. Too bad Fiona and relationships were a toxic mix. “No, no one. It’s just…I know me, and I know what I am.”

“I’m more interested in
who
you are, Fiona O’Brien.”

Her name on his lips was a full-body stroke to her senses, and this stroke eased the aching anxiety that had her in a chokehold. Leave him. She had to leave him on the dance floor, or she wouldn’t be able to blame the margaritas for her actions. Torn between the urge to flee and the need to hold onto this man who, with every passing moment, proved how special, how
individual
he was, she stepped away.
 

Her gaze locked on her father. Rick watched her steadily from the other side of the cantina.

The strings that were tangled around her heart as part and parcel of her relationship with her father tugged at her. She wondered if she was too old to march over and demand a hug. She wondered if she was too young to march over and demand he mind his own business, because even from here, she could see the hint of worry in eyes the same mutable gray shade as her own.
 

Those eyes shifted to somewhere over her shoulder, and she knew she wasn’t going to make it off the dance floor.

Declan caught her around the waist, strong forearm a steel band across her spine as he pulled her into him. His lips hovered over hers, a breath away, stealing hers. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”

“
What?
”
 

His eyes flashed, melted chocolate shot through with gold. “I’m gonna kiss you, Fi. You can decide if you want it to be here in front of your dad and our coworkers or somewhere more private.” He stepped back and extended his hand. “But either way, I’m kissin’ you.”

Her insides went mushy. Melty. Annoyingly, deliciously liquid. Without another word, she grabbed his hand and tugged him off the dance floor.

SIX

Fiona knew this establishment from front to back, a fact that became quite clear as she pulled Declan past the restrooms and through the quiet restaurant kitchen, where a lone worker scrubbed the stainless steel counters.
 

The guy didn’t bother glancing up.
 

Then they were through the fire door and in a side alley, the narrow space separating the cantina from the dry cleaning establishment next door. Two Dumpsters, lids thankfully closed, stood to their left atop cracked concrete, but the alley was otherwise abandoned.
 

A vent overhead funneled the muted blare of instrumental brass into the alley, while the occasional whoosh of passing cars, several meters to their right, provided a soothing baseline to the silence between them as the door swung shut.
 

All sound faded to nothing as she dropped his hand, facing him with temptress eyes. “You dance well.”

“You dance better.”
 

Shrugging, she circled him, balance flawless as her heels clicked on the uneven ground. She carried herself so well, he noted, shoulders even and spine straight. Her dance training seemed obvious to him now. He supposed he’d subliminally noticed it in the makeup trailer and on set. There was a graceful economy to her movements that spoke of long hours spent on her feet and perfecting her form.
 

Realization hit. He could watch her move all day and never grow bored.
 

Well, shit.
   

The desire that had burned into his bones on the dance floor now knotted his stomach as his gaze slowly, slowly traveled from the tips of her toes—painted a glossy Smurf blue—up sleek calves so smooth they gleamed in the faint glow from the overhead light stretched across the alley. That floaty green skirt he couldn’t take his eyes off of inside the cantina flirted a good six inches above her knees, brushing over the supple curve of strong, feminine thighs, and he wanted to touch her. God, he wanted to feel her flex under his palms, nothing but hot skin and hotter woman as she wrapped those legs around his waist and let him shove her back against the rough brick. Let him thrust into her, all while those pretty thighs clutched him closer.
 

As if she’d heard his naughty thoughts, she smiled, a subtle quirk of full lips that were usually stern whenever he was in the vicinity. Leaning her bare shoulders against the wall, she lifted a sandal-clad foot to rest on the brick behind her, and the skirt shifted. Lifted. Fell away until most of one lovely thigh and the beckoning inside of the other snared his unswerving attention—a provocative pose.