Stripped (11 page)

Today, Declan Murphy turned thirty.
 

In no time at all, the burger had disappeared, and Fiona was clicking through screen caps of Declan’s surprisingly varied—and highly acclaimed—television and film career. The best photos were where he was attending some sort of awards function. That lean body of his was made for fine suiting, and she couldn’t deny that he certainly looked fine. Fine, fine, fine, and then some.

The phone buzzed where it lay, next to her half-eaten plate of fries. Him, of course, and she hesitated only a moment before accepting the call and putting him on speaker. “Hello?”

“How’d you know it was my birthday, darlin’?” The phone did something to the quality of his voice, making the timbre lower, the words richer, and the accent sexier.
 

Goddamn Steve Jobs and his contributions to modern technology. “I…know things.” She scowled as she closed the image-search page, not needing to see hundreds of Declans treating her to sly smiles made of pearly white teeth and man-dimples.
 

“You know things
about me
, you mean.” The gleeful grin lurking in his voice drowned her in waves of his smug pleasure. “Glad you texted.”

“You could’ve just texted back.”

“You weren’t responding. I figured your phone was broken. Or lost. Or at the bottom of the ocean.”
 

She ate a fry to counteract the guilty flush heating her cheeks. “So you decided to call.”

“On the off-chance you preferred talking to texting.” She could almost hear his shrug. “Fifty-fifty, right?”

When it came down to it, she didn’t have a preference. She just liked hearing from him, one way or another, and admitting that—even to herself—sucked.

It sucked because it meant she was having feelings about Declan Murphy. Feelings, with a capital
F
. “Well. Happy birthday. Again.” Another fry shut her up before those Feelings loosened her tongue—loosened it, or made it all the more awkward.
 

Fiona had never been any good at simply
liking
a guy. She’d barely dated in high school, devoting her nights and weekends to dance classes and competitions. For the three years she’d been a student at Arizona State, she’d danced during the day and partied only on occasion with other kids in her dorm. There’d been one boyfriend—if she could even call Alexei that much—a dancer to whom she’d lost her virginity…and then her collegiate bubble had burst in a blaze of stupidity and hurt feelings, and she’d driven off for Vegas. A couple of eye-opening, inhibition-shedding years in Vegas had stripped her of any lingering shyness about physical intimacy.
 

She’d gone in the opposite direction after moving back to L.A. Not only had she stopped looking for casual flings, she’d stopped looking at men, period. Fiona hadn’t wanted to take her clothes off anymore.

But with Declan, she had sort of…forgotten. He’d made her forget that she was in the midst of a dry spell—one of her own making—and that she didn’t want to strip down for any man.

Except now she wondered. About Declan. She wondered, so she asked, “Are you doing anything special in celebration?”

“I’m talkin’ to you.”

Without her consent, wonder turned to hope.
 

The screensaver of her computer started its ball-tripping glow-light extravaganza as he said, “So. What are you wearing?”

She blinked, thrown by the topic change. “Seriously?”

“I thought that was how all phone sex started.”

“We are
not
having phone sex.” Even if it was his birthday.
 

“You keep tellin’ me all these things we’re not gonna do. I’m starting to think you don’t like me, Fiona O’Brien.”
 

Little did he know. She bit her bottom lip, before offering, “…I’m wearing a bra.” Flirting she could do, especially since he was only a voice over the phone.

A deep, rumbling, seductive voice. “Only a bra?”

“And underwear.”

“Ooh. Nice. You know how I like talkin’ about your pants.”

This was too easy. She ate the last French fry. “And a tank top.”

“Wait. I think you’re doing this wrong.”

“Jeans, too. And a ski sweater,” she lied, glancing down at her pink-and-white checked shirt.

His saddened sigh echoed through her speakerphone. “You’re definitely doing this wrong.”

“I was considering putting on wool socks. And a hat and mittens.”

“Hilarious.”

She grinned. “Frostbite is no laughing matter, Declan.”

“Frostbite? We’re in California.”

“Hm. Maybe I should turn down my AC, then.”

“You missed your calling, y’know.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Comedy.”

A laugh escaped, but who cared? He was funny, and she had a feeling he enjoyed making her laugh.
I want to make you laugh again
. Her head fell back against the chair. “Here I thought you were going to call me a tease and hang up.”

“Hang up?” he scoffed. “After working for weeks to get you to talk to me like this?”

“It hasn’t been weeks.”

“We met three weeks ago. You don’t think I’ve been wantin’ you all that time?” The teasing note left his low, lilting voice. “I was done for the moment you almost kissed me.”

She blushed and squirmed, still able to feel the scalding brand of his hand against her hip from that morning. “I did
not
almost kiss you. You almost kissed
me
.”

“That’s not how I remember it. One moment you’ve got your hands tangled in my beard, and then—”

“That scraggly mess had to go.”

She could hear the sadness in his sigh. “I
knew
you liked me better without my beard.”

“Well, you like
me
better without my glasses,” she retorted, glaring at the computer’s screensaver, remembering when he’d asked why she didn’t dress the same as she had while dancing at the cantina. She liked her look—part L.A. native, part ironic hipster, zero stripper.
 

“Not true. Your glasses are you. Seeing you without them threw me for a loop.”
 

That was…unexpected. “Oh.”
 

There was a beat of silence. “You immediately think the worst of me. Why is that?”

He had a point. He’d been nothing but kind since the moment they met, and genuine, too. Sure, he flirted with an arrogantly happy confidence she rather envied, but it wasn’t indiscriminate flirting. In fact, his attentions seemed unswervingly focused on her. “I shouldn’t do that. I’m sorry.”

His voice softened. “Darlin’, I said it the first morning and I’ll say it again: You only need to tell me no.” He paused. “Maybe I’m pushing you for something you don’t want.”

“I want it.” Honesty for honesty, and her mouth went dry. “I want you.”

The echo of his indrawn breath made heat curl low in her abdomen. “Good, ’cause I want you.”

Sarcasm bubbled up, her standby defense against feelings both capitalized and not, and she smirked. “Nuh-uh.”

“Perhaps I’ve been too subtle.”

She finished off the Diet Coke and leaned her head back on the chair, feeling the plaits of her loose braid give against the supple leather. Eyes closed, she allowed herself to smile, to sigh, and to settle her hands over her stomach. For once, she could play with him and not worry about him discovering her scars. “Much too subtle. You should just tell me what you’re thinking.”
 

“I don’t know, Fi,” and his hesitancy didn’t sound like an act. “I don’t know.”

Thrilling chill bumps lifted along her arms and at her nape. “Why not?”

“Because if I told you what I think about, when I think about you, I’d probably have to leave the country. Or your dad would have me murdered.”
 

She shifted in the chair, bringing her heels up to rest on the desk’s edge again. “Tell me anyway.”

He was quiet a moment, as though deciding whether to indulge her, indulge them both. When he spoke, there was a sensual promise she’d never before heard in his voice. “What
are
you wearing right now?”

“Exactly what I wore to work today, except my feet are bare.” She wriggled her toes. “What about you?”

“I took a shower when I got back to the hotel, which is why I didn’t see your text right away. Only thing I’m wearin’ is a towel.”

Her entire body went hot. “Really?”

“Really.”

She knew what he’d look like shirtless—she’d seen enough photos online, stills from the soapy television drama series he did over in the UK. Lightly defined musculature, dark hair dusting his chest, fair Irish skin. Lean and scrappy, a man ready to brawl but who you might be surprised to see win.
 

Except Declan always won, she was learning.
 

She imagined the towel drooping over his hips, the divots over his hip bones calling to her fingertips, and her hand curled into a fist. “Now who’s the tease?”

“Does that turn you on? Me, in a towel?”

“Yes.” She squirmed again. Hell yeah, he turned her on. The man had magic transform-Fiona-into-a-writhing-ball-of-lust powers, even having only given her the one orgasm.
 

Though, admittedly, it had been one hell of an orgasm.

“I’m turned on. I’m hard right now, thinkin’ of you and everything I want to do to you.”
 

Bottom lip caught between her teeth, she drew a deep breath. “Like what?”
 

“Like peeling those
jegging
things down your legs, kneeling at your feet and stroking your calves, your thighs. Finding the sensitive spot behind your knee.” His voiced lowered. “Kissin’ you there.”

“Where?”

“The back of your knee. The inside of your thigh. Between your legs.”

“You want that?”

“Fuck yes. My biggest regret is that I didn’t lick my fingers clean that night.”

“Oh. Oh, God.”

“I wanna taste you, Fi. Dip my tongue into your pussy and lick you up. Lick you deep.” A rustling noise sounded on his end of the phone. “Are you wet?”

As the Pacific. “Yeah. Yes.”
 

His breath hitched audibly. “You want my tongue in you, darlin’? Want me to swallow down all that sweetness?”
 

“How do you know I taste sweet?” She rubbed her thighs together, the
swish
of denim overloud in her ears.

“Oh, baby, how could you be anythin’ else?”

“God.”

Panting breaths through the speaker. “Are you touching yourself?”

“No.” But it was a close thing.
 

“Good. Don’t.”

Her eyes opened to scowl at her screensaver. “Why not?” Just because she wasn’t masturbating to his dirty talk didn’t mean her fingers didn’t itch to slip into her panties and provide some relief. “Are
you
touching yourself?”

“I’ve got a fist on my cock, yeah. But not movin’ it.”
 

“So why can’t I?”

“I can feel you glaring at me through the phone, darlin’.” His voice lowered. “Don’t slide your hand between your legs and play with all that slick heat.”
 

“But—”

“Don’t stroke your little clit until you’re right on the edge.”

“Declan—”

“And whatever you do, don’t lift those wet fingertips to your lips and taste that sweetness. Don’t do that, Fi.”

“Damn it—”

“Because that sweetness is
mine
. All mine. The next fingers in you will be mine. The next tongue. The next cock. And the next time you come, it’s gonna be me who got you there, and my name you’re gonna scream.”

Dying. She was dying. “And what makes you think I’m going to listen to you?”

“Because it’s my birthday.”

Her lungs were pumping like she’d just run a marathon. “Declan…”

A pained chuckle. “Can you wait, Fi? Can you wait the few hours until I see you again?”
 

She shook her head vehemently, even knowing he couldn’t see the movement. “We can’t mess around at work.”
 

“Fine. After work?”

She and this maddening man could be blowing each other’s minds in the bedroom,
as soon as tomorrow night
. The hands resting on her belly twitched. “Okay.”

He made a choking sound. “Okay? Really?”

“Really.” Her brain felt fuzzy, her limbs tingly and weird, and she suddenly couldn’t bear hearing his voice another second. “Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll…see you tomorrow.” She ended the call, not allowing him a good-bye.

Shit.
She stared blindly at the computer in front of her, lungs like bellows as she panted, panicked. Her fingers curled protectively over the scar tissue lacerating her stomach, then slid beneath the hem of her shirt, lifting the fabric until she could peer down at her exposed flesh.
 

Three jagged, uneven ridges of healed skin branded her torso, raking from the bottom of her lowest right rib down to the soft curve of her abdomen, to the left of her navel. Pink and shiny, the scars spanned her midsection, deforming and discoloring what had once been a toned, tanned stomach into a startlingly ugly mess.
 

She had been in the hospital for three weeks after being attacked in Vegas, every waking minute of every day spent hoping the stitches held, hoping she healed, hoping her guts wouldn’t spill out—literally—like the innards of Han Solo’s Tauntaun in the second
Star Wars
movie.
 

Because gross.
 

There’d been no insurance to cover a plastic surgeon’s exorbitant fees, so the scars had stayed, twisting and bunching until she barely recognized that part of her body as her own. She hid that body in overlarge shirts and draping sweaters—first out of fear that anything touching the wounds would reopen them, and then because it was easier to pretend the scars didn’t exist if she didn’t have to constantly feel the abrasion of fabric against them. A friend of her parents’ had volunteered to provide free physical therapy, and a year after her lifesaving surgeries, Fiona could move with nearly ninety percent of the flexibility she’d once had as a dancer.
 

But she would be lying if she said she was even close to ninety percent of the woman she’d once been.