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.