Libby

Usually after a storm, things cool down; the land gets to breathe a bit. Not so here. Heat settles like a thick blanket, smothering everything in its wake, turning the world humid, heavy, and slow. With the power out, there’s not a thing to do but wallow. Even going to the beach is useless. The full summer sun scorches the sand, and as soon as you leave the ocean, you’re baking, sandy, and miserable.

I settle for lounging on the porch’s sleeping couch, the shades lowered against the sun, and every now and then stealing a lump of the rapidly melting ice I’ve filled my cooler with. Cotton shorts and a thin tank is all I can manage, and for once, I’m grateful for my small boobs because it means I can comfortably go bra free.

Or maybe not. I’m all too aware of the ribbed fabric clinging to my damp skin, outlining my shape. But what can I do? I’m not willing to suffer this heat any further by putting on more clothes, so if Killian happens to get an eye-full, so be it.

He isn’t looking at me anyway. He’s sprawled out on the floor, plucking away at his guitar, and taking sips of the lemonade I fixed. The slow twang of his guitar lulls me, and I drift in and out.

“If the power doesn’t come back on by tomorrow,” Killian says, pulling me from my daze, “we’re going to a hotel in Wilmington.”

I don’t bother opening my eyes. “It’ll come back on.”

He makes an annoyed noise. “We should have gone this morning.”

“Didn’t know it would take so long then. Besides, the sun’s setting. It will get cooler.”

Killian hums, which might mean an agreement or the vocal equivalent of an eye roll. I don’t care. I’m too hot.

And the heat is getting to me. I should be listless. But I’m not. I’m restless. The thick, heavy heat has settled on me, too, caressing my skin, drawing my attention to it. I’m aware of the way my chest rises and falls with each breath. Perspiration trickles down my spine, and the ice I’m slowly rubbing over my sternum melts in rivulets that slip between my breasts.

But it’s not the weather. Not really. It’s Killian sitting across the way, wearing nothing more than a pair of low-slung shorts and a sheen of sweat on his toned chest. It’s the deep, rolling sound of his voice, so gorgeous it pulls at my nipples and touches that achy spot between my legs.

I shift, hating the heat that throbs there, luscious and needy. I have to fight the urge to arch my back and thrust my nipples outward, calling attention to them. Begging.

Killian sings a low, soft song I’ve never heard before. I focus on the lyrics. It’s about a man, aimless and jaded, finding solace in a woman’s smile. It’s about sex—lazy, languid sex—that goes on for days.

I want to tell him to sing something else. And yet I don’t want him to stop.

But he does. He stops and starts, and I realize he’s composing. Tingles run over my skin.

“New song?” I murmur when he pauses, messing around with a chord progression. He’s been writing since he sang with me a few days ago. And it’s been a thrill to witness. When a song hits him, it comes hard and fast. But he needs feedback, someone to work through it with. He’d told me that role had been Jax’s. Only Jax isn’t here, so the task falls to me.

After the second song he composed, I’d become attuned to this need. And so I sing the refrain now, softly, feeling out the words. “It’s good. But maybe ‘thirst’ instead of ‘lust’?” I sing it again, testing the lyrics.

Silence.

And then his voice comes husky, rough. “Beautiful.”

I turn my head. His gaze burns into me, those dark eyes glossy with heat. My stomach dips and swirls.

He doesn’t look away. “Your voice is so fucking beautiful, Liberty Bell. Like sex on Sunday.”

A shuddering breath leaves me.

God, I’m stripped by that dark gaze. And it feels good.

“You should use that,” I rasp past the lump in my throat. “‘Like sex on Sunday.’ It’s a good lyric.”

Killian huffs. “Take the compliment, baby doll.”

“Baby doll?” I glare up at the ceiling. “You’re trying to annoy me, aren’t you?”

“Honestly? It just slipped out.”

Shocked, I look back at him. He doesn’t flinch but returns my stare as if daring me to protest any further. Doing a stare-off with Killian isn’t easy. His eyes are too expressive. One little quirk of those sweeping dark brows conveys entire sentences. We have a conversation without saying a word:

Go on, tell me how you don’t like having a nickname.

I don’t.

Liar. You love it.

How would you like to be called baby doll?

It depends. Are we naked in this scenario? Because you can call me anything you want then.

Okay, I probably imagined that last exchange. That’s the other problem with staring at Killian; I become too aware of how hot he is. I have no defense against that. His chiseled features, especially that slightly pouty bottom lip, have all my thoughts drifting to sex.

Maybe he knows this because he suddenly chuckles, low and lazy. “I won,” he drawls and plucks the B string on his guitar like a victory note.

I roll my eyes and try not to smile. “Go on and write your song, pretty boy.”

“Tell me more about how pretty I am, and I will. Use specific details.”

He catches the ice cube I throw at him and slips it between his lips, sucking it with a teasing hum of enjoyment. The muscles low in my belly clench in response, and I have to shut out the sight by closing my eyes. God, that mouth. It’d be cold now. And my skin is so hot. I lick my dry lips. “You’re procrastinating.”

He huffs but then plays a few chords before stopping again. “You were right.”

I crack open an eye. “About?”

He’s focused on his guitar, idly playing the song he’s been composing. “I have been hiding away.”

The confession falls like a stone in a pond. The ripples of it wash over me, and I sit up just to gain some footing.

Killian shakes his head slowly. “I see that look, Libs. I didn’t mean I was using you as a distraction. But I have been avoiding going back. After I found Jax, everything felt like a lie.” His hand smooths over the curve of his guitar. “Playing with you, I remembered. Music is real.”

“Always will be,” I rasp, then clear my throat. “I’m glad you remembered.”

His fingers tighten around the guitar neck, his body leaning forward as if he’s about to rise. “You woke me back up, Libby. You have to know that.”

I have no idea what to say. I duck my head, the heat and humidity getting to me. “You would’ve found your way without me. Music is too much a part of you to be denied for long.”

“Maybe.” He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. When he finally talks, his voice sounds pained. “I have to go back.”

My fingers dig into the couch cushion. “When?”

“We’re going on tour in the fall.”

One small sentence, and I’m ripped open. It isn’t easy keeping my reply even, but I manage it. “It’ll be good for you guys. And your fans will be so happy.”

“Happy,” he says. “Yeah, I guess they will be.” Killian scowls at some distant point and runs a hand through his hair, only to have his fingers snag in the long strands. He mutters a few choice words before leaning back against the chair he’s sitting in front of.

“I can cut your hair.” What am I saying? I’ll have to get close to him to do it. Not smart. But the tension between us is all wrong, too thick and awkward. I don’t know if we’re fighting or about to combust.

Maybe he thinks the same, because he frowns a little. “You know how to cut hair?”

“Cut my dad’s. Still have the scissors.” Shut up and get while the getting’s good.

Killian sets down his guitar. “All right. That’d be great.”

He sounds as strained as I feel. Such a stupid idea. But I’m stuck in it now.

* * *

I go to get the scissors while Killian pulls up a kitchen chair to sit on.

His big, lean body is as tense as a guitar string when I return. In the light of the sinking sun, his skin is a deep honey-gold, shadows playing along the dips and valleys of his muscled torso. My steps slow as though I can draw out the inevitable by taking as long as I can to stand before him. But I can’t avoid this without saying why I want to. And there’s not a chance of me doing that.

I’m all business as I set down my scissors, comb, and a stiff brush for flicking away small, cut hairs. Killian’s dark eyes track my moves, his expression far too controlled. Does this bother him too? It appears to. But for the same reasons? Or maybe he’s worried I’ll make a move on him?

I want to laugh. When did it get so complicated?

“You want to wear this so hair doesn’t get all over you?” I ask, holding up a plastic cape I brought with me.

He gives a shake of the head. “I’m too hot already.”

True that.

I clear my throat. “What style would you like?”

He looks at me as if I’ve spoken in Greek. “Style?”

“Ah, yeah. That’s kind of important, since it affects how you look.”

He shrugs. “Do what you want.”

I lift my scissors. “So…mullet.” I nod. “You’ll look hot. Very nineteen-eighty-five. Maybe I can persuade you into a mustache as well.”

“Har.” His nose wrinkles. “Fine. Cut it short.”

Really, it’s like pulling teeth.

“A Channing Tatum maybe?”

One dark brow quirks.

“You know, Magic Mike?”

Killian flashes a grin. “Of all his movies, you pick that one? Shocker.”

“Shut up.” Slapping his shoulder, I move around to the back of his head and try to comb out the tangles. “You totally acted like you didn’t know who he was.”

Killian snorts. “Know him? We’ve hung out a couple of times. Just wanted to find out how you saw him.”

“Well, now you know. Half naked and gyrating.”

Though I can only see the crest of his cheek, I know he’s making a face. I find myself grinning. Resting my hand on his warm shoulder, I lean around to catch his eye. “You never answered.”

He stares at me for a beat, then blinks and clears his throat. “Hack it off.”

“Channing it is.”

There it is again, that regal expression of disdain he manages so well when offended, his dark brows lifting just a touch, his nostrils pinching as if he smells something off. “You’re giving me the Killian James cut, babe, and don’t you forget it.”

I go to work on the back of his hair. “Arrogant, aren’t we?”

“A man who names his hairstyle after another man isn’t much of a man.”

Long locks of silky, mahogany hair fall to the floor. “If you say so.”

We fall quiet, which is a mistake. Because now I can’t help but notice how close I’m standing to him, or the feel of my fingers threading through his heavy hair, and my breasts hovering by his temple when I move to his side.

I should be immune to Killian by now. I really should. But aside from last night’s freak-out, I’ve never been this near him for a sustained amount of time. The heat of his skin has a scent—indefinable but luscious. My mouth waters, and I have to swallow hard so I don’t drool on him like some creeper. His breathing has a rhythm and sound that holds my attention.

Agitation. I hear it. I feel it. Agitation surrounds us. It messes with my concentration, and I find myself hacking at his hair, cutting fast and loose. Luckily, he’s asked for a short style, and I can fix what I’ve done. Biting my lip, I focus on my task and ignore him.

Or try to.

The more I cut away, the more his strong bone structure is revealed. Killian looked damn fine with long hair. Short? He’s a work of art. With his high cheekbones, squared-off jaw, and strong nose, he’d almost look too hard if it wasn’t for his pretty eyes.

My mouth twitches as I think about telling him he has pretty eyes. He’d hate that.

“What’s so funny?” His husky voice snares my attention.

“Nothing.” I carefully shape around his ears.

“Libby…”

He won’t let this go. He’s like a tick that way.

“I was just thinking that you have pretty eyes,” I mutter, face flaming.

He makes a gurgled sort of sound. “You flirting with me, Libs?”

I don’t meet his gaze. “Stating a fact. And you know they’re pretty.”

Those dark eyes watch me as I finish the basic shape of his haircut. “I know nothing,” he says softly.

Our gazes finally meet. We’re about a foot apart, and the air between us is hot and damp. It’s a struggle to breathe, a struggle not to look away. In the background, evening cicadas hum. Killian swallows hard, searching my gaze for some sign. I don’t know what to say. Every memory of all the awkward, bumbling encounters I’ve had with attractive men surges forward. I’m utter crap at this stuff.

Blinking, I stand straight and run my fingers through his hair. I’ve left it a little longer at the top. “I just have to shape this bit and you’re done.” My voice sounds thick and uneven.

“Okay,” he says in a voice just as rough.

I frown at myself as I trim. This exercise in torture needs to end before I do something stupid. I step between his thighs to finish off the front of his hair. Mistake. He’s now only inches away from my chest.

Killian’s shoulders go stiff. I swear he stops breathing. Or maybe I do. Silence falls over us just as the cicada song ends. Neither of us moves or says a word.

And then everything changes.

It doesn’t matter that it’s barely a graze of his fingers against my shirt, the second he touches me, my body tenses, then vibrates like a tuning fork struck. I pause a beat, breath halting before escaping in a silent rush. The scissors hesitate then snip through his hair with a loud snick. The tips of his fingers gently press against the dividing line between my shorts and shirt, holding me steady as I sway a little.

I close my eyes for a second. I could move away, tell him to get off. But I don’t. That small yet significant touch sends heat and need throbbing through me, and it feels so good, I almost whimper. I swallow hard and continue to cut his hair, less steady now but determined to finish the job well.

Neither of us acknowledges the fact that he’s touching me. We don’t say a word when his fingers slowly move up under my shirt, seeking bare skin. But, Jesus, I feel it, and my knees threaten to cave.

Idly he moves, as if he’s simply enjoying the feel of me. As if I’m his to touch.

I can’t pretend anymore. The scissors clink when I set them down.

Killian tilts his head back to stare up at me. There’s something almost defiant in his expression, and I can’t meet his eyes.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, heart pounding.

“Touching you.” Gently he strokes my skin, and he sighs as though in heaven.

“Why?” I croak, because I’ve lost my damn mind, apparently.

Killian’s tone stays soft, almost thoughtful. “It’s all I think about lately, touching you.” A low sound leaves him, as if he’s laughing at himself. “Can’t seem to talk myself out of it any more. Don’t want to.”

My hands shake, my breath growing uneven as he slowly, softly, plays along the curves of my waist. His gaze burns, zeroes in on my breasts that tremble right before his eyes. My nipples harden, wanting more of that attention.

He lets out a soft exhale, barely a sound, but I’m so aware of him now, it’s as loud as a bomb to my ears. “You ever think about it?” he asks, a whisper. “What it would be like? You and me?”

“Yeah.” It’s a breath of sound, because I’ve lost the ability to talk. But he hears it. A gleam lights his eyes, his grip tightens a fraction, and he pulls me forward.

As if I’ve been waiting for it, I straddle his thighs, coming into contact with a considerable hard bulge. I want to grind myself against it but settle for resting on it now. Killian grunts low in his throat and slides me closer, holding on to my hips as if he’s worried I’ll run away. Not a chance.

For a second we just breathe, staring at each other as if trying to figure out how we got here. Killian looks me over, his expression relaxed but intent. Then he cups my cheek. His hand is huge, the skin rough. I want to kiss each callus. But I don’t move.

He touches my lower lip with the tip of his thumb. His gaze rests there, thoughtful, as he brushes his thumb back and forth. My lips part, my breathing light and agitated. I want him to kiss me so badly it aches. But he doesn’t.

His fingers trail down my neck, sending shivers along my skin. And he watches the path his hand takes. When he reaches my collarbone, he stops. His gaze lowers and a sound rumbles in his chest. It’s greedy, impatient. He cants his hips, a slow roll as if he’s already inside of me.

“You’ve been teasing me all day with this thin excuse for a top,” he murmurs, his voice dark and rough. I whimper, wiggling on his lap, so hot I can barely stand it. He cups my ass and, with little effort, hauls me up higher as he slides farther down in the seat.

The chair creaks in protest. Killian spreads his thighs wide, cradling me in his lap. I hold on to the hard curves of his shoulders.

Dark eyes roam. His breath gusts over my skin, his mouth so close to my aching nipple. “Barely covers those sweet little tits. You gonna show them to me now, Libby?”

God, his voice. It’s heated toffee, sticky and rich, coating my skin. It’s black magic, taking command of my body. I sway a bit, wanting to press myself against him, fighting for just a little longer because anticipation aches so sweet.

“You like me looking at you, Libby?”

I can only make a strangled sound.

“Yeah, I think you do.” His fingers twitch on my side, his gaze hot and needy on my breasts. “Lower your top, baby doll. Show me what I’ve been dreaming about for weeks.”

The sound of my own whimper turns me on. Beneath me, his erection pushes against my ass. I take a shuddering breath and slowly reach for the strap on my shoulder. The thin cotton slides easily down my arm. I shrug off the other side and the top slithers over my chest like a caress.

Killian’s breath turns choppy, his lips parting as if he needs more air.

The top reaches my hard nipples and clings, holding there.

We both go still. Heat licks over me, and I arch my back, lifting my breasts high. The top falls away.

Killian groans, long and deep. “Fuck yeah. So fucking gorgeous.” Soft lips brush one swollen nipple. “I knew they would be.”

He runs his parted lips back and forth, caressing me while I shake. The tip of his tongue flicks out for a quick taste, and my entire body jolts.

A hum of enjoyment rumbles in his chest. “You like that?”

I twitch as he idly peppers my breast with gentle kisses and his big hands run over my back. “Yes,” I whisper.

Killian hums again then angles his mouth and sucks me. I groan, arching into it. And there’s no more talking. Just Killian paying homage to my nipples. Killian cupping my small breasts in his hands, gentle, and not so gentle.

He stays content there, sucking and licking, pinching and nipping, like it’s his favorite thing in the world. And I pant, grind myself against his hard cock, the seam of my jeans digging into my sensitive flesh, and wanting to come so badly I have to grit my teeth.

“Killian.” It’s a whimper of need.

He hears it and lifts his eyes to mine. I’m so undone, I don’t notice his hands moving until they’re in my hair, tugging me to him. We meet in the middle, our kiss deep and messy but right to the heart of it, as if we both knew how it would be, as if we’ve been here before.

And yet every touch of his lips to mine, every slide of his tongue in my mouth is this new, brilliant white and searing hot thing, sending a jolt of feeling straight through me. Every time.

I fall into his kiss, sinking deep, needing more, more, more. I’m hot, sweaty. His body is a furnace, and I only want to get closer, skin to skin, slick and sliding.

My arms twine around his neck, my fingers combing along his newly shorn hair. The press of my aching breasts to his firm chest has us both groaning. He grips my shoulders, holds me tight.

I don’t know how long we stay there, making out like teens in the dark. Long enough that I grow dizzy, my body one big throb of want. Long enough that my jaw aches and my lips swell.

When he finally pulls back, it isn’t far. His lips brush mine as we breathe light and fast, both of us trembling.

“We should have been doing this all along,” he says against my mouth.

“All day long.” I touch his jaw, lightly kiss his swollen lips.

His eyes flutter closed, long lashes touching the crest of his checks. He turns in to me, running the tip of his nose against mine. “I knew it would be so good. I shouldn’t have held back the first time I wanted to kiss you.”

“When was that?” Everything feels languid, hot, slow. His touch, mine. I nuzzle his neck, drawing in the scent of his skin.

He smiles, small and smug. “When you threatened to shoot me.”

“I hated you then.”

A low hum vibrates in his throat. “You found me irresistible. You would have caved.”

“I would have bitten you.”

“Bite me now.”

That husky whisper has me moving, seeking his lips. I nip his lush bottom one, tugging at it gently, and he groans, drawing me in, slipping his slick tongue along mine. “Tell me you want this too, baby doll.”

“Want what?” I can’t think, my head is heavy, my limbs fumbling.

His dark eyes meet mine. “Everything.”

My finger shakes as I trace the dark line of his brow. His lids lower, his head tilting to follow my touch. I lean in, kiss the corner of his eye. “Only with you.”