9. Nova
Chapter nine
Nova
“ N ot bad,” I say as I spin in the suite Cillian reserved for the night at the same hotel where the charity auction is going to be held later.
We’ve spent the last two days in Cillian’s hotel suite across town, which is just as elegant but much more understated. The second night I stayed, Cillian did, in fact, take me out on the town. We met Harper at Geraldine’s and she was nearly as smitten with the man as I am if the looks she kept shooting me were anything to go by. Harper has never needed to give me her stamp of approval, and honestly, I don’t think she ever has. When she hugged me goodbye before we left the bar, she leaned in and whispered, “I like this one, Chevy. Don’t fuck it up.” I’m not sure what she thinks is going to come of this, but there isn’t anything to fuck up. He has his life, and I have mine, but I’m having one hell of a good time in the moment, which is all I can ask for.
When we walked into this suite, there was a note on the ornate entryway table with a bottle of expensive champagne next to a vase of magnolias, thanking us for our stay. Considering this is one of four suites—and probably the most expensive—I’m more than happy to sip their champagne as I walk around the room, admiring the Renaissance-inspired paintings framed in thick gold.
The walls are covered with cream-and-gold baroque wallpaper, while the large windows overlook the courtyard of the hotel. The windows are layered with gauzy curtains, which give the room a hazy sort of feel, and pulled to the side are thick burgundy drapes that can be pulled closed to shut out the sun. The seating area in the living room is furnished with couches that look more stylish than comfortable, though I’m sure they're ridiculously expensive, with their floral velvet upholstery and intricately carved filigree on the arms and feet. Cillian walks to one side of the suite, opens the door, and disappears for a moment with our bags. He returns a few moments later, sans bag and suit jacket.
He decided it would be easier to hack the security systems from the comfort of a suite in the hotel rather than trying to hide somewhere after the gala. I was, of course, one hundred percent on board with the idea, especially since squeezing into a janitor’s closet for an undetermined amount of time didn’t strike me as particularly appealing.
Cillian checked us in under his fake persona: William Bentley. He’s a finance guy in New York who met the ever-charming and dazzling Southern belle, Charity, during a business trip to New Orleans three years ago. She was here with a few girlfriends for a bachelorette party, and it was love at first sight. The two travel to New Orleans every year to commemorate the fortuitous meeting, and over a beautiful candlelit dinner, the need to ask her to be his wife was so strong that he spontaneously popped the question. It was all very last minute and romantic— blah blah blah —but that left him with a fiancée and no engagement ring. Rather than buy any old extravagant and expensive ring off the street, she wanted to find something at the charity event they were scheduled to attend. She loves meerkats, after all.
The story is pretty close to what I usually go off when I’m working a bar like the one I met Cillian in as Charity. He came up with the rest on his own, and honestly, I have to say I was quite impressed with his flair for storytelling. Who would have guessed a lieutenant for the Irish mob would come up with such a romantic backstory?
Cillian walks up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “You should see the bathroom. The tub is big enough for four.” His lips trail the column of my neck as I tilt my head to the side, allowing him access to that sensitive spot he’s found right under my ear.
“Work first, play later,” I say regretfully, pulling myself away from him. I would love nothing more than to wrap myself up in Cillian right now, but there’s plenty to do before the event tonight.
Cillian growls and nips the skin of my neck. A squeal escapes me as I free myself from his hold.
“No love bites on my neck, mister. Think of the scandalous looks I’d get from all those very rich and very proper Southern women.”
Thankfully, the gown I found at a secondhand shop in the Quarter covers the bite mark that is still faintly visible on my neck from the first night I spent with him in his hotel room.
“Party pooper,” Cillian grumbles as he walks back into the bedroom and returns with his computer.
“You know, it’s funny. You were getting on me about not taking this seriously enough, and now you're the one pouting about not having a roll in the sheets.”
“First of all,” he starts as he lays his laptop on the low coffee table in front of the couch in the living room and takes a seat. “I don’t pout. Second, I want to fuck you in that huge bathtub—not the sheets.”
A bark of laughter escapes me. “My, how the tables have turned.”
“I heard the craziest thing the other day. It seems you can work and have fun at the same time. Shocking revelation really, but figured I’d give it a shot.”
“Oh, yeah?” My brow arches as he looks up from his computer. “Who told you that? They sound brilliant.”
“She is.” His dark gray stare sweeps over me. “And one of the most beautiful and enticing women I’ve ever met.”
I turn to study the painting I’m standing in front of, but I don’t really notice anything except the heat of the blush creeping up my fevered cheeks. I take another sip of champagne, hoping the alcohol will help me get my nerves back under control. I’ve never been good at receiving compliments. Jokes are one thing, but when Cillian looks at me and says shit like that, it unnerves me. He sees past my bravado and smart mouth. Sometimes it’s as though his gaze pierces into the deepest parts of me, and he likes what he finds there. It’s not something I’ve ever shown anyone. I had no intention of ever showing him either, but like most things I’ve come to realize with the man, my walls don’t matter to him. He finds a way to squeeze through no matter what. I don’t know if I love it or hate it. Right now, it’s a mix of both.
“And…I’m in,” he says before I turn back around.
“That was fast.”
“Told you I’m good with computers.”
“Do you hack into a lot of security feeds in your work?”
“I’ve been known to. Bank accounts, county records, things like that.”
“I had no idea the mob employed hackers.”
“It’s not all bullets and brawn. I discovered I had a knack for coding and figuring out ways into back channels. I used to hack into my school’s system and change my attendance records.”
“Not your grades?”
“I always had good grades, so no. I just had better things to do than go to school.”
“Are you trying to tell me you’re some sort of genius?”
“I was a smart kid who had more important things to do than go to class.”
I have a sneaking suspicion he’s downplaying things a bit, but I’m not going to push. It’s not my business. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, if someone wants to stay quiet, you let them. We all have our baggage, and I’ve never been one to press any issue. Especially considering I’m rarely, if ever, willing to do the same.
I sit next to him on the velvet couch, watching as his hands fly over the keyboard and the images on the screen change at a rapid pace. He toggles between windows, his gaze laser-focused.
“Okay, I’m set to go in later tonight.” Cillian sits back on the couch with his fingers linked behind his head, and a proud smile flashes on his face.
“Holy shit, that took hardly any time at all.” It’s been fifteen minutes at most.
“This shit is child’s play for me. Now come here.” He grabs me by the hips and jerks me onto his lap. “You said when we finished working, we could play.”
His lips find my throat as his hands move under the back of my shirt, trailing his soft touch over my skin. My fingers thread through his thick, dark hair. The simple touch of his lips and fingers sends electric shocks straight to my core. Watching him work on his computer had me squirming in my seat next to him. There’s something so damn sexy about a man confident in his abilities. The entire time Cillian was typing away, he absolutely oozed this sort of self-possession that I’ve come to attribute to him. He’s assured in his abilities in a matter of pretty much everything, and it’s something I find irresistible. It’s not the cocky bravado that would have me rolling my eyes. It’s a quiet sort of bold confidence that says he’s a man who can talk the talk and walk the walk—or hack into a security system within a few minutes. Or say he’s going to give me more orgasms than I can handle, then proceed to actually do it.
Yeah, I think I’ll take a few of those right about now.
My hips move back and forth on his lap, rubbing myself over his hardening length. I lean forward and fuse my mouth to his, nibbling at his lips while my hands travel from his shoulders to the buckle of his belt.
Then, a loud alarm from my phone sounds throughout the suite, dousing the need and excitement.
“Shit,” I breathe out and lean back. “It’s time to get ready.”
“I’ll make it quick,” Cillian says, his lips returning to my neck.
“What every girl longs to hear.”
He pulls back with a challenging grin on his face. “You doubt me?”
“That you could make it quick? No. I’ve had plenty of experience with that.”
“You’re a wretched woman,” he replies, narrowing his eyes.
“But Charity is sweet as sugar,” I say, using an exaggerated Southern accent. “And it takes time getting ready, so…” I pat his shoulder and lift myself from his lap, holding out my hand for him. “Come on, Billy, it’s time to get into character.”
“I prefer William. Billy Bentley sounds ridiculous.”
“William it is, then. Do I have any nicknames for you?” I ask as I walk into the bedroom where Cillian put our bags earlier. This is the first time I’m seeing it, and hot damn, if I thought the living room was completely over the top, it has nothing on the bedroom. A massive armoire sits against one wall, its wood ornately carved like the living room furniture and painted in gold and light-blue accents. On the opposite wall, the bed is a monstrous four-poster frame, raised high with thick dark blue drapes pulled aside and tied to each post. It looks like something that will completely envelop a person the second you sink into the mattress. That, I can definitely get behind. Cillian set my bag on the gold velvet settee in front of the bed, the soft, plush fabric adding to the luxurious feel of the entire suite. I grab all of the things that transform me into the demure Southern belle and head into the bathroom. Lo and behold, Cillian was right about the bathtub. The giant marble jacuzzi tub could easily fit four people. Hell, probably six.
“We will definitely be making use of you later,” I murmur, admiring the cream marble with gold veins. Jesus, this place spared no expense. The decor may not be up my alley, but I can certainly get behind living in the lap of luxury for a night. Setting my things on the marble counter that matches the bathtub, I unzip the large bag and pull out the blonde wig, my dress, a steamer—because Charity wouldn’t be caught dead in wrinkled fabric—my makeup, and the heels I borrowed from Harper.
Cillian enters the bathroom as I’m plugging in my steamer. “I need to take a shower. Care to join me?” His burning gaze tells me he has more in mind than just getting clean.
“No time,” I reply as I hang my dress on one of the gold hooks mounted on the bathroom wall.
Cillian shrugs as if my brush-off doesn’t faze him in the least and begins unbuttoning his shirt, exposing every inch of his defined chest and the tattoos that run down his thick arms as he slips it off his shoulders. Next, he undoes his belt and pulls his pants down his toned legs, stepping out of them and tossing them to the side. His grinning face meets mine when he slips his boxers off.
Damn him. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and if we didn’t have somewhere to be within the next hour, it would most likely work. He steps into the shower before turning the nozzle on. When I catch a glimpse of his delicious backside, I amend my earlier thought. It would definitely work. I mean, people are fashionably late to these things all the time, right?
Stop it, Nova. Don’t get distracted by the very sexy, very naked man in the shower five feet from you. Head in the game.
As I steam the dress in front of me, I glance at Cillian and the way he’s soaping up every inch of skin. My mouth waters as the suds from his body wash are rinsed down the drain. Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to be the one in there washing his back.
I shake my head and turn back to my task. “Focus,” I whisper to myself.
“What was that?” Cillian asks as he turns the water off and opens the shower door to grab a towel.
“Huh? I didn’t say anything.”
His grin tells me he heard exactly what I said as if the redness of my face and neck don’t already give it away.
When he steps out, he dries himself, and I turn toward the counter to lay out the makeup I need for Charity.
“No red lipstick?” Cillian asks when he sees the pale pink I usually wear as Charity.
“Charity is far too sweet for red.”
“You're pretty sweet yourself, and you wear red.”
“What about my personality screams sweet and demure? I must be doing something wrong if that’s the impression you have of me.”
He presses his damp front against my back and places a soft kiss to that spot between my shoulder and neck, sweeping his tongue out for a brief moment. “I wasn't talking about your personality.”
When he backs away, Cillian hangs his towel on a hook and walks into the bedroom, his firm ass on display for my viewing pleasure.
Double damn him.
Instead of letting him distract me further, I shut the door to the bathroom and the view of him from my wandering gaze. His faint chuckle sounds through the wood.
Asshole.
It doesn’t take too long to slip into my disguise—or work uniform, as I like to think of it. I’ve done this so many times it’s like slipping into a second skin. After I’ve donned the wig and painted my lips the soft pink that’s pretty but so not my style, I open the door and step into the bedroom. Cillian is sitting on the bed, reading something on his phone, before he looks up at me and smiles.
“I remember you. Charming girl with sticky hands.”
“Hmm. Maybe keep that meet-cute to ourselves. At least for tonight.”
“Trust me, no one would believe me if I told them.”
I laugh and turn around. “Can you help me with my zipper?” The dress I’m wearing is a sleeveless, flowy little number adorned with a print that looks like pastel watercolor flowers. Very ladylike and pretty. But the zipper goes all the way up the halter-style neck, making it a bitch to get on by myself.
“Are you nervous about tonight?” I ask after he zips me up as I sit on the settee and slip into my heels.
“Not particularly. I have every faith in our ability to pull this off.” Cillian grabs his jacket from a hanger and puts it on, giving me the full William Bentley effect. Instead of his hair loosely styled and swept to the side, he has it slicked back with gel, making him look like one of those finance douches in the movies.
“Did you even have to buy something for this thing?”
He looks absolutely delicious, but I have a feeling he lives in suits when he isn’t in New Orleans. Not that he dresses down in a T-shirt and jeans, but he’s usually without the jacket and tie.
“Nope. I had it in my suitcase. These I grabbed from the store down the street while you were getting ready.” He pulls a pair of thick black-rimmed glasses from his pocket and slides them on his face.
“Nice touch. Very Clark Kent.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” He holds out his arms, allowing me to loop mine through before brushing his lips lightly over mine. “Charity or Nova, you look absolutely stunning tonight.”
I give him a small smile as I try my damndest not to melt in a puddle of goo at his feet. It’s not so much the nerves of being in a room with a bunch of rich assholes for the evening or the heist that’s getting to me. It’s Cillian, wearing his dark suit and pale-blue silk tie that somehow matches the blue in my dress. It’s how damn good he looks in a pair of glasses and a clean-shaven face. It’s the idea of his stubble rubbing against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs later.
“Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I respond, and we head out the door.