Chapter 14 #4
"I was motivated."
"By what?"
He set his own glass down, slow and deliberate.
Took a step closer. "By the fact that you were standing in the back of that room wearing my name and I'd just spent seventy-two hours hunting down a criminal, playing the biggest game of my career, and not kissing you.
" Another step. "And I was tired of not kissing you. "
"You kissed me in the hallway."
"Not enough." His hand came up to her jaw, tilting her face up to his. "Not nearly enough."
"How much would be enough?"
"Let's find out."
He kissed her then—not the desperate claiming kiss from the hallway, but something slower, deeper.
His mouth moved against hers like he was learning her, cataloging what made her lean into him, what made her fingers tighten in his jacket.
His taste was already familiar, already addicting, and when his tongue swept against hers she made a small sound that he swallowed with a hum of satisfaction.
His other hand found her hip, thumb tracing slow circles where the jersey ended and her jeans began, the friction of denim and cotton and skin underneath making her acutely aware of every point of contact between them.
He smiled—that real, unguarded smile that transformed his entire face—and kissed her again. Deeper this time, his tongue against hers, his hand sliding up her ribs. She arched into the touch and felt him inhale sharply.
"You smell like hockey," she murmured against his mouth.
"Sorry."
"Don't be."
His hands grew bolder, ghosting up her ribs beneath the jersey, and she wanted that warmth, that rough skin all over her body with a fierceness that made her head light.
"You must be hungry," he said against her mouth. "You didn't eat anything during the game."
"Spying on me, D'Arcy?"
"I could barely focus on the puck. I kept looking to see if you were watching, wishing I was there to hear what you thought."
She hummed and rose on tiptoes to kiss his neck. He threw his head back with a groan.
"We can slow down," he said, voice rough. "I didn't mean to bring you here for this. Not only this."
"Maybe I brought you here for this."
He smiled but shook his head. "I don't want to rush this. "I plan on savoring you, Libby Bennet-Cross."
Libby pulled away just enough to look him in the eye. His face was flushed, his pupils blown wide. "Then stop talking about it," she whispered, "and take me to the bedroom, Mr. D'Arcy."
She had a split second to see the answering joy light his face before her feet left the ground and his mouth came down hot on hers. Seconds later, her back sank into the softness of his duvet.
But she wasn't looking at the view.
She pushed the shirt off his shoulders. He shrugged out of it, let it fall to the floor—Liam D'Arcy, who probably had never left clothes on the floor in his life, just dropped a thousand-dollar shirt like it didn't matter.
His hands found the hem of the jersey. "Can I?"
"Yes."
He pulled it over her head slowly, carefully, like it was something precious. She was left in her bra and jeans, feeling suddenly exposed under his gaze.
He was looking at her like he'd been given something he hadn't known he was allowed to want. The self-consciousness faded.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"You don't—"
"I'm not saying it to be polite." His hands settled at her waist, thumbs tracing the jut of her hipbones. "I've been thinking it since Portland when you fell asleep on my shoulder and I realized I was completely fucked."
"Trouble?"
"The kind where you can't stop thinking about someone even when it's completely impractical and possibly career-ending for both of you."
"How's that working out?"
"Still determining." He kissed her again, backing her toward the bed. "Ask me later."
They fell onto the mattress together, a tangle of limbs and laughter when he nearly kicked her in the shin. He braced himself above her, looking down with an expression that made her chest tight.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi."
Then he kissed her neck, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, and she stopped thinking in words at all.
His belt was complicated. She struggled with it until he huffed a laugh and helped her, fingers working the buckle with the same precision he brought to everything. The belt hit the floor. His pants followed.
He reached behind her, found the clasp of her bra. Paused, eyes meeting hers in silent question. She nodded, and he unhooked it slowly, sliding the straps down her arms like he was unwrapping something precious. When he kissed the curve of her shoulder where the strap had been, she shivered.
"Cold?" he asked against her skin.
"No."
His hands traced down her sides, thumbs hooking under the elastic of her underwear. "Lift up for me."
She did, and he pulled them down her legs and off, his gaze never leaving hers. Then he just looked at her—really looked—and the reverence in his expression made her feel beautiful in a way she'd never experienced.
"Liam—"
"I know." His voice was rough. "Me too."
She reached for his boxer briefs, but he stood, stepped back from the bed. Her breath caught as he shucked them off himself, and then he was back—covering her, skin to skin, eyes never leaving her face.
Skin against skin finally, and Libby wrapped herself around him.
"I want—" she started, then lost the words when his mouth found her breast.
"Tell me," he said against her skin. "Tell me what you want."
"You. This. All of it."
He reached for the nightstand, came back with a condom. She took it from him, opened it, and watched his face as she rolled it on—the way his jaw clenched, the control visibly fraying.
"Libby." Her name rough in his throat.
"I know."
He paused, searching her face one last time. "Libby?"
She arched into him, her hands pulling him closer, erasing any space between them. "No doubts. Not anymore."
He kissed her and pushed inside slowly, carefully, giving her time to adjust. She gasped against his mouth, hands digging into his shoulders.
"Okay?" he asked again, holding still despite the tension in every muscle.
"Move," she managed. "Please move."
He did.
It started desperate—all the pent-up wanting from two months of dancing around each other, of almost-kisses and careful distance.
Fast and urgent and absolutely necessary.
But somewhere in the middle, something shifted.
He slowed down, pulled back to look at her, his hand coming up to cup her face with unexpected tenderness.
"I've got you," he said quietly.
And she believed him.
The rhythm changed. Still intense but deeper now, less about the race to the finish and more about the discovery of each other.
The way she clenched around him when he hit a certain angle.
The sound he made when she said his name.
The moment when urgent became reverent and they stopped performing for each other and just were.
She came first, her back arching off the bed, his name breaking apart on her lips. He followed seconds later, his face buried in her neck, holding her tight.
They stayed tangled together while their breathing slowed. His weight was crushing and perfect. She traced patterns on his back, feeling the muscles jump under her fingers.
"We should—" he started.
"Don't move yet."
"Wasn't planning on it."
Eventually he rolled to the side, dealt with the condom, and immediately pulled her back against him. She went willingly, her head finding the space between his shoulder and chest that seemed designed for it.
"So," she said after a long moment of comfortable silence.
"So," he agreed.
"That was—"
"Yeah."
She laughed, surprised by how easy it was. How normal. "Very articulate, Captain."
"If you think I'm capable of any deeper thought right now..."
"Good."
His hand traced idle patterns on her shoulder. The room had gone quiet except for their breathing and the distant sound of the city below. She was nearly asleep when he spoke again.
"I need to tell you something."
The seriousness in his tone made her tense. "Okay."
"About Anne. About Paris." He shifted so he could see her face. "I should have told you weeks ago but I was—" He stopped. "I was afraid."
"Of what?"
"That you'd think I was exactly what you accused me of being.
The guy who manipulates situations. Who uses people.
" His thumb traced patterns on her shoulder, restless.
"Kate's been relentless about Anne and me getting back together.
Dynasty merger, perfect grandchildren, the whole nightmare.
Anne met Etienne two years ago and fell hard, but Kate refused to see him as anything but a phase. So Anne asked me for a favor."
Libby waited.
"Last summer I went to Paris. We staged this very public reconciliation attempt that failed spectacularly—Anne threw wine in my face at a charity gala, told me I was emotionally stunted and she'd rather die alone than marry someone incapable of actual feeling.
" He smiled slightly. "She's dramatic. It was effective. Kate finally backed off."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because our entire relationship was fake," he said quietly. "How could I explain I was involved in another fake-dating scheme while I was falling for you for real? It seemed—I don't know. Damning. Like proof you were right not to trust me."
"Liam—"
"I know it's not the same. I know Anne asked me, that it wasn't manipulation, but I still—" He looked at her directly.
"I was a coward. I chose silence because it was easier than admitting I'd been in love with you since you kicked my ass at gin rummy in Portland and I didn't know what to do about it. "
He looked at her, his expression raw, stripping away the last of his defenses. "I haven't been fake dating you since that night, Libby. I've just been dating you. You were the only one who didn't know."
She pushed up on her elbow. "You've been in love with me since Portland?"
"Earlier, probably. But Portland's when I knew I was in serious trouble."
"You were such an asshole after Portland," she murmured, tracing the line of his jaw.
"I panicked." His hand found hers, laced their fingers together. “I thought you were going to hate me when the truth came out, and my brilliant solution was to create distance before I could hurt you more. That worked brilliantly, as you noticed."
Libby kissed him—cut off whatever self-recrimination he was building toward. "You brought Wickham back," she said when they broke apart. "You pointed your stick at me on the jumbotron in front of twenty thousand people. You walked out of your own press conference. I think you've been pretty clear."
"I could be clearer." He met her eyes. "I love you. Not fake, not for show. Actually, terrifyingly in love with you."
Her throat went tight. "I love you too. Even though you're an idiot who confronts criminals in foreign countries without backup."
"We're going to fight about that."
"Extensively."
"Good." He pulled her closer. "I'm looking forward to it."