Chapter Twenty-Three

They both moved at the same time, reaching for one another, meeting in the middle in a tangle of need.

Ian sank one hand into her hair, the other wrapping around her, holding her tight against his chest as she wrapped one arm around his shoulders, her other hand clutching his biceps. She didn’t feel the same as he remembered, her breasts fuller against him even as she seemed more delicate in his arms—but the rush, the sheer momentum of them, that was the same. They’d never been able to get enough of one another.

She pulled him into the house, the screen door slapping shut behind them, and Ian kicked the front door closed without breaking the kiss.

He’d told himself, on the drive back here, all the reasons this was a bad idea. But his libido had a rebuttal for all of them.

She was leaving—so he wouldn’t get attached. Sadie was already too attached to Maggie—but Sadie wasn’t here. She would have no way of knowing if anything happened and what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. It would complicate things, sex always complicated things—but why did it have to? They weren’t kids anymore. They were both consenting adults. As long as they were clear about what this was and what it wasn’t, no one had to get hurt.

And he wanted her like he wasn’t sure he’d ever wanted anyone in his life.

Ian walked her backward through the kitchen, moving by memory until she bumped against a box and stumbled, breaking the kiss. He caught her before she could fall, glancing around them at the floor and releasing a groaning laugh at the boxes scattered across the kitchen and living room. “I see you booby-trapped the place.”

“I was sorting. There’s a system.”

“I love a system,” he murmured, distracted by the full softness of her lower lip. He kissed her again and that familiar momentum carried them away. He didn’t know how long they kissed like that, only that she was pinned against the doorframe, one of her knees hooked over his hip, and both of her arms twined around his neck, when he lifted his head again. “Bedroom?”

She nodded, her eyes dazed, and he reached to lift her into his arms, but she was already slipping away, catching his hand and leading him through the maze of boxes to the bedroom, where—thank God—the bed was clear.

She dropped his hand and turned to face him. Toeing off her shoes, she sank down onto the bed, scooting backwards with her chin lowered, casting him a sultry look through her lashes, gently biting her lower lip—and he was hit with a sudden sense of déjà vu.

Not from when they were kids. From the love scene in Alien Huntress 2. He’d seen that exact look on the big screen.

Was she acting? Did she think that was what he wanted? Some fantasy version of her?

Her bedroom eyes dimmed as she read something on his face. “What’s wrong?”

“I, uh…” Would she be offended if he told her he didn’t want a performance? He didn’t think she’d been faking it in the kitchen, but now all that frantic momentum seemed to have retreated into something staged.

“Do you have a condom?” she asked, and he leapt on the words.

“In the truck.” He was suddenly grateful he hadn’t thought to bring one. With Maggie posed on the bed in Alien Adventuress mode, he felt awkward, like maybe this was a mistake after all. “Should I…?”

“Yeah.” Her gaze flickered uncertainly. “I mean, if you want to…?”

“I’ll be right back.”

* * * * *

Maggie watched Ian bolt from the room like he couldn’t get away from her fast enough. She tried to tell herself that he was just that eager to get the condom and get back, but she’d seen something shift on his face when he looked down at her on the bed.

It wasn’t the first time she’d seen that look on a man’s face, though usually the disappointment that she hadn’t lived up to the fantasy didn’t set in until the morning after.

She was the ultimate prize—thrilling to chase after, but once she was caught…

Maggie sat on the bed, wondering if she should strip off her sweater and jeans and arrange herself on the bed to try to recapture that moment of frantic heat from the kitchen. Everything had been so good until they moved to the bedroom, but she should have known the good couldn’t last.

In her experience men didn’t want her, they wanted the idea of her they’d built up in their heads. She shouldn’t have expected Ian to be any different.

She heard the front door open and shut again and watched the doorway to living room as Ian appeared, silhouetted by the light from the living room behind him. “Hey,” he murmured.

“Hey,” she said softly, slanting him an inviting look beneath her lashes, the look that photographers always begged for when she did magazine covers.

A frown tightened Ian’s brows and her internal siren shriveled, but she kept up the performance, crawling toward him across the bed and biting her lip. She reached toward him and Ian caught her hand, stopping her. “Maggie…”

“What is it?”

He studied her face. “Do you want this?”

“Of course.” She tried to reach for him again and he caught her other hand, stepping forward so they were facing one another, her kneeling on the bed and him standing beside it holding both of her hands.

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

She shook her head, avoiding his gaze. “I’m not.”

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea.” He stepped back, dropping her hands.

“That was faster than usual,” she muttered, dropping back to sit on her heels.

Ian frowned. “What does that mean?”

Frustration made her feel sharp and restless, but she just shrugged. “You all want the fantasy.”

“That isn’t—” He started to argue, but she cut him off.

“There’s no point denying it. I’ve been proposed to more times than I can count by men who have literally never met me. They don’t know me and they don’t want to. They want who they think I am, this idea of me they have in their heads. All of you do. ‘They go to bed with Gilda and wake up with me.’”

“Rita Hayworth,” he said and she blinked, surprised he’d recognized the quote. “Except I don’t want Gilda. And I don’t want the Alien Adventuress. I’ve seen that movie and that’s not what I’m here for.”

“You sure about that?”

“Maggie. Yes. I’m sure. Are you?” He stepped closer to the bed, grabbing her ankle and tugging her toward him so she slid across the comforter. He bent, sliding his hand into her hair and lowering his forehead until it almost touched hers. “Stop trying to give me Gilda. I want you. Stop trying to perform and feel this.”

He kissed her—and she tried. She tried to turn off the comfortable distance of the performance. She tried to throw herself into the moment. But the doubts were whispering in the back of her mind now, all the old insecurities, and she couldn’t make them stop. Their chemistry had always been incendiary, but she couldn’t quite make herself believe he really wanted the real her, exactly as she was.

She fell back onto the bed, pulling him with her, the weight of him firm and strong in her arms. As they shoved aside their clothes, her thoughts kept trying to get in the way, but Ian seemed determined to drown them out with need. He seemed to be able to sense the second she was slipping out of the moment—and with a brush along the side of her neck, a kiss along her collarbone, he brought her back to him.

“Just feel, Maggie,” he murmured, his breath caressing her ear, then he was moving down her body—and all her doubts short-circuited.

This was Ian whispering that she was beautiful. Ian with his hands sliding across her skin. Ian’s beard tickling the tender skin of her stomach. His hair thick and soft beneath her fingers. His strong shoulders pressing her thighs apart. His tongue—

Maggie arched, gasping, digging her heels into the mattress, squeezing her eyes shut tight against the surge of sensation. “Fuck. Ian.” He hummed and her limbs jerked at the jolt of vibration shooting across her nerve endings. “Please,” she whispered, repeating the word over and over again, the only one that seemed to make sense to her addled brain. Then something flicked, something pressed, and she was falling apart, shaking her head as if she could deny it, but he was there stroking her hair away from her face, soothing her, holding her together, reminding her it was him.

She’d become an expert at acting the part, but this time the breathlessness was real. The connection was real.

She was still boneless when he shifted away from her, reaching for something—the condom? But it wasn’t protection in his hand when he rolled back to her. He tapped something on his cell phone, bringing up a playlist—their songs—and then he was kissing his way down her body to start all over again, making her feel until she wanted to cry.

She could tell herself this was just another role to play, but her body knew the difference. Her heart knew it too. And later, when he slid inside her, his black eyes inches from hers, his kiss slow and decadent, as if they had nothing but time, as if they had the rest of their lives, that zing of connection frightened her to the bottom of her soul—but she’d already surrendered to it. There’d never been any holding back from Ian.

As he began to slowly drive into her, twisting the crank of her desire to ratchet her up again, she dug her fingers into his shoulders, both of their skin slick, nothing photogenic or pretty about the need, the gasp, and the rough jolt of his body against hers—nothing staged or choreographed as she lost all sense of place inside the moment.

Just pure, raw perfection. And him.