Page 50 of The Dark Before Light

Gritting my teeth against the reaction in my traitorous body, I shift back again. But this time my gown’s slippery material works against me and I slide right into Kieran’s chest. Large hands clamp on my waist. He makes a soft, guttural sound that vibrates between my legs. My breath stalls as sensation overloads me—his hard thigh against my ass, the strength and promise in his hands, the furnace-like heat he gives off. Even the brush of his jacket against my bare skin feels erotic.

Dylan bolts from the limo. The door closes.

“No touching,” I force out.

But I can’t move, and he doesn’t release my waist or even snark about the fact I touched him first. He looms behind me, huge and dark and virile. His fingers twitch, digging into the soft bodice of my gown as he tugs me harder against his thigh. I suck in a harsh breath that wants to release as a moan.

The limo rolls forward slowly.

“Talia,” he whispers, hot breath on the back of my neck. “Tell me you feel this.”

“I can’t.” The voice that comes out of me is tortured, clogged with desire.

“Why?” he lashes back. “I’ll get another fucking therapist. Just say the word.”

“That won’t change anything.”

His frustration comes out in a growl. “Are you seeing someone? Is that it?”

I grasp the excuse with both hands. “Yes.”

His hands drop immediately. I scramble across the seat, almost hugging the door as we pull to a stop at the red carpet. My thighs are slick, my breaths fast and shallow.

“At least tell me it’s not Toasty.”

It takes me a second to place the ridiculous nickname. “No. Not Alan.”

The limo stops. The back door opens. Dylan offers me his hand, and I lunge for it like I would a lifeline.

Chapter 15

Kieran

She lied about seeing someone. I know that now. If I’d been thinking straight, I wouldn’t have even asked. My gut tells me Stirling is a loyal woman; if she’d met someone in the last two weeks and was invested in a new relationship, she never would have come to my house last Friday. She certainly wouldn’t have stripped to a thong and joined me in the jacuzzi, no matter how dedicated she is to my therapy. And she wouldn’t keep looking at me with such desperate, conflicted need in those golden-brown eyes.

On the other hand, I’m a grown man. I was raised to respect a woman’s words and boundaries, and Stirling has been clear—repeatedly—that she doesn’t want to explore what’s happening between us. Even if her body is screaming the opposite—that she wants me as much as I want her.

I’m still mulling the mess of it all an hour later. Seated next to my brother at a table near the stage, I sip a glass of sparkling water and watch Stirling. She stands fifteen feet away with Gail in a pocket of empty space. My sister-in-law chatters nonstop, oblivious to the undercurrent from nearby tables. The side glances and outright stares—curious, covetous, and in a fair number of cases, scandalized. All directed at the woman who shines brighter in her silky black gown and tiny bird pendant than those wearing sequins and dripping diamonds.

If I didn’t know Stirling, I’d think she was relaxed and comfortable. Enjoying herself, even.

She’s not.

Beneath her beautiful mask of congeniality is a snarling animal pacing in its cage. She’s highly aware of the stares, the whispers that accompanied our entrance and continue to follow her like a mist. She hates the attention.

Right now, she probably hates me. But I’m not her enemy. Half the reason I blackmailed her into coming tonight was to wrap her in the legitimacy of my name. Okay, maybe not half the reason. But a solid fifteen percent.

She’ll hate me for sure if she realizes I’m trying to protect her. But for all her understanding of the human psyche, she’s never been run through the toxic grinder of trash media. She may not even know that her cover of anonymity—which cracked with that first article—was officially blown three days ago.

Someone from her old life sold her out for a quick buck. Her career as a dominatrix is now circulating, including an anonymous interview that doesn’t skimp on details. And the details are… inflammatory.

As far as I know, Stirling hasn’t felt the repercussions yet. But it’s only a matter of time. As gifted a therapist as she is, her famous clients will be second-guessing their association with her. Their publicists and managers will be demanding they cut ties.

I have someone tracking down the anonymous asshole’s identity. While it would feel lovely to break his face with my fist, I’m mature enough to know there are less violent and more efficient ways to make him regret being born.

“I’m curious—” starts Alistair.

“No, you’re not,” I snap.

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