“Have I mentioned how much I appreciate this new skirt-filled wardrobe?” I whisper, drawing circles along her skin.

“Brenna’s idea.” Her hips shift just a bit, following my touch. “Right now I’m missing my shorts.”

I smile, my eyes on the screen, my fingers drifting to the edge of her panties. “Later, you can put them on and we’ll play Fuck the Farmer’s Daughter.”

She stifles a laugh, which turns to a strangled whimper when I pluck her panties. Her voice goes breathy. “I’m trying to watch the damn movie. I’m not interested in fooling around.” She moves a tiny fraction, nudging against my finger.

In the dark, I grin, heat and lust pulling my abs tight. “I’m sorry,” I say, not sorry at all. “But I don’t believe you. I’m gonna have to check.”

“Killi—oh, hell.”

I’m thinking the same as my finger slides over slick, swollen skin. And it makes me feel like a fucking god. Because I did that to her. I’m the one who gets her this wet. The one she needs. I’m the one she’s panting for right now, moving against my touch with a tiny whimper.

I’ll make it better. It’s my job now. My privilege. And I’ll be damned if anyone tries to take that away.

Libby

I really should stop Killian. We’re playing with fire, fooling around in so many public places. A reporter just implied that I whored myself to him. And here he is fingering me in a movie theater.

I should protest, but the man is a damn musician; he plays my body like a master, never missing a beat. I can’t resist that. I don’t want to, not when each sure, sly touch sends heat and pleasure shimmering over my skin. Not when I can almost feel him holding in a grin, his shoulder pressed against mine, his eyes on the screen as he oh-so-gently circles my clit.

He plunges a finger into me, and it’s all I can do not to moan and part my thighs wide, ride his hand. I struggle to keep still, keep my eyes on the fire fight playing out in some distant galaxy.

God, he’s too good. Every time he pushes in, his finger crooks, hitting a spot that has me biting my lip. I can feel myself getting wetter, my flesh plumping. Beneath the sound effects and music of the movie, I can hear the sounds of him working me—wet and deep, slow and steady torture.

My head falls back against the seat, my breath coming in sharp bursts. Above the waist, I’m still, my hand only shaking a bit as I take a bite of caramel corn, pretending all is normal. But below, my thighs part wider—the simple act illicit and ratcheting up the tension in me—my hips make small movements, pushing each thrust of his finger in deeper.

Another whimper escapes me. Killian leans in, his lips close to my ear. “Shh…I’m trying to watch the movie.”

The rat bastard gives my clit a flick with the tip of his thumb. I twitch, and he plunges two fingers in deep. My lids flutter, my heart pounding. I’m going to kill him. Soon.

“Mmm…” he says, his thumb continuing to fondle me. “I love this part. Such a sweet movie.”

My breaths are coming fast and light. Heat swarms my body. The fact that someone might see, that we could get caught, intensifies everything.

Maybe I should be ashamed of that, but I can’t be. Not when an orgasm is stealing over me, creeping like a hot hand over my thighs, down my back, along my breasts.

It catches and holds, taking my breath. I stiffen against the seat, practically vibrating.

Killian’s deep voice, barely a whisper in the dark, is at my ear. “This one is mine. Give me what’s mine, baby doll.” Teeth nip my lobe, his fingers pushing up into that spot. “Come.”

And I do. All shuddering, repressed breaths, body shaking, my thighs squeezing against his hand. I come so hard I see stars behind my closed eyes. As I sag into the soft seat, he leaves me with a last, lingering caress—a gentle tap as if rewarding me for a job well done.

I should kick him for that. But I can’t move. He’s destroyed me.

“Jerk,” I whisper without heat.

His shoulder nudges mine. “You can take your revenge later.”

I glance at him then, only when I can finally meet his gaze without showing how much he affects me. His dark eyes glitter in the flickering light. When I try my best to reprimand him with a look, he grins wide. Impossible to resist. I don’t know why I even try.

Taking a quick glance around to see if anyone is watching, I lean in and give the hard swell of Killian’s biceps a soft kiss. His muscles twitch in surprise, but then he sighs, his long body slouching down in the seat.

His hand finds mine in the darkness between us. In a low voice only for me, he speaks one last time. “Baby doll, I could assert my manly dominance, thump my chest, and declare you’re mine. But it wouldn’t mean a damn thing if I’m not yours in return.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Killian

My mood is mellow now. Getting Libby off will do that for me. I take my time heading out when the movie’s over. Eventually I’ll meet her in the suite. She’ll draw us a bath, insisting that we have a nice, hot soak to end the day. She always does. Libby is a creature of habit, and I find that oddly soothing. Whatever craziness life throws my way, I want her there, calm and steady.

Scottie is standing by the exit door, arms crossed, feet planted. His expression is granite. In other words, he’s ticked. Why he’s glaring at me instead of Brenna and Rye, or even Whip and that reporter, I don’t know.

“What’s up?” I ask. “Someone talk during the movie? Or are you still pissed Han died?”

His eyes narrow. “Some things we don’t joke about, Killian.”

Right. Brenna had told me she was almost one-hundred-percent sure Scottie cried when they first went to see the movie. I didn’t know the man could produce tears.

“Maybe it was a fake-out,” I tell him. “You know, he’s really hanging on some scaffolding, waiting for Billy Dee to pick him up… Right. No more talking about Han.”

Scottie grunts and walks with me out to the lobby. It’s fairly empty now, hangers on and crew having gone off to the next party.

“You’re not as circumspect as you’d like to believe,” he tells me.

Confused, I glance at him. He glares right back.