20. Declan #2
"Doesn't matter." I slide my hands up slightly, just to mid-thigh, still over her shorts. "I should have told you about the marriage from the beginning. Should have been honest instead of strategic. So I'm sorry, and I need you to believe that."
"I believe you." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "I do, I just—"
"Just what?" I'm watching her face, cataloging every microexpression.
"I'm scared." The admission comes out broken. "That we're moving too fast again. That we'll get caught up in each other and it'll explode and this time Maeve's in the middle of it and I can't—"
"We're going slow." I remind her gently. "You set the pace. Whatever you're comfortable with."
She looks at me for a long moment, something shifting in her expression. "What if I want this? Right now?"
My hands still on her thighs. "Want what?"
"You." She leans forward slightly, close enough that I can smell vanilla and the mint of her toothpaste. "Making me feel good. Reminding me what it was like before everything got complicated."
Heat floods through me—want and need and eight years of deprivation. But I force myself to stay still, to not just take what she's offering without making sure.
"You're exhausted. Emotional. Not thinking clearly—"
"I'm thinking perfectly clearly." Her hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing over my jaw. "I want you to touch me. Want to feel something good after a week of feeling terrible. Can you do that?"
I turn my head, press a kiss to her palm. "I can do that."
"Then do it." Not a question. A demand.
I slide my hands up her thighs, bunching the fabric of her sleep shorts. She lifts her hips without prompting and I peel them down slowly, giving her every opportunity to change her mind, to tell me to stop.
She doesn't.
The shorts hit the floor and I'm looking at her—really looking at her—in a way I’ve been aching to for so long. She's not wearing underwear, just bare and perfect and already wanting if the way her thighs are trembling is any indication.
I press my lips to her knee, feel her jump at the contact. It's been eight years since I kissed someone else's skin. Eight years since I let myself want anyone. But this isn't just anyone—this is her, and I remember exactly how to make her fall apart.
I work my way up the inside of her left thigh, pressing soft kisses to warm skin.
She tastes like the lavender body wash she's always used, smells like vanilla and something uniquely hers that I'd recognize anywhere.
Her hand comes up to grip my hair, not pulling yet but holding on like she needs the anchor.
"Declan—" My name is breathy, uncertain.
"Shh." I kiss higher, dragging my lips over sensitive skin. "Let me apologize properly."
I take my time, switching to her other thigh and starting at the knee again. Slow, deliberate kisses that make her squirm. Her fingers tighten in my hair, legs spreading wider to give me better access.
"Please." She's trying to keep quiet—mindful of Maeve sleeping in the next room—but need is making her voice rough. "Stop teasing."
"Not teasing." I press a kiss to where her thigh meets her hip, feel her entire body shudder. "Savoring."
But she's right—I've made her wait long enough. I press a kiss directly to her center and she gasps, hips jerking off the couch. I grip her thighs, hold her steady, and do it again.
She's perfect like this. Head thrown back, one hand fisted in my hair, the other gripping the couch cushion. Trying desperately to stay quiet while I take her apart with my mouth.
I've missed this. Missed her. The taste of her, the sounds she makes, the way her thighs tremble against my shoulders when I find the right spot and focus there. Years of nothing and now I'm drowning in her and it's not enough, will never be enough.
My hands roam over her—up her ribs, across her stomach, back down to grip her hips. I can't stop touching her, can't get enough of the feeling of her skin under my palms, warm and alive and here.
She's close, I can tell by the way her breathing's changed, the way she's pulling at my hair hard enough to hurt. I double down, use everything I remember about what she likes, and she comes apart on my tongue with a muffled cry that she buries against her own arm.
I work her through it, gentle now, until she's pushing at my head in oversensitivity. Then I press soft kisses to her inner thighs again, to her hip bones, her stomach where her shirt's ridden up.
I'm painfully hard, have been since she asked me to touch her, and feeling her come nearly pushed me over the edge. But this isn't about me—this is about her, about showing her what it means when I say I'm here for her.
I kiss my way back down, press my lips to her knee one more time before standing. She's sprawled on the couch, boneless and looking thoroughly wrecked in the best way.
I lean down, press a kiss to her forehead. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Wait—" She's struggling to sit up, one hand reaching for me. "You're leaving?"
"Starting slow, remember?" I brush a thumb over her cheek, gentle. "This was an apology, not an expectation."
"But you—" Her eyes drop to the obvious evidence of my arousal. "You didn't—"
"Doesn't matter." I kiss her forehead again because I can't help myself. "This was about making you feel good. Showing you I meant what I said about being here for you."
"Declan—"
"Tomorrow." I force myself to step back, to move toward the door before I change my mind. "I'll be here tomorrow. With breakfast and whatever else you need."
She's still staring at me, looking confused and satisfied and slightly dazed. I memorize the image—Zola on her couch, beautiful and mine in a way she hasn't been in eight years—and make myself leave before I do something stupid like beg to stay.