Headlights & Heat
Chapter forty-one
Declan
The second the door shuts, I’ve got Marlow’s face in my hands. I don’t even wait for the driver to pull away—I drag her mouth to mine like I’ve been holding my breath all night.
Her lips part under mine and we’re a mess immediately—tongues colliding, tasting, taking. She’s warm, sweet, intoxicating, and I can’t get close enough.
My wife.
The thought hits me harder than the kiss.
The way she stormed into that club tonight proved it—she’s finally stopped fighting what’s been burning between us since the moment we met.
From the second I heard men try to win her in those pods, I knew.
I claimed her instantly. She’s mine. And since that day, I’ve never wanted anything so completely.
I fist her ponytail, tugging until her head tilts back, her neck bared just for me.
The sight makes me salivate. I sink my teeth into her skin, hard enough to make her jolt, and the sound she lets out nearly undoes me.
I soothe the sting with my tongue, dragging a slow, wet line from her collarbone all the way to her ear.
She moans and it sparks through me, sharp and electric.
Her hands slide under my jacket, clutching at me like she’s staking her own claim. Every tug, every scratch of her nails through the fabric is proof—she wants me just as fiercely.
I kiss her harder, sucking at her bottom lip, swallowing the little sound she makes. The driver is a ghost, the city nothing but a blur. All I see is her, all I feel is her heat, her fight, her surrender—finally, fully, mine.
She laughs against my mouth, but it turns into a gasp when I fist my hand in her hair again, tilting her head so I can kiss her deeper. My other hand stays locked on her cheek, thumb brushing the soft line of her jaw as if it’ll brand me with the memory later.
She claws at me—my jacket, my shoulders, anything she can anchor herself to—dragging me in until her body is pinned against the window. The glass fogs, the driver shifts uncomfortably, but I couldn’t care less. The world can burn outside this car for all I care. Right now, there’s only her.
Her taste floods my mouth, sweet and sensual. The small, needy sounds she makes when I take her bottom lip between my teeth take me apart in ways I’ll never admit. She writhes beneath me, restless and desperate, and Christ—so am I.
Her mouth is wild, perfect. She’s a fucking storm—and I want to drown in it.
Her hand slips lower, bold, teasing, pressing against the ache that’s been torturing me since the second she stormed into my life. My wife. And I’ve never wanted anyone, anything, more than I want her.
The quiet click of the partition breaks through as the driver gives us some privacy. And then we’re alone. No audience. No restraint.
She knows it too. I see it in the flicker of her eyes before she shifts, sinking down, her gaze locked on mine as she kneels at my feet.
“Marlow,” I breathe, voice tight. “My love, you don’t have to. I can wait until we get home—”
Her hands work my zipper as if I haven’t said a word. “What if I can’t…wait?” She asks, and silences me with a single lick, her tongue tasting me, teasing me, claiming me.
“Fuck.” The word rips from my chest, raw and reverent, because she’s taken the last of my control with one slow sweep of her tongue.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers against me before dragging her mouth the length of my shaft, deliberate and slow, like she’s savoring her favorite sin.
“For what?” My voice is a growl, my grip tightening in her hair, but I can’t think of a single reason this woman should ever apologize.
“For assuming the worst of you,” she says, tilting her head just so, before she swallows me whole—deep, perfect, her throat tightening around me until my vision blurs.
“Good fucking girl,” I groan, the words pulled from the center of me as I fist her ponytail, guiding her mouth over me again and again.
The windows are fogged, the air thick with heat, and the backseat pulses with the filthy, unrestrained sounds of my wife taking me deeper. It’s all so beautiful—her gasps, her sucks, her chokes as she strains for air—breaking me apart with every inch that she takes me deeper.
And heavens me, my wife is apologizing in the only way she knows how…with devotion on her lips and the most devastatingly sensual surrender I’ve ever witnessed.
Each movement of her mouth is a confession, each gasp a vow. She’s unraveling me, until there’s nothing left but need and the violent thrum of desire coursing through my veins.
“Look at me,” I rasp, and when her eyes lift—dark, glistening, locked on mine—it’s over. I’m done. Ruined. I’ll always be ruined for her. My wife. My salvation. Mrs. fucking Agassi.
She doesn’t falter. Doesn’t stop sucking. Doesn’t stop taking me deeper, like her only purpose in this world is to bring me to my knees.
“I want to see what my wife’s face looks like when I empty myself down her throat.”
She nods, giving me permission, giving me everything. Approval. Access. Her devotion, written in the silent shimmer of her gaze.
I cradle her face in my palms, the only softness I have left to give, before I surrender to the hunger that’s been clawing at me all night. I thrust into her mouth, hard, desperate, relentless, until my release tears through me and I spill every last piece of myself down her throat.
And as she swallows me—every drop, every ragged moan—I realize this is what forgiveness feels like. This is what it feels like to absolve the only woman who has ever had the power to destroy me.
For her, I’ll forgive anything.