CHAPTER 22 Declan
The second her mouth opens beneath mine, the sterile, bright environment of the medical bay completely ceases to exist.
I don't feel the cold stainless steel of the examination table under my thighs.
I don't feel the sharp, pulling ache of the fresh sutures in my left shoulder.
I only feel her. The heat of her palms pressing flat against my bare chest, the soft, desperate sound she makes in the back of her throat, the chaotic, beautiful way she leans into the violence of my kiss.
She isn't fragile. She isn't breaking. She is matching the exact frequency of my obsession and returning it with a hunger that makes my blood run cold.
I wrap my right arm around her waist, gripping the soft cotton of her t-shirt, and pull her forward. She steps between my spread knees, her thighs brushing against the heavy, tactical fabric of my pants.
The friction is a sudden, blinding jolt of heat.
I break the kiss, gasping for air, my forehead resting against hers.
"You are entirely too far away," I murmur, my voice a dark, rough vibration that echoes in the quiet room.
I don't wait for her to process the statement. I grip her hips, my fingers digging into the soft flesh just above the waistband of her sweatpants, and lift her off the floor.
Maeve gasps, her hands flying up to grip my uninjured shoulder to steady herself. I pull her forward, settling her directly onto my lap. Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively, her soft center pressing flush against the heavy, aching rigidness behind my zipper.
I groan, the sound harsh and guttural, my head falling back slightly as the sheer, overwhelming physical reality of having her exactly where I want her overrides my higher brain functions.
"Declan," she breathes, her voice trembling.
She shifts her weight slightly, trying to find her balance on my lap, and the movement sends a violent shudder straight down my spine.
I bring my head back up, my dark eyes locking onto hers. The pupils are blown wide, leaving only a thin ring of amber. She looks terrified, exhausted, and completely ruined by desire.
"Do not move," I command softly, my right hand sliding up her spine to tangle in the messy knot of her hair. "If you move again right now, I am going to lose whatever fragment of control I have left, and I am going to hurt you."
She goes completely still. Her breathing is shallow, her chest rising and falling rapidly against mine.
"I'm not afraid of you," she whispers, though the tremor in her hands betrays the lie.
"You should be."
I pull her mouth back down to mine. The kiss is slower this time, a methodical, devastating exploration.
I trace the seam of her lips with my tongue, demanding entry, and she gives it to me instantly.
I sweep inside, tasting the faint, lingering flavor of the peppermint tea she drank earlier, mixed with the sharp, metallic edge of adrenaline.
I slide my hand from her hair down to the hem of her black t-shirt. I grip the fabric, pulling it up and over her head in one smooth motion. I toss the shirt blindly over my shoulder; it lands somewhere near the biohazard bin.
She is wearing the same plain black cotton bra from the penthouse in Miami.
I break the kiss, my eyes dropping to her chest. Her skin is pale, flushed with heat, her breasts rising and falling rapidly. The dark, angry bruises on her neck are a stark, violent contrast to the soft vulnerability of her body.
I reach up, my thumb tracing the edge of the black cotton cup.
Maeve shivers, her hands gripping my biceps tightly. She doesn't try to cover herself. She sits perfectly still under the bright surgical light, letting me look at her. Letting me claim the visual territory.
"You are beautiful," I say, the words a quiet, absolute fact.
I reach around to her back, my fingers finding the metal clasp of her bra. I unhook it with a quick flick of my wrist, the tension in the fabric snapping loose. I pull the straps down her arms, discarding the garment onto the examination table beside us.
She is completely exposed to me.
I don't rush. I trace the curve of her collarbone with my index finger, moving down to the soft swell of her breast. Her nipple is tight, pebbled from the cold air of the medical bay and the heavy, suffocating tension between us.
I lean forward, replacing my finger with my mouth.
I draw the sensitive peak between my lips, my tongue swirling over the tight bud before sucking gently.
Maeve cries out, a sharp, shattered sound, her spine arching backward. Her hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer, her hips instinctively pressing down against mine.
The friction is agonizing. I am fully dressed, trapped behind layers of tactical fabric, and the pressure of her moving against me is pushing me dangerously close to the edge.
I move to her other breast, giving it the same slow, devastating attention. I bite down lightly, just enough to elicit a sharp gasp, before soothing the sting with my tongue.
She is unraveling. The chaotic, defensive auditor is completely gone, replaced by a woman who is entirely consumed by the physical reality of my mouth on her skin.
"Declan, please," she begs, her voice breaking. She tugs at my hair, trying to pull my face back up to hers. "I can't... I need..."
I lift my head. Her eyes are glazed, her lips parted and wet.
"What do you need?" I ask, my voice a dark, rough rasp.
"You," she whispers. "I need you to stop making me wait."
I reach down, my hand finding the waistband of her gray sweatpants. I grip the fabric, pulling it down over her hips in one swift motion. She lifts her legs slightly, allowing me to strip the heavy cotton down her thighs and off her ankles. They hit the floor with a soft thud.
She is wearing plain black underwear. It is damp, the dark fabric clinging tightly to her center.
I don't bother taking them off. I hook my fingers under the edge of the cotton and pull it aside, exposing the slick, swollen heat of her completely.
I press two fingers inside her.
She is incredibly tight, her internal muscles clamping down around my fingers instantly. She is soaking wet, the slick heat of her body a sharp contrast to the cold, sterile air of the room.
Maeve throws her head back, a long, ragged moan escaping her throat. Her hands drop from my hair to grip my shoulders, her nails digging into the uninjured muscle of my right arm.
"Look at me," I command quietly, my thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves above my fingers.
She forces her eyes open, the dark amber completely swallowed by the blown pupils.
I begin to move my fingers, a slow, deliberate friction that matches the heavy, pounding rhythm of my own heart. I don't look away from her face. I watch the exact moment the pleasure overrides the exhaustion, the way her jaw goes slack, the way her eyelids flutter.
"You belong to me," I murmur, increasing the pressure of my thumb.
"Yes," she gasps, her hips bucking against my hand.
I add a third finger, stretching her wider, preparing her for the reality of what is about to happen. She takes the stretch beautifully, her body yielding to my control with absolute, terrifying trust.
She is close. I can feel the frantic, erratic pulse of her heartbeat echoing against my palm.
I withdraw my fingers.
Maeve whimpers, a sharp sound of protest, her eyes snapping open. "Why did you stop?"
"Because I am not going to finish this while I am fully dressed," I say, my voice tight with the effort it takes to maintain my own restraint.
I grip her waist, lifting her off my lap and setting her gently on the edge of the stainless steel examination table. The metal is cold, and she shivers, her legs dangling over the side.
I stand up.
I unfasten the heavy tactical belt, pulling it loose and tossing it onto the floor. The heavy buckle hits the slate tiles with a loud, metallic crash. I unbutton the dark cargo pants, pushing them down my hips along with my boxer briefs, and kick them aside.
I am fully, painfully hard, the heavy, aching length of me completely exposed to the bright surgical light.
Maeve’s breath catches. Her eyes drop, tracking the heavy lines of my body, the dark hair trailing down my stomach, and finally landing on the absolute evidence of my obsession. She swallows hard, her throat working carefully around the bruises.
I step between her spread knees.
The heat radiating off her is intoxicating. I reach out, my hands gripping her thighs, pulling her forward until her hips are resting on the very edge of the metal table.
I don't ask for permission. We passed the point of negotiation the second she sutured my shoulder.
I align myself with her slick, swollen center.
I look up, meeting her eyes. "Hold onto me."
She reaches out, her hands resting flat against my chest, carefully avoiding the fresh stitches on my left side.
I push forward.
The entry is slow, agonizingly tight. She is small, her body stretching to accommodate the thick, heavy intrusion. I sink into her inch by inch, the wet, suffocating heat of her internal muscles wrapping around me like a vice.
Maeve gasps, her fingers digging into my skin. Her eyes squeeze shut, a single tear escaping her lashes, but it isn't from pain. It is the overwhelming, terrifying reality of the connection.
I stop when I am fully seated inside her, burying myself to the hilt.
I don't move. I give her body a moment to adjust, my own muscles locking tight against the desperate, violent urge to thrust forward and shatter the control completely.
"Look at me," I whisper, my voice a harsh, guttural rumble.
She opens her eyes. The tear tracks down her cheek, catching the bright light.
"Are you okay?" I ask, my thumb brushing the tear away.
"I'm full," she breathes, the words a quiet, honest admission. "It's... it's a lot."
"I know." I lean down, pressing my mouth to her forehead. "I am not going to hurt you."
I slowly pull back, withdrawing almost completely before driving forward again.
The friction is devastating. Maeve lets out a sharp, shattered moan, her hips arching up to meet the thrust. Her internal muscles clench around me, a tight, rhythmic pulsing that sends a violent jolt of pleasure straight up my spine.
I set a slow, punishing pace. I don't rush. I want her to feel every inch of the possession. I want her to understand that the isolation of this island isn't a prison; it is a boundary I built to keep the rest of the world from touching what is mine.
The sound of our bodies colliding echoes in the sterile room, a wet, heavy rhythm that completely drowns out the sound of the ocean crashing against the cliffs outside.
Maeve’s hands slide from my chest to my shoulders, her nails biting into my skin. She is unraveling completely, her head falling back, exposing the dark bruises on her throat.
"Declan," she gasps, her voice breaking. "Please. Harder."
The demand shatters the last remaining fragment of my discipline.
I grip her hips, my fingers digging into her soft skin, and increase the pace. The thrusts become deeper, harder, a violent, desperate rhythm that borders on feral. I am not making love to her. I am claiming territory.
She takes every brutal thrust, her body meeting mine with a chaotic, beautiful desperation. She wraps her legs around my waist, her ankles locking behind my back, pulling me impossibly deeper.
"That's it," I growl, my right hand sliding up to grip her jaw, my thumb pressing against her cheekbone. "Give it to me."
She falls apart.
Her internal muscles clamp down around me in a series of violent, rhythmic spasms. She cries out, a loud, shattered sound that bounces off the stainless steel cabinets. Her nails dig into my shoulders, her entire body rigid with the force of the climax.
The feeling of her shattering around me is the trigger.
I let go of the control. I drive into her three more times, burying myself as deep as I can, and follow her over the edge.
The release is absolute, a blinding, heavy rush of pleasure that completely empties my lungs. I groan, my forehead dropping to rest against her shoulder, my chest heaving against hers.
We stay like that for a long time.
The only sound in the medical bay is the harsh, ragged sound of our breathing. My heart is hammering against my ribs, slowly decelerating back to a normal rhythm.
I don't pull out of her. I keep my weight supported on my right arm, careful not to crush her against the metal table.
Maeve’s hands are resting lightly on my back, her fingers tracing aimless, exhausted patterns against my damp skin. She doesn't speak. The chaotic, nervous energy that usually defines her is completely gone, replaced by a heavy, peaceful stillness.
I slowly pull back, withdrawing from her body. The sudden loss of heat is a sharp, uncomfortable contrast to the cold air of the room.
I step back, picking up a clean towel from the metal tray, and gently wipe her thighs. She watches me, her dark eyes heavy and half-closed.
I toss the towel into the bin and pull my tactical pants back on, fastening the belt. I don't bother with the shirt.
I turn back to the table. I slide my right arm under her knees and my left arm—ignoring the dull ache of the fresh sutures—around her back. I lift her off the cold metal.
She doesn't protest. She rests her head against my uninjured collarbone, her arms wrapping loosely around my neck.
I carry her out of the medical bay, walking down the dark hallway of the massive, empty house.
The master bedroom is at the end of the corridor. It is a massive space, dominated by a king-sized bed facing the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean. The moonlight spills across the dark hardwood floor.
I lay her down on the soft, dark gray sheets.
She immediately curls onto her side, pulling the heavy duvet up over her shoulders. She looks incredibly small in the center of the massive bed.
I walk around to the other side and slide under the covers next to her.
I don't lie on my back. I turn onto my right side, facing her, and pull her against my chest. She comes willingly, her back pressing flush against my front, her legs tangling with mine. I wrap my arm around her waist, my hand resting flat against her stomach.
"Are you going to sleep now?" she whispers, her voice thick with exhaustion.
"Yes."
"Good." She covers my hand with hers, her fingers lacing through mine. "You're warm."
I close my eyes, burying my face in the dark, messy tangle of her hair. The scent of vanilla and antiseptic fills my lungs.
The cartel is looking for us. Richard Evans is either dead or talking. The world outside this island is actively hunting the ghost of my firm and the woman currently sleeping in my arms.
But as the steady, rhythmic sound of the ocean fills the quiet room, I realize I don't care.
They can come.
I will bury them all in the sand before I let them touch her again.