Chapter 43
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
DECLAN
At this point in my career, I’d tattooed thousands of people. I’d inked names and dates and memorials. Cover-ups that buried old lives under new art. Sleeves that took months to finish. Pieces that made grown men cry when they saw the final result in the mirror.
And not once had my hands shaken when I was done.
But now, after I’d handed Penelope the mirror, I couldn’t deny the slight tremor in my fingers. It was something I couldn’t explain away as fatigue or adrenaline or anything else quite so rational.
This was something deeper—something that had cracked open inside me the second she’d walked through the front door and accepted what I’d offered.
I wasn’t just tattooing her. I was marking her with my hands and my ink and my art. I’d drawn and redrawn that piece a dozen times because nothing felt good enough to permanently live on her perfect body.
But still, she’d chosen it. And she’d chosen me to be the bastard lucky enough to ink it on her—in a spot no one else would see unless she decided they deserved to.
And fuck if I didn’t want to be the only one who ever got that privilege.
There was something visceral about seeing my design on her porcelain skin. The image wasn’t fragile. It was layered and deliberate, every line placed with purpose and intention. And that made it feel like a goddamn claim. A bit of evidence that I’d been there…that I’d marked her forever.
My cock jerked at that thought, and I forced myself to refocus. The last thing she needed to worry about when she was heading for an adrenaline crash was how hard I was for her.
I cleaned the tattoo with practiced hands, my touch light as I wiped over the fresh ink one final time.
“Almost done. Just the wrap, and then I’ll feed you.”
“Feed me?” Penelope asked, a smile in her tone. “Is this more of that VIP client treatment?”
I glanced up at her before returning my focus to her tattoo. “What’d I tell you about that?”
She was quiet for a beat, her eyes tracking my hands as I smoothed a piece of second-skin film over the design. When she spoke, her voice was softer. Tentative. Like she wasn’t sure she should even ask the question. “If I’m not a client, what am I?”
Mine.
The word came to me unbidden—raw and reckless and something I desperately wanted to be true. But I wasn’t built for keeps, and men like me didn’t get to claim women like her.
So maybe she’d never actually be mine. But that didn’t negate the truth that I already was and always would be hers.
I smoothed the wrap once more, sealing it carefully, and gave her the most honest answer I had. “You’re the one I clear the room for.”
Before she could respond, I stripped off my gloves and tossed them into the trash. Then I grabbed one of the bottles of water I’d set out earlier, twisted off the cap, and passed it to her. “Drink.”
She pursed her lips to the side but took the proffered bottle. “You’re very bossy tonight.”
“I’m always bossy. Drink your water, rebel.”
She did, taking a few sips while I started cleaning up—spraying, wiping, organizing. The routine was muscle memory, and I needed it right now. Needed to keep my hands busy so I didn’t do something stupid like drag her over to me and tell her things I had no business saying.
She shifted behind me—a creak of the chair, the rustle of fabric as she smoothed down her dress, and then the soft sound of her feet hitting the floor.
“Easy,” I said automatically, turning toward her. “Give yourself a second before you—”
Too late.
She stood and swayed, the color draining from her face as she shot out a hand to steady herself.
I was on her before I’d consciously decided to move, one hand catching her elbow and the other wrapping around her waist.
“Whoa. Hey.” I tightened my hold, steadying her as she dropped her forehead to my chest. “I’ve got you.”
“I’m fine,” she mumbled into my shirt.
“You’re gray.”
“That’s rude.”
“It’s accurate. Time to sit down again before you hit the floor.”
“I don’t need—”
Before she could finish the sentence, I dropped into the chair and pulled her down onto my lap.
She landed with a startled squeak, her legs on either side of mine as she braced her hands on my shoulders. “Declan!”
I reached for the remaining snacks I’d had her munching on during the session—all her favorites, I now realized. Because apparently at some point over the past few weeks, I’d come to know what Penelope Shea liked to eat when she was tired or stressed or worn out.
And now, it was the kind of knowledge that would live inside my head forever, right next to her favorite teas in order of preference and the exact pitch of her laugh when something genuinely made her happy.
“Eat.” I opened the wrapper for the protein bar she liked and pressed it into her hand before grabbing a bottle of coconut water. “Drink. In that order.”
She stared at me, her lips parted, a protest clearly forming. But her body betrayed her before she could even voice the words. She was still trembling, a fine vibration running through her thighs, and her grip on my shoulder was tighter than she probably realized.
After a moment, she exhaled through her nose—a quiet surrender—and took a bite. “This is unnecessary.”
“Maybe.” I settled my hands on her hips, careful to avoid her fresh ink. “But you were about to face-plant on my floor, and I just mopped before you got here.”
The look she shot me was pure, quiet indignation, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Your concern for me is truly heartwarming.”
“What can I say? I’m a giver.”
She huffed out a quiet laugh. “Are you always this intense after tattooing someone?”
“No.”
She paused mid-bite as that single word hung in the air between us.
Not only no, but fuck no. Because this wasn’t just someone.
This was her.
She didn’t respond, just ate the rest of her bar in silence and then drank the coconut water. Her color slowly returned, the trembling in her legs gradually subsiding until it was gone completely. I didn’t rush her, just held her steady in my lap as quiet settled around us.
“How do you feel?” I asked when she finished.
“Better.” She set the empty bottle aside, and my attention was drawn to a drop of coconut water remaining on her bottom lip.
Without thinking, I reached up and caught it with my thumb, dragging a slow path across her lip. She froze, her gaze lifting to mine, and just like that, the air between us shifted.
For a long, loaded moment, she held my gaze. Then she flicked her tongue against the pad of my thumb before sucking the tip into her mouth.
“Fuck.”
The single word was little more than a groan as my cock stiffened in my jeans.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the sight of her lips wrapped around me.
Every nerve ending in my body was focused on the feel of her—the soft press of her tongue, the gentle suction, the way her warm breath ghosted across my knuckles.
She released my thumb and shifted in my lap, subtle at first. A move that could be written off as nothing. But then she did it again, slower this time.
Deliberate.
“What’re you doing, rebel?”
“Nothing,” she murmured, rolling her hips again. “I’m just sitting here, Declan.”
“No, you’re not.” I tightened my hold on her, unsure if I wanted to still her movements or guide her faster. “You’re testing me.”
“Am I?” She rocked over me again, harder this time. Grinding her pussy against the stiff ridge of my cock.
“You’re not subtle.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
I exhaled slowly, trying to keep the tenuous hold I had on my control. “You just came down from a crash.”
“You fed me.” She ran her hands down my chest, her trail slow and maddening. “Hydrated me.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re steady.”
“I am.” Her voice was firm, unwavering. “You made sure of that.”
The way she said it—like it was a foregone conclusion…like she trusted me implicitly—burned through the last of my restraint.
I gripped her hips and pulled her tighter against me. “Then tell me what you need, greedy girl.”
“You…” she breathed, nothing but honesty in her gaze. “I just need you.”
Without another thought, I surged up and caught her lips with mine. I licked my way into her mouth, sliding my tongue against hers, and didn’t try to stifle the groan that tore out of my chest at her taste.
This wasn’t slow or careful. This was heat and hunger and the culmination of everything I’d been trying for weeks—for a fucking year—not to feel.
I slid my hand around her nape and held her to me as I kissed her deep. Like I could pour the truth of everything whirring around inside me straight down her throat instead of saying any of it out loud.
Soon, even that wasn’t enough for her, and she started yanking at my shirt. We broke apart only long enough to tug it and her dress off, and then her mouth was back on mine. She kissed me, greedy and desperate, even while she fumbled with the clasp of her bra before tossing it aside.
And then she was nearly naked in my lap, wearing only a pair of lace panties and my ink.
She reached down and worked open my belt before undoing my fly. “Is this okay?”
A rough sound escaped me—something caught between a laugh and a groan as she reached into my boxer briefs and wrapped her hand around my cock. “You’re asking me if it’s okay that you’re sitting in my lap, desperate for me to fuck you?”
She giggled softly and shook her head. “I’m asking if this is okay for you. You’ve been taking care of me all night. Now it’s my turn.”
Her words landed somewhere deep in my chest and detonated.
I’d built my life around not needing anyone. Not because I had a control problem—though, yeah, I probably did—but because expectations were dangerous. The safest way to steer clear of them was to make sure no one relied too much on me. And I sure as hell made sure not to rely on anyone else.
Keep it light. Keep it temporary.
But here she was, rewriting the rules I’d always lived by without even trying.