Chapter 8 #2
I step out of my jeans, and they pool around my feet.
Standing here, still and nearly bare in front of Declan McCarthy, I feel a hundred different kinds of exposed.
“You're beautiful,” he says. His voice has gone rough. “Stunning. Christ, woman, if I had any self-control before, I definitely don't now.” He swallows, then licks his lips. He doesn't rush but gazes, slow and intent, like I'm something worth his time.
Whatever I was braced for, it wasn't this particular expression on this particular face. “You don't have to say that just to make me feel better.”
“I'm saying it because it's true.” His voice drops, steady and certain. “And if I hear something like that come out of your mouth again, you'll find yourself back over my knee before you've finished saying it. Now come here.”
My arousal pulses between us like a second heartbeat.
“Trust me,” he whispers.
I nod.
“Help me get these off.”
I start with the buttons on his shirt, his skin warm beneath my fingers, his scent making me dizzy.
Then his hands find mine, and we make quick work of it together, the shirt sliding free.
He’s in front of me—hard, powerful muscle, the flat planes of his stomach disappearing into the waistband of his trousers.
I reach down, my eyes anchored on his, and unfasten them. I stifle a whimper as he takes my hands and guides them into his trousers. The warm, thick weight of him against my palms shows me exactly how far gone he already is. Then he's stepping free of them.
“I want to memorize you,” I say against his ear, because he smells like everything I've ever wanted and feels like something I was never meant to have. “Did you check in at home?” he asks against my neck.
“It's not my home for much longer,” I whisper. “I’m moving into my own place. But I did—Erin said good night.”
“Perfect. Once I start, I don’t want to stop.”
Then he's laying me down slowly, following me onto the bed, one arm braced above me. He kisses my lips, down the column of my throat, along my collarbone. His tongue drags across the hollow of my neck, and my head falls back, my chin tipping up instinctively.
“That feels so good,” I say, strangled.
“It's because you're such a good girl,” he whispers. “That's it, love. Just like that. Let me take care of you.”
What wrecks me the most is how he pays attention. He notices when my tongue meets his and my breath changes. He watches as he trails his mouth lower, and my back arches. He's learning me, cataloging every pathway to my pleasure, like it matters, like I matter, and doing it all with purpose.
“Don't ever hide from me,” he says softly, his mouth near my navel, his breath warm on my skin. “You're beautiful, and I love what I see.”
Then he's pressing his lips to me through the thin fabric of my knickers, and my hips lift toward him before I can think to stop them.
“That's my girl,” he says. “Open up for me. Take my mouth. Take my fingers.” He hooks his fingers at the waistband. “Slide these off for me, love.”
I do. I lift my hips and slide them down, half shaky, half desperate, because I know what he’s going to do, and there’s nowhere to hide, but I want him.
He makes a low sound of approval before he bends his head and spreads me open.
The first drag of his tongue pulls a cry out of me I couldn't have swallowed if I'd tried.
My fingers find his hair and anchor there, holding on, and he groans against me like I'm the one doing something to him.
He doesn't stop. He licks me again and again, circling, sucking gently, pressing his tongue flat and slick and deliberate, exactly where I need it.
“You taste so good,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against my thighs. “My beautiful girl.”
“I'm not going to last,” I whisper. “I'm already—”
“That's my girl. Come on. Give it to me. We're only getting started.” Again, unhurried, like he has all night and intends to use it. “Just like that, love.”
I have a personal goal of not becoming emotionally undone by sex. It's currently in pieces on the floor.
He keeps talking, low, steady, deliberate, and I stop trying to stifle my response and let him hear me. He makes a sound of deep satisfaction at that, a murmur of approval pressed against my thigh.
“That's a girl. You're doing so well. So fucking well. Look at you.” His voice is warmth and want and something more that I don't have words for. “That's my girl. Just like that. Let go.”
And I do. An orgasm racks through me, my vision going blurry at the edges, my body shuddering, as he eases me to completion with his tongue. His hands are warm and steady and present, holding me through it, murmuring soft approval until the last of it passes.
“There she is,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to the inside of my thigh. “You're alright.”
I'm more than alright. I'm wrecked and warm and completely undone.
“I want you,” I tell him when I can speak again. Now that I’m basking in the afterglow of orgasm, my need for him is an ache. “It’s alright, I’m on birth control. And I want you inside me.” I’m begging now. “The first time I met you, I told you I didn’t want to die a virgin, remember?”
He smiles. “Aye, of course I do. Be patient, love,” he whispers. “I want to take my time.” He comes to my entrance and circles slowly, coating himself in my wet heat. I feel every nerve ending I own light up at once.
“My god, you're so ready.” His forehead drops to mine. “Such a good girl. Look at you.”
Then he pushes in slowly, so slowly, watching my face the entire time—and the stretch of it pulls a sound out of me I've never made before in my life because I didn't know I could.
Because nothing has prepared me for this.
For him. For the way my body opens around him like it was only ever waiting for exactly this.
“That's it,” he breathes out. “That's it, love. You're doing so well.” He goes still, and I grip him like I'm falling.
“There.” His lips brush my cheek, my temple, the corner of my jaw. “You won't die a virgin now.”
I laugh, and it comes out wrecked because somewhere beneath the heat and the wanting, I think I might actually cry—at the fullness of him, at the realness of it, at the fact that it's him, and it was always going to be him.
“You alright?” Low. Steady. His thumb traces slow circles at my hip.
“Give me a second.”
He gives me more than that. He holds perfectly still and lets me adjust, lets me breathe, lets me feel every inch of what I've been missing without knowing I was missing it.
Then my hips rise to meet him, and there's nothing careful about either of us after that. I groan, entirely without dignity, because I have never wanted anything or anyone this badly in my life. Because he fills me so completely, it borders on unbearable.
And I could cry.
He moves slowly at first, his forehead pressed to mine. It’s intimate and perfect, and I don’t ever want this moment to end. His breath is warm against my mouth, like he intends to memorize every second of this.
“Look at you,” he whispers. “You feel so perfect. That’s my girl.”
He thrusts again, and I stop trying to hold anything back.
There's no point. He's taken every defense I had and laid it down somewhere on the floor behind us, and all that's left is this—the slide and press of him inside me, the unbearable friction, the way he fills me so completely that every exhale comes out broken.
I let him hear all of it. Every sound. Every helpless noise he pulls from me like he already knew they were there, just waiting.
His hand finds my hip and tightens, steadying me, anchoring me to him, and the pressure of it alone is its own kind of praise.
“That's it.” His voice is wrecked, barely above a breath. “Stay with me. Good girl. Just like that. You feel so good, love. You have no idea…”
I moan his name, and he groans in response, as if I've undone something in him and he can't help it either. The knowledge of that—that I do this to him, that I'm not alone in this—is what tips me over.
The second orgasm builds slower, deeper.
When it breaks, it doesn't crash—it rolls, wave after wave, and I'm shaking with it, clutching at him.
He works me through every second of it without letting up, without mercy, murmuring praise against my temple.
“Just like that. Take it, Bridget. Look at you, so perfect, so mine.”
“Declan,” I finally manage, and it comes out wrecked, barely a word at all.
He follows me there. His face presses into my neck, his hand fisting in my hair at the nape, and the groan he makes when he comes apart is unguarded and real.
Just him. Just this. I'll carry that sound with me for the rest of my life.
Afterward, he pulls me into him, my back to his chest, his arm around me, and his chin at the top of my head. The room is dark and still, but peaceful.
That’s when it happens, when I least expect it.
Something in my chest that’s been threatening to break cracks wide open.
My nose tingles, and my throat tightens.
My eyes fill and spill over, and I can’t stop it.
I don’t really try. There’s a bittersweet release I can’t understand and don’t really want to.
He holds me tighter. “Hey,” he says softly against my hair. “I’ve got you.”
That’s all. Just that. I’ve got you.
But does he? He might want to, but I know this isn’t forever. I know this is goodbye.
I press my face into the pillow so he doesn’t see me completely undone. His arms tighten around me, and I close my eyes because, for one night, for this one borrowed night, I can let myself be held by the man I love.
I fall asleep like that, tears drying on my cheeks.