Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
DECLAN
I've been awake for an hour, maybe longer.
I stopped checking my phone sometime around four.
The room is gray with early morning light, and the city below is hushed.
Bridget's asleep on her stomach, with one arm thrown across my chest, her bright hair fanned across the pillow like poppies in an open field.
She’s so beautiful like this, at rest and naked, vulnerable and open. Fuck it, she’s beautiful no matter what she does.
I’m trying to hold it all together. I always hold it together now.
Maybe this is my penance.
I close my eyes and remember every moment of last night.
We barely slept. I took her in the shower, and she delighted in every small thing—marveling at the piles of plush towels, giggling at the chrome bidet, teasing me by dumping shampoo into my hair and lathering it all over my body until I finally stilled her—her wrists above her head, pinned to the tile, my mouth on hers before I traveled the length of her body and worshipped her.
When she was near panting and needy, I bent her over and took her there, the steaming water pounding on both of us and drowning out our moans.
We dried off and napped, naked, and when we woke up, I took her again, slow and sweet, savoring the feel of her skin against mine.
We ordered room service and snacked, and I did wicked things to her with the whipped cream I ordered before she got sassy with me.
Then I bent her over the foot of the bed and took my belt to her until she squealed and begged and came with a scream that made me feel ten fucking feet tall.
We languished in bed, then she sat on my face while she took me in her mouth, and I cursed hell and praised heaven. We came together and collapsed. The night went on like that—her body and mine, learning each other in the dark, giving and taking, falling apart, and starting over.
I will remember every second of it because we both know there will never be, can never be, another night like this.
The sun is coming up soon, a tiny strip of light peeking underneath the pulled blinds.
It’s time to go. Fuck it all to hell.
The later it gets, the more of a risk we run. I need to bring her home and make sure nobody sees, make sure she's alright.
But for now, I lie still and take inventory of the room, delaying the inevitable. I want to burn this night into my memory.
I smile thinking about how she lined up the miniature bottles on the bathroom counter last night, smelling each one with the same focus she gives everything.
Her laugh at the front desk. The way she nearly lost it when I said “James and Mary Murphy,” pressing her lips together with that particular look she gets when she's fighting a smile.
I'm not going to think about that. I'm not going to think about how beautiful she is when she comes apart on my mouth, or the way she holds me like we were made for each other, or the sound of her voice when she gives herself over completely.
She makes love the way she does everything—alive, unencumbered, entirely herself.
She stirs and makes a small sound, not quite awake. Her fingers curl against my side. Something in me responds to that, and I lean in closer.
I need to get us up. I need to find my phone, get back to where we parked, and back to our lives before the city wakes and someone spots us. Outside this room, my life is pawing at the door, ready to break it down.
She opens one eye. “How did you get so handsome overnight?”
I grin, bend down, and kiss her forehead. Goddamn, why does she have to make this so hard?
“Oh,” she says, soft and delighted. “Forehead kisses. I love forehead kisses.”
“What don’t you love?”
“Hmmm,” she says with a little smile, her eyes closed again. “Cold chips and scratchy clothes. You?”
I sigh. “Cowards. Goodbyes.”
Her fingers find mine in the quiet and squeeze.
Her face in the first moment of waking is so honest and unguarded, as if she hasn't remembered yet to put anything back in place. “How long have you been awake?” she asks with a yawn, her voice rough with sleep.
“A while.”
“Did you sleep at all?”
I shrug. “A little. You?”
“Hardly any,” she says, “but it was worth it.” A wink, then another yawn. “Today's my day off. I can nap. Can you?”
“I’ll manage.”
She leans over and kisses me, slow and unhurried, and somewhere in the room my phone buzzes, over and over, relentless. Probably Seamus.
Already, it’s over. We’re over.
I extricate myself with difficulty because I don’t want to leave her. She leans on one elbow and watches me, and I can tell by the little pucker between her brows that she’s concerned.
Predictably, it’s Seamus. A text, not a call. I climb out of bed and read it with my back to her, my voice low and unhurried when I say, “Give me a minute.”
Seamus
Her name is Valentina Esposito. Italian-American. Strong family connections. Twenty-four. Her family is eager to move on this. Details in person.
Goddamn.
He sends me the sum of what her family is offering us, and my brows rise in surprise.
I don’t care if she’s Cinderella and brings ten million with her. It’s not going to work. I won’t love her. I’ll be expected to court her, to knock her up, to perform everything I’m not.
Christ.
Seamus
Her family wants you to meet her at dinner tonight. They’re eager to move on this and so am I. Tell me you’ll be there and I won’t mention the fact that someone saw you leave with Bridget fucking Kavanagh last night.
Jesus.
I scowl at my phone and type my answer.
I’ll be there.
Then I throw it, hard. It hits the sofa and slides to the floor.
Bridget wordlessly pushes herself out of bed and comes up behind me. She wraps her arms around me and presses her lips to the space between my shoulder blades, standing on her tiptoes. I close my eyes and hang my head.
“You’ll always be my best friend, Declan,” she whispers. “No one will ever take that from us.”
I don’t know if she believes it.
I do know that she’s wrong.