Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
DECLAN
I got here as soon as I could, which wasn’t soon enough. I had to talk to Seamus, only to discover he was out with his Zoya and the kids. Maybe it’s… fuck it. Maybe it’s for the best.
As much as Seamus loves me like a brother, I know his allegiance to his family comes first, no matter the cost. I'm not sure he won't kill me yet for breaking the alliance with the Espositos.
So I caved and told Valentina the tailor could use my measurements they have on file. I've bought enough suits over the years—my measurements should be up to date. If they're not, what do I care? They're for a tuxedo I never plan to wear.
Bridget’s light is still on when I get to her. I sit outside for a moment, check my mirrors, check the street. Fuck, I hate being discreet and sneaky like this, especially to see Bridget.
I get out and find her guard at his post near the entrance. He straightens when he sees me.
“Sir.”
“You didn't see me tonight,” I tell him, holding out a folded stack of bills. “I'm going to be here regularly. I need you to say nothing to anyone. Not Cavin, not Seamus. Nobody. Do you understand me?”
“Of course, sir.” Not a flicker of surprise.
These are the men who saved my life. I compensated them well for it, and their loyalty has never been in question.
But I make a note to myself—there's going to come a time when I'll have to compensate them again, differently, for a different kind of silence.
“Give us some privacy tonight,” I say. He nods once and steps back.
I'm wearing my hood pulled up, coming here like a fucking criminal. For now, we’ll play it safe. I don't need anyone knowing I'm here—not yet, not until I've sorted what needs sorting.
Bridget answers the door in an oversized jumper, her hair loose, a book still in her hand, with her finger marking the page, like she wasn't quite sure I was coming and decided not to wait to find out.
I want to kiss her right there in the doorway.
She takes one look at my face and steps back without a word, letting me in. I close the door behind me.
“How was—”
“Come here,” I say—not a question.
She comes.
That's the thing about Bridget—beneath the lifted chin, the sharp edges, and the I'm not yours, Declan—when I tell her to come to me, she comes. Every single time, like her body decided ahead of her brain and the brain is still catching up.
She knows this is where she belongs. And god help me, she loves it when I tell her what to do. I can see it in the way she moves, in the particular quality of her surrender, easy and complete and absolutely chosen.
I take the book out of her hand, find a scrap of paper on the side table, slide it between the pages to mark her place, and set it down. I want her to know I'm in no hurry.
Then I take her face in my hand, cupping that stubborn jaw of hers, and tilt her chin up to look at me.
I take my time looking. I don't always let myself do that, but I'm in a savoring mood tonight, and she's here, and she's warm, and the light is catching the edge of her in ways I've been telling myself not to notice for longer than I care to admit.
“Hi,” she says, a little breathless.
“Hi,” I say back, because she’s so damn cute, and two can play at this game. “Got you a little something.”
I open the paper bag and hand her her gift.
“Ohhh,” she says, immediately hugging the lavender-colored elephant to her chest. “It smells so nice.”
“Guess it gets warm when you put it in the microwave? So if you’re not feeling good, you can hug it in bed, and it just… It seemed really sweet and comforting, and I thought you’d like it.”
“Like it?” She closes her eyes as she inhales. “I love it, Dec.”
I brush my thumb along her jaw, slow, watching her eyes go soft at the edges before she can stop them. That's the thing about her—she tries, she genuinely tries, but her face always tells the truth a half second before she can catch it. I've made a study of those half seconds.
“You were reading,” I say.
“I was.”
“And now?”
Her throat moves. “And now I'm being looked at and smelling the softest little elephant.”
“That bother you?”
She shakes her head.
Good girl. I don't say it out loud. I think it loud enough that something in my expression must give it away because the color that climbs her cheeks is immediate, involuntary, and devastating.
I lean in slowly, giving her time to say something if she wants to.
She doesn't say anything. Her breath goes shallow, and her chin tips up just slightly, following the pressure of my hand.
I stay there, close enough that she can feel the warmth of me, but not close enough to give her what she wants yet, and I just look at her.
“Declan.” Her voice has gone careful, a warning wrapped in a please, as her eyes hold mine. She's so fucking lovely, it does something to my chest I have no adequate language for.
“Bridget,” I say back. I brush my thumb along her lower lip. “Have you eaten?”
“Well.” She considers this with the gravity of someone being asked a genuinely complicated question.
“I ate things. Whether any of those things belonged to a recognized food group is a separate matter entirely.
I've had some nausea today, so I ate what sounded good.” The chin goes up.
“And I'm not particularly interested in your opinion on the nutritional value of it.”
The corner of my mouth pulls. “I'm not in the habit of auditing what you eat, love. I just wanted to know if you needed feeding before anything else.”
“I'm not hungry,” she whispers. Her eyes have gone wide, her pupils blown, and she's looking at me with an expression that makes it very clear food is the last thing on her mind.
“I am,” I say.
And then I kiss her, slow and deliberate, like I've decided to take my time with every single beat that passes between us tonight, and nothing is going to rush me.
Her fingers curl into my shirt, grasping for purchase, and she comes up on her tiptoes as she exhales into my mouth, as if she's been holding that breath all evening.
I cup her arse with my hand and pull her flush against me, and she makes a small, helpless sound into the kiss that I feel everywhere.
I keep kissing her until she goes soft and pliant in my arms, until the last of the evening—the McCarthy home, Aunt Caitlin's food, the careful performance of a man who has everything managed—drains out of me completely.
When I pull back, she blinks at me, dazed.
“Bedroom,” I say.
“Declan—”
“Now.”
She shivers, then turns and sashays her sweet little arse down the hallway toward her bedroom. So, of course, I gave it a good smack. Fuckin’ love the way she squeals.
Her bedroom’s so entirely her—small and softly lit, the old-fashioned lamp she got from Erin casting everything in amber from its perch on the nightstand as rain pelts the window now in earnest.
“Do pregnant women like sex?” I ask. It’s an honest question. “I mean, you know more about pregnant women than I do.”
She bursts out laughing. “I have zero interest in discussing my sister's sex life, so I wouldn't know about her.” She tilts her head, eyes bright with amusement. “But this woman would very much like you to lay her down and make her toes curl.” A giggle. “Just so you know.”
I'm laughing, and she's laughing, then she turns to face me as we reach the bed.
I grasp the hem of her jumper, and she raises her arms without being asked.
Underneath, she's in a soft white camisole and a tiny pair of shorts.
I take a moment to just look at her because I've missed her, properly missed her, from the curve of her shoulder to the soft plane of her belly, still flat, still warm, still carrying the secret only the two of us know.
I can't help it. I bend and press my lips to her belly.
“Declan.” She dissolves into giggles. “That tickles.”
“Good,” I tell her, then drag my tongue slowly across her navel, which earns me a sharp intake of breath that is decidedly not a giggle. I straighten and place my hand there, flat and warm, and she goes still under it, her breath catching, her eyes finding mine.
“You're so beautiful,” I tell her. “You know that?”
She smiles, a small, almost shy thing she'd never let anyone else see. “I'm going to get fat, you know,” she adds, because she can’t help herself—because she is Bridget, and she will always find a way to deflect from a moment that costs her something.
“Say that again,” I growl at her, “and you'll feel my palm across your arse, woman. You're not getting fat. You're pregnant. You're carrying life.” I hold her gaze. “Eat whatever the fuck you want. You're beautiful.” I tug her hair. “Say it back to me, Trouble.”
“I’m beautiful,” she repeats obediently with that warm, helpless laugh she gets when I've caught her completely off guard. Then she rises on her tiptoes, anchors herself on my shoulders, and kisses me back. Soft, certain, unhurried.
“Good girl,” I say quietly against her mouth, just for her.
I feel the shiver move through her and straight into my hand.
I pull back just enough to look at her, flushed, bright-eyed, slightly undone, and give her arse another affectionate slap.
She needs a proper spanking. It’s been way too long, but I’m impatient. “Lie down for me now.”
She smiles and obeys.
I take my time with her because I’ve decided I'm not going to be moved on this. I start at her collarbone, her shoulder, the soft inside of her wrist, which I turn over and press my lips to. When she stifles a sound, I lift my head and look at her.
“Don't,” I tell her.
“Don't what?” She's already stifling another one.
“Don't stifle yourself. Don’t hold yourself back.” I hold her gaze. “I want to hear every sound you make. I want to hear you when you come. Let yourself go, Bridget.”
“But if anyone hears—”
“I'll fucking deal with it.”