10. Declan #2
We reach my bedroom without agreeing to move there.
It’s a collision, a frantic stumble through the doorway, our bodies a tangled mess of limbs and ragged breaths.
The corridor is a blur of cool air against my overheated skin and the sound of our frantic movement.
My jacket hits the floor first, followed by the delicate tear of fabric as my borrowed shirt gives way under my impatient hands.
I don’t care. I’ll buy her a hundred more.
I’ll buy her a thousand. Her bra is next, a scrap of black lace that I hook my finger into and pull down, freeing her breasts to the air.
Her nipples are already hard, tight little points against my chest as I crush her against the wall.
My shirt follows, buttons popping and skittering across the marble floor.
Each discarded piece of clothing is a milestone, a marker of the distance we’ve crossed from the tense standoff in the library to this raw, animalistic need.
Inside the bedroom, I kick the door shut behind us.
The only light is the soft glow from the city filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting her pale skin in shades of silver and blue.
She is a fucking vision. All sharp angles and soft curves, her porcelain skin a stark canvas for the shadows that dance across it.
Her blue eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with a mixture of lust and defiance.
I back her toward the bed, my hands roaming her body, reacquainting myself with the landscape I thought lost to me forever.
Her waist is still impossibly small, my hands spanning it easily.
Her hips have flared out just a little, a subtle change that makes something in my chest ache.
I trace the curve of her ass, the firm muscle beneath the soft skin, and she arches into my touch, a silent demand for more.
I push her down onto the silk sheets. She lands with a soft gasp, her hair fanning out around her head like a dark halo.
I follow her down, my body covering hers, and for a moment, I just look.
I drink in the sight of her like a man dying of thirst. My gaze drifts down, and that’s when I see it.
A pale, silvery scar rests near her hip, just above the line of her simple black panties.
It’s thin, almost delicate, but it’s new.
It wasn’t there before. I lower my head, my lips brushing against the unfamiliar mark.
It’s a C-section scar. The knowledge hits me like a physical blow, a fist to the gut that steals my breath.
Her body carried our son, Cillian, while I was holed up in my fortress, dreaming of vengeance.
She endured this alone. She brought our child into this world without me.
A brutal knot tightens around my heart. I press my mouth to the scar, a kiss that is part apology, part worship, part possession.
I move upward, my lips tracing a path over the faint stretch marks that shimmer on her skin, the evidence of the life she created.
These are the marks of the life I missed.
Each one is a testament to her strength, to her solitude.
I kiss them all, my tongue flicking out to taste her skin, salty and sweet.
I kiss the soft swell of her belly, remembering how it used to flutter when I rested my hand there.
Her hands move from my shoulders to my hair, her fingers tangling in the red strands, clutching, pulling.
She says my name then, just one word, but it’s not a sigh of pleasure.
It’s a warning. A raw, ragged sound that tells me I’m treading on sacred, painful ground.
Before I can settle over her, before I can take control of this reunion the way I take control of everything else, she moves.
It’s a fluid, powerful motion. Maeve rolls us, her strength surprising me.
In a heartbeat, the world flips, and I’m on my back, with her straddling my hips.
Her hair falls around her face, a wild curtain that frames her fierce, beautiful expression.
She pins my wrists against the mattress, her grip surprisingly strong.
I could break the hold without effort. A flick of my wrists, a shift of my weight, and I could have her pinned beneath me again.
But I don’t. The fact that I let her hold me down, that I surrender this small piece of control, is its own confession.
It’s a silent admission of how much I need this, need her.
She looks down at me, her chest heaving, her eyes burning with a fire that has been banked for seven long years.
She reaches down between us, her fingers fumbling with my zipper.
The sound of the metal teeth pulling down is obscenely loud in the quiet room.
She frees my cock, and it springs up, hard and aching, the head already slick with pre-cum.
She wraps her hand around me, her grip firm and sure, and a hiss escapes my teeth.
She strokes me once, twice, a slow, deliberate movement that makes my hips jerk up from the bed.
Then she rises up on her knees, positions me at her entrance, and sinks down.
The feeling is like a burning air finally filling with clean, fresh air.
It’s like coming home after a lifetime at sea.
She’s wet, so fucking wet, and tight, her cunt clenching around me as she takes me in inch by agonizing inch.
She throws her head back, a long, low moan tearing from her throat as she seats herself fully, her ass resting against my thighs.
For a moment, we’re both still, just breathing, connected in the most primal way possible.
I can feel the frantic beat of her heart through the walls of her pussy, a frantic rhythm that matches my own.