23. Maeve #2
“I choose not to move today.” I rise and walk around the table. “Tomorrow remains under review.”
Declan stands as I reach him. “I can work with tomorrow.”
“I choose the intelligence division, the house in my name, and the independent accounts.”
“They are yours whether you choose me or not.”
“I know.” I place my hands against his chest. “That is why I choose you too.”
His restraint lasts long enough for me to see it break. Declan’s hands close around my waist, but he waits. Even now, with my body pressed against his and my mouth close enough to taste, he leaves the final distance to me.
I kiss him.
This time, anger does not drive us. Nothing is being reclaimed, forgiven, or surrendered.
I pull him toward me because I want the weight of him, the heat of his mouth, and the ruthless man who has finally learned not to confuse desire with ownership.
Declan lifts me onto the table, sweeping the legal documents aside without disturbing the black folder.
His kiss deepens as my legs close around his hips.
“You are sitting on a property deed.” His mouth moves along my throat. “The lawyer will object.”
“He can prepare another.” I drag his shirt free from his trousers. “You said money was independent.”
“I regret teaching you financial autonomy.”
“You should. It makes me difficult to impress.”
“I bought you a house.”
“I complimented the kitchen.”
His laugh vibrates against my skin. The sound is rare, rough, and mine for the moment.
I unfasten his shirt and press my mouth to the scar beneath his ribs.
Last time, we touched gently because grief had exhausted our defences.
Today, there is no exhaustion. I claim every inch of the man before me with the hunger of someone choosing life after years spent hiding from it.
Declan carries me upstairs, though I inform him that independent women possess functional legs. He replies by tightening his hold and kissing me silent, an abuse of power I permit until we reach his bedroom. Our bedroom, perhaps. The possibility no longer feels like a trap.
I push him onto the bed and stand between his knees. His hands remain at his sides while I undress, his gaze dark enough to heat every place it touches. He could take control. Instead, he waits for me to decide how this begins.
“Do not become obedient now.” I step closer and place his hands on my hips. “It is unattractive.”
“I was attempting respect.”
“You make it look uncomfortable.”
“It usually involves denying myself something.”
“Then suffer less.”
His hands move at my invitation, not with force, but with an unshakable certainty.
They close around my waist, and the strength in them is staggering, a raw power held in exquisite check.
He pulls, and I don’t resist. I flow into him, my legs parting to straddle his lap as he settles me against him.
His arms band around me, a cage of flesh and bone that feels less like a prison and more like a sanctuary I never knew I was searching for.
His face is inches from mine. I see the flecks of silver in his red hair, the way the firelight catches in the stubble on his chin, the deep, dizzying well of his eyes.
He leans in, and the first press of his lips is a question.
It’s soft, exploratory, a test of boundaries.
My lips part under his, a silent, willing answer.
The kiss deepens, the question forgotten in the sudden, hungry press of his mouth.
It’s not a kiss of conquest, but of rediscovery, as if he’s trying to memorize the shape of me all over again.
His tongue sweeps against mine, a slow, deliberate stroke that sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to my core.
Caution is a casualty, stripped away by the raw, unvarnished need that passes between us.
This isn’t about power; it’s about choice. I am here because I want to be.
My hands find his, which are still locked around my waist. I cover them with my own, my fingers lacing through his.
His hands are large, work-worn, a stark contrast to my own slender, surgeon’s fingers.
I guide them, lifting them from my waist and sliding them upward, over the silk, until they cup the heavy weight of my breasts.
A low groan rumbles in his chest, a vibration I feel through my entire body.
His thumbs brush over my nipples, which peak instantly, hardening into tight, aching points against the fabric.
The sensation is a sharp, exquisite pleasure that makes my back arch, pushing my breasts more firmly into his palms.
I set the pace. I rock my hips against him, a slow, grinding rhythm that is both a tease and a promise.
I can feel him, hard and thick, straining against the confines of his trousers, and the knowledge of his desire is a potent aphrodisiac.
He follows my lead, his hands molding to my shape, his thumbs circling my nipples with a maddening, patient pressure that builds a fire low in my belly.
Control passes between us like a current, a silent, fluid exchange.
For a moment, I am the one directing this dance, the one dictating the tempo.
Then, his grip tightens, just enough, and his hips surge up to meet mine, and the control shifts, seamless and natural.
He is not taking it; I am giving it. And in the giving, I find a different kind of power.
He breaks the kiss, his breathing ragged.
His eyes lock onto mine, and the look in them is so raw, so vulnerable, it almost undoes me.
He sees everything. He sees the want, the fear, the desperate, fragile hope that I keep buried under layers of clinical detachment. He sees me. And he doesn’t flinch.
The cool air kisses my heated skin as he undresses me, raising goosebumps across my flesh.
His eyes darken as they roam my body. His gaze is a physical touch that scours me, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
He doesn’t just see my body; he sees the story it tells—the scars, the strengths, the softness.
I pull him closer, my arms wrapping around his neck, my fingers tangling in the thick, soft hair at his nape.
It’s an unspoken command. An invitation.
A surrender. He answers it. With a fluid, powerful motion, he rolls us.
The world tilts, and suddenly I am on my back, sinking into the decadent softness of the mattress, and he is over me.
His weight is a glorious, crushing pressure, a living blanket that pins me to the bed and yet makes me feel utterly, completely safe.
He props himself up on his elbows, his body hovering just above mine, giving me space even as he surrounds me.
His eyes search mine again, a final, silent check.
Is this okay? Is this what you want? The answer is a resounding, soul-deep yes.
I lift my head, closing the small distance between us, and seal my mouth to his.
This time, the kiss is different. It’s not a question or a test. It’s a declaration. A covenant.
His hands are free now, and they begin their own exploration.
They trace the curve of my collarbones, skim down my sides, mapping my ribs.
His touch is worshipful, almost reverent, but it’s laced with a possessiveness that thrills me.
He touches me as if I am a precious, rare thing, something he has waited a lifetime to claim.
He touches me as if choosing me is an act he intends to repeat with every breath he takes.
And I answer him with the same certainty, my hands roaming the broad expanse of his back, feeling the hard bunch of muscle, the texture of his tattoos under my fingertips.
I choose him, too. Right here, right now, and every moment after.
His mouth leaves mine, blazing a trail of fire down my throat.
He nips at the sensitive skin where my neck meets my shoulder, and I gasp, my hips lifting off the bed in a silent plea.
He chuckles, a low, dark sound that vibrates against my skin.
His journey continues downward. His tongue traces the hollow of my throat, his teeth scrape gently over my collarbone.
He is taking his time, a predator savouring his meal, building the tension until it’s a taut, vibrating string inside me.
His hands find my breasts again, but this time there is no silk between us.
His palms are rough, calloused, and the friction against my soft skin is intoxicating.
He kneads the flesh, his thumbs and forefingers rolling my nipples, pinching them just hard enough to send a sharp, delicious jolt of pain-pleasure straight to my clit.
I moan, a low, guttural sound I barely recognize as my own.
My back arches, pushing my breasts into his hands, begging for more.
He gives me more. He lowers his head, his hot breath ghosting over one aching peak before his mouth closes over it.
The wet heat of his tongue is a shock. He laves the nipple, sucking it deep into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive tip.
His other hand continues its assault on my other breast, his fingers plucking and pulling.
The dual sensation is overwhelming. It’s a wet, messy, glorious assault on my senses.
He switches sides, giving the other breast the same thorough, worshipful attention.
I’m writhing beneath him now, my hands fisted in the sheets, my body a live wire of sensation.
His mouth moves lower, leaving a trail of wet kisses down my stomach.
His tongue dips into my navel, and I squirm, a breathless laugh escaping my lips.
He smiles against my skin, his dimples flashing.
He continues his descent, his hands spreading my thighs wide, opening me to his gaze.
I am completely exposed, completely vulnerable.
The old instinct to close my legs, to hide, flares up, but I push it down. I trust him.