15. Skylar
SKYLAR
“What’s the matter, Declan? You seemed so sure of yourself a minute ago.” My voice doesn’t feel like my own. My head screams at me to stop, but I don’t.
“Skyler.” My name on his lips is a warning—one he doesn’t get to make.
He lost the right for my name to sound like anything other than an apology years ago.
Joy? Happiness? Ecstasy? No, he doesn’t get any of that, and he sure as hell doesn’t get to warn me that I’m making a mistake in offering up my body. I know I am.
“You agreed to this deal,” I taunt. “What did you think? That we were both going to be celibate the whole time?”
He chuckles. It’s deep and throaty and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows it down. “Maybe.”
“That’s bullshit.” I back up, kicking the boots off my feet and stepping out of the jeans bunched up on the floor, my heart thudding as I inch myself closer to the bed.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah, and guess what?” Another step back. “There was nothing in the deal about exclusivity, so if you won’t fuck me, I’ll find someone who will. Maybe Julian—”
One second he’s smirking, the next his eyes go nearly black as he pushes further into my room, and my words disintegrate on my tongue.
“Finish that sentence, Sky, I dare you.” I swear I hear the hint of a growl in his voice, but there’s also something else. Desperation, maybe? No, that can’t be right. “Is that why you wore a thong? Who were you hoping would see it, Skylar?”
I look off to the side, and when I don’t answer, he stalks closer. “That bartender? Is that who you got all dressed up for?”
As much as I want to continue to mess with him, there’s something about the slight hint of sadness in his eyes that makes me pause. “Julian is just a friend,” I admit.
He laughs again, but this time it’s darker, more ominous. “Friend,” he repeats, turning to face me fully, grazing his knuckles against my cheek before he hooks two fingers under my chin, tipping it up so I’m forced to meet his eyes. “We were friends once. Look how that turned out.”
I scoff, whipping my chin free from his hold. “That’s not fair. This isn’t real. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“Then why are you practically naked?”
“Because there’s a difference between love and fucking. Isn’t that what you said?”
Throwing his words back in his face should feel good, therapeutic even, but it doesn’t. Not when I see the hurt flicker in his eyes. Not when he visibly recoils like he’s been punched in the face. But why should I feel bad? Why do I still care after what he did?
I brush past him, not giving a shit that my entire ass is on display as I snatch my shirt from the floor and put it back on.
I’m not actually sure why I wore a thong.
Maybe because I didn’t want underwear lines or maybe I wanted to feel sexy for once.
Either way, Declan is pissing me off, and I’m too drunk for this conversation.
“Fine. You won’t touch me?” I snap. “Won’t let anyone else do it?
I’ll just do it myself. It’s not like I don’t have plenty of practice.
” The last few words are muttered under my breath, but I seem to have underestimated this man’s superhuman hearing because the second I go to turn towards the bed, a strong hand lands on my arm, pulling me back before I have a chance to take a step.
His head dips low, his mouth hovering at the edge of my ear.
Hot breath brushes against my neck as his words slide through me.
“What about all those guys you fucked when we were apart? None of them could get you there, huh?” His eyes tighten, the flecks of gold getting lost with the widening of his pupils.
“They left you as hard up as you are now. Aching, so fucking desperate that you had to take matters into your own hands. What did you think about, Skylar? When you touched yourself in the middle of the night, while your pretentious douchebag flavor-of-the-week slept next to you, none the wiser? Did you imagine it was me pushing your shirt up, slipping my hand beneath the waistband of those little cotton panties you love so much? Did you pretend it was my fingers sliding into you, already wet and so fucking needy?”
“Stop.” It’s meant to come out stern, but it sounds more whiny than anything.
“My thumb working your clit faster and faster until…”
“Fuck you,” I spit out.
“Not yet.”
“You’re pathetic.”
“Pathetic? I’ve fucked my fist to the thought of you for the last six years. Don’t talk to me about pathetic.”
The admission almost knocks me off my feet, a small gasp escaping despite my best efforts.
“Ask me why,” he demands.
My gaze flicks to him, my brows tightening.
“Go ahead. Ask me why I won’t fuck you.”
“Why?” I choke out before I can think better of it.
“Because you’re drunk, Skylar. Because I’ve dreamt about sinking inside you again for six years, and when I do, I want you to feel everything. Every little twitch, every pulse, every fucking flutter of my heart.”
My eyes fill with saline, but I will the tears not to fall.
“Then you’ll know,” he continues.
“Know what?” I whisper.
“That I lied.”
His words repeat over and over again in my head like the chorus of a stupid pop song.
Because then you’ll know that I lied.
Lied about what? About me belonging to him?
Or that I didn’t mean anything to him? I didn’t bother asking before I shoved him out of my room and locked the door.
The alcohol made everything too hazy and confusing.
But now, hours later, as I toss and turn, completely sober, his words refuse to fade.
If anything, they only grow louder with every minute that passes.
Frustrated, I rip the blanket off and march downstairs to get a glass of water.
The red numbers on the oven mock me. It’s three in the morning.
I’ll be lucky if I get a couple of hours of sleep tonight.
Grabbing a glass from the cupboard, I turn on the tap of Declan’s fancy reverse osmosis water system and chug down the cool liquid.
A door closing upstairs, followed by faint footsteps, catches my attention.
Is he awake?
I refill the glass and down it before making my way back up the stairs.
The hallway is quiet, and when I get to his door, it’s closed.
I don’t know what compels me to do it, but I turn the knob slightly and it gives.
Realizing that it’s unlocked, I yank my hand back and turn around, freezing in place when I hear the soft moans.
A whispered curse. My name floats through the crack in the door, and it sounds like regret.
I’ve fucked my fist to the thought of you for the last six years.
I should move. I should run to my room and not look back, but my feet stay rooted to the floor.
“Skylar.”
It’s louder now. Shuffling. Bare feet on the hardwood. My pulse pounds against my ribs. He was touching himself to the thought of me and now…now he knows I was listening.
“Sky.” There’s a thud at the door as if he let his forehead fall against it. I do the same, reaching up to rest my palm next to my face.
We stay like that for a minute, maybe, and when the door finally opens, Declan stands there in a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair disheveled, breathing hard.
His stormy eyes search mine, probing, dissecting, seeking out answers, but I don’t think he’s going to find any. I barely know what I’m doing myself.
Walk away, the voice in my head screams at me, but my feet stay firmly planted on the ground.
That’s when he starts to back up, his feet sure as he retreats toward the bed until his ass hits the mattress. The whole time, his gaze never strays from mine.
I swallow down the lump in my throat as he slowly lowers his sweats and takes his cock in his hand.
“Dec—” I say, but trail off, turning my head to the side.
“Look at me, Skylar.”
The overhead lights are dimmed. Still, I can see everything in the room, which means if I turn my head back toward him, I’ll see exactly what he’s doing.
“No, Skylar,” he says again when I don’t immediately follow his order. “You don’t get to look away. Fucking look at me.”
Before I can think better of it, my eyes snap in his direction as if he tugged an invisible string.
His pants are down near his hips, his hand gripping his hard length, dark blonde hair falling in his eyes, which have turned molten.
He doesn’t even blink as he lifts his hand up to his mouth and spits in his palm, bringing it back down to wrap around himself.
Saliva pools in my mouth as I take in his thick cock—it’s bigger than I remember.
He thumbs the tip, massaging a bead of precum, and I look away.
“Uh-uh, Firefly. I want you to watch,” he rasps, the muscles in his arm tensing with every stroke. “This is what you do to me. This is how my body reacts to being near you.”
“I don’t—”
“Sit down,” he interrupts me. Not that I even know what I was going to say.
He nods to his desk chair sitting in the corner, and my feet carry me there before my brain can catch up.
“Did you touch that pussy?”
Even though he literally has his dick in his hand, his filthy words still catch me off guard. “What?”
“When you kicked me out earlier, did you get yourself off?”
I want to lie, if only out of spite, but I’m honestly not sure which answer would piss him off more, so I stick with the truth. “No.”
“But you wanted to?” He leans back on his elbows, his shirt riding up to expose a glimpse of abs. “You still need to come, don’t you?”
Fuck, this man and his mouth are going to be the death of me. I hate the way a few words from him can flood my core, but not as much as I hate the way I nod at his question. Or the smug smirk that spreads across his face when I do.
“Spread your legs, Skylar.”
I swallow. “What?” I’m starting to think that’s the only word I can get out.
“You heard me.” His gaze is unrelenting as he lazily pumps himself. “You need to get off. So, open your legs and do it.”
There’s this moment in Romeo and Juliet after they’ve spent the night together for the first time.
They hear a bird and argue about whether it’s a lark signifying the start of a new day or a nightingale enjoying the last bit of darkness.
It’s that moment right at the edge of dawn when dreams are the most vivid and reality starts to blur.
At least that’s what I tell myself as I gently part my legs.
Only I would be thinking about classic literature at a time like this.
I don’t know if he can see the dampness of my underwear in the dim lighting, but his hand starts to move faster, and his lips twitch with unspoken words.
Whatever he wanted to say is abandoned as he shakes his head and simply utters, “Take them off.”
I slip the panties down over my hips, tossing them to the floor near my feet. His hand works harder, sliding roughly up and down his length, his pace increasing with each pass.
“Show me,” he says, his gravelly voice doing nothing to cool the heat coiling inside me. “Show me how you touched yourself when the tons of guys you fucked couldn’t get you there.”
He’s throwing my words in my face, calling my bluff, and I should hate him for it, but I’m too far gone. Pulling my shirt up just enough to give him a peek at my right nipple, I move my other hand down, circling two fingers over my clit.
“Shit,” he whispers, slowing down his movements as if he’s trying not to come too fast. “I can see your pussy glistening from here.”
I guess that answers that question.
“Don’t you dare stop, Skylar. Make that desperate little cunt feel good.”
His condescending words should make me want to slap him, or at the very least blush, but they only ignite more urgency.
I run my middle finger down to my opening, and I’m so slick that there’s no resistance as I push it in, pleasure instantly mounting low in my belly.
I try to go slow, but it feels too good.
My pace quickens as I circle my hips, grinding my clit against my palm while I push my finger deeper.
“That’s it, Sky. Don’t fucking stop.” He picks up his speed again, as the muscles in his forearm twitch with the practiced movement.
I don’t know if it’s the voyeurism of watching him or the look on his face as he watches me, but I feel my orgasm start to crest after only a couple of minutes. My inner walls tighten, a fresh wave of heat flooding my body and making me dizzy.
“You’re so close, Sky. I can tell from here. You’re gonna make that pussy weep for me, aren’t you?”
His voice breaks through my lust-addled brain and self-preservation kicks in. My eyes fall, scrambling to hide what’s about to happen, but he won’t let me.
“Uh-uh, Firefly,” he tsks. “Look at me when you come.”
Before I can stop it, my gaze floats to his.
“Good girl. Now pinch your nipple.”
With my other hand, I reach up, taking the sensitive bud between my thumb and index finger, and the second I close them together, my whole body shatters. I come on a broken cry, my muscles spasming around my fingers, and I don’t think, I don’t hesitate, as I call out his name.
He follows right behind me, pulling his shirt up as he curses, spilling his release onto his stomach.
My breathing is still irregular, my heart hammering in my chest when he finally gets up and walks to his ensuite bathroom. He returns, having straightened his clothes, with a washcloth in his hand.
I look at the towel, and I’m not sure if it’s the gesture or the fact that it’s now closer to dawn, but reality slithers in, curling around my chest and squeezing tightly.
“I can’t—” I shake my head. “This was a mistake.”