Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bella
The cottage appeared through the trees like a daydream.
Small and weathered, with timber walls and a tin roof that had seen better years, it was charming in a way that made my chest ache.
My last home had been a giant mansion in Sicily, with rooms I’d never entered, polished tile floors, and sterile decorations that had held no personal meaning.
That house had sat at the top of a hill where the entire town could see the monstrosity.
Declan's cottage was practical and isolated. And his.
I wanted this. A home.
No, I didn't just want a home.
I wanted him.
Declan pulled Apollo to a stop, and with his hands under my arms, lowered me down, then swung off his horse in one fluid motion. “Stay here. I'll be back in a sec.” He led the horse around the side of the cottage.
Along the verandah railing hung a row of horseshoes.
Some were completely rusty, some still reflected the sunlight.
I ran my hand along them, making them clang together as I followed Declan to the corner of the house.
I watched as he opened a gate at the back, leading Apollo to a water trough.
He removed the saddle, gave the horse a bale of hay, and ran his hands along Apollo's neck, murmuring something I couldn't hear.
The tenderness in the gesture made my heart swell.
Everything about Declan made me feel whole and at home, like I was exactly where I belonged.
He strode back toward me, and when he glanced up, those light-blue eyes locked on mine. My heart skipped.
“Come here,” he said, voice rough as he grabbed my wrist.
He pulled me to his chest until our bodies were flush, heat radiating between us despite the cool evening air.
“Declan...”
His mouth crashed against mine, swallowing whatever I was about to say.
The kiss was hungry and desperate, like he'd been holding back for days and was finally showing me the man beneath the controlled exterior.
His tongue swept against mine, and I melted into him.
My hands came up to grip his shirt, and I barely noticed the sting of my burns.
He broke away to turn me toward the cottage, guiding me up the steps. We stumbled onto the porch, and he fumbled with the door handle, his other hand still tangled in my hair.
The door swung open, and we tumbled inside.
I caught a brief impression of tidy, rustic simplicity… a worn leather sofa, a wood stove in the corner, and boots lined up by the door.
Without shutting the door, Declan pressed me back against the wall. “I’ve waited too long for this,” he muttered against my lips, his voice a low rasp that sent heat pooling low in my belly. “Too long.”
“Then stop talking and kiss me.”
He groaned, and his hands were everywhere. Sliding up my sides, tangling in my hair, cupping my face tenderly, as his kiss turned ravenous. His hips pressed against mine, and the hard bulge in his jeans showed me exactly how much he wanted this.
I fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, trying to ignore the pain in my blistered fingers.
Declan pulled back, looked down at my hands, and his expression shifted from heated desire to worry. He caught my wrists carefully, like he might break them if he squeezed too hard. “Your hands.”
“I don't care.”
“I do.” His thumb brushed over the bandages across the palm of my right hand, feather-light. “I care.”
He lifted my hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to each palm, right over the gauze. The gesture was so unexpectedly sweet that my breath caught.
Then his eyes darkened, and that wicked half-smile I was starting to crave curved his lips.
“You heard Cassidy.” His voice dropped to a commanding tone that made my knees weak. “You're not allowed to use your hands.”
I blinked. “What?”
“I need to do all the work for you.” He raised my hands above my head, pressing my wrists gently against the wall. “I'm your slave, remember?”
Molten heat rushed through me. “Declan...”
“Do you trust me?”
The question hung between us, weighted with more than just this moment. I searched his face. The sharp line of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes, the barely restrained hunger written across every feature.
“Yes,” I whispered. A glorious shiver raced down my spine. “A thousand percent yes.”
“Perfect. Keep your hands there.” He released my wrists. “Don't move them unless I tell you to.”
I kept the backs of my hands pressed against the wall, even though every instinct screamed to touch him, to pull him closer, to feel him. The restraint was maddening.
Declan stepped back just enough to peel off his shirt, revealing the broad, muscled chest I'd only glimpsed before. My fingers flexed against the wall, aching to trace the lines of him, but I forced myself to stay still.
“That's it,” he murmured, and his eyes glistened with desire. “Stay like that.”
He closed the distance again, his hands sliding under my skirt and his warm palms gliding over my bare thighs. He dragged the fabric up torturously slowly, his knuckles brushing my hips, my waist, and then the sides of my breasts.
His breath hitched. “You're not wearing a bra?”
“No.”
A breath escaped his throat as he pulled my dress over my head, careful not to snag the bandages, and tossed it aside.
“Put your hands back up,” he demanded with a rough growl.
His gaze raked over me, and I'd never felt so exposed, so seen, or so desired.
“You're so goddamn beautiful,” he whispered.
His hot mouth found my neck, and he planted kisses from my earlobe to my collarbone.
I arched into his touch, and a whimper escaped my throat. “Declan, please...”
“Patience.” His voice trembled as if his control were fraying, too.
As my hands twitched against the wall, I gasped, desperate to touch him, but I held firm. He kissed me again, hard and claiming, his tongue sweeping against mine with deliberate strokes that made my knees buckle. Then he kissed his way down to my breasts, his stubble rasping against sensitive skin.
When his mouth closed over my nipple, I nearly came undone.
“God... Declan...”
He hummed against me, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure straight through my core. His hand cupped my other breast, his thumb circling the peak until I was writhing against the wall and panting.
“Keep your hands still,” he said, pulling back to look at me. His pupils were blown wide, his lips wet.
His gaze and my restriction combined to become unbearably intense. My hands shook as I pressed them flat against the wall, every muscle begging to reach for him.
His knuckle brushed against me through my underwear as he dragged my panties down with maddening slowness.
I bucked into his touch, and he gave me a cocky, devastating grin.
Kneeling, he helped me step out of my last piece of clothing, and for a moment, he stayed there, looking up at me with a glorious expression that took my breath away.
I ran my tongue over my lips, eager to taste him again. “Please...”
“Please, what, Bella?” His fingers traced lazy circles on my inner thigh, so close to where I needed him but not quite touching. “What do you want?”
“I want you.” I whimpered.
He stood and scooped me up with arms under my back and thighs, and I instinctively grabbed for his shoulders, yelping.
“Don't touch,” he reminded me, voice stern.
I jerked my hands away, holding them awkwardly in the air between us. He chuckled and carried me toward the bedroom. The cottage was so small it only took a few strides before he lowered me onto his double bed with rumpled sheets that smelled like him.
He yanked the curtains closed, blocking out the last of the sunshine. He turned to me and froze. “Bella, I don’t have a condom.”
“It’s okay. I have a Mirena in.”
“Good. That’s great.” He stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at me sprawled naked across his sheets, and I watched him unbuckle his belt, pop the button on his jeans, and drag the zipper down. He shoved his jeans off along with his boxers, and then he was bare, too, and oh, my God.
Declan was beautiful. All hard planes and muscle; his cock was thick and pointing toward me, glistening at the tip.
“Hands above your head,” he ordered, crawling onto the bed. “And keep them there.”
I obeyed, stretching my arms up, curling my fingers into the pillow above me. The position left me completely open to him, and the rush of my vulnerability made my head spin and my nipples peak rock hard.
Declan settled between my thighs, and his weight pressed me into the mattress as he kissed me again. His kiss was slower this time, deeper, like he was trying to memorize the taste of me. He slid his hand down my side, over the curve of my hip, and between my legs.
When his fingers found me, he groaned into my mouth.
I lifted my butt off the bed and opened my legs more, desperately wanting him deep inside me.
“Christ, Bella,” he muttered. “You're so hot.”
He rubbed me with infuriating precision, and I arched off the bed, a broken sound tearing from my throat. My hands flexed above my head, wanting desperately to grab him and anchor myself, but I held firm.
“That's it,” he murmured against my lips. “Let me take care of you.”
He slid a second finger inside me, curling them just right, and I cried out. The pleasure was almost too much, building too fast, and I trembled, already so close.
“Declan—I'm—oh God.”
“Let go,” he commanded, his thumb pressing against my tender core. “Come for me, Bella.”
I shattered as a wild orgasm ripped through me like lightning, and as I cried out, my body convulsed around his fingers. He worked me through my climax, relentlessly drawing out every last tremor until I was boneless and gasping beneath him.
“Perfect,” he breathed. “You're so perfect.”
Before I could catch my breath, he shifted position, moving so the head of his cock pressed against my entrance. He paused, his beautiful eyes locking with mine. “Still good?”
I nodded, too wrecked to form words.
“Tell me,” he said, his voice rough. “I need to hear you say what you want.”
“Yes, I want you,” I managed, my voice breaking. “Please, Declan. I need you.”
He pushed inside me with one slow, glorious thrust, and we both groaned.
He was big, stretching me almost to the point of pain and filling me so completely I could barely breathe.
Yet he, too, was perfect. He stilled once he was fully inside me, giving me time to adjust, and his forehead dropped to mine, his breath coming in harsh pants.
“Christ,” he gritted out. “You feel so good.”
“So do you,” I whispered, my words barely audible.
My hands flexed above my head, desperate to touch him, to pull him closer, but I kept them pinned to the pillow. The restraint made everything more intense, and every sensation magnified.
He withdrew almost completely, then pushed back in, slowly and deliberately. The friction was exquisite, dragging against every nerve ending, and I whimpered. He did it again, establishing a rhythm that was annoyingly controlled, rolling his hips with each deep thrust.
“Look at me,” he commanded, and my eyes snapped to his. “I want to see you when I make you come again.”
The raw desire in his gaze nearly undid me. He angled his hips, hitting that perfect spot inside me, and I cried out, my back arching off the bed.
“There,” he murmured, satisfaction darkening his features. “Right there.”
He kept that angle, each thrust precise and devastating. My legs trembled around him, the glorious pressure building in my belly again. But the restraint didn't last. His control began to fray, his movements became harder, faster, more desperate.
Within moments, he was pounding into me, the bed creaking beneath us, his hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him deeper, and he cursed, his rhythm faltering.
“Bella,” he groaned, my name a prayer and a curse. “Can't.... Fuck.... Can't last...”
“Don't,” I panted, my own control shattering. “Don't hold back. I want to feel you.”
His next thrust was perfectly wild, perfectly devastating, and I gasped as pleasure sparked through me. He drove into me again and again, chasing his release, and the raw desperation in his movements pushed me closer to the edge.
“Come with me,” he rasped. “One more time. Let go, babe.”
Babe. That simple word, so casual and intimate, was all it took. I shattered around him, my body clenching as waves of pleasure crashed through me.
He slammed into me one last time, hard and deep, and his entire body went rigid as he came with a guttural groan. The heat of his release and the feeling of him losing control sent aftershocks rippling through me.
He collapsed onto me, careful not to crush me completely, and buried his face in my neck. His heart pounded against my chest, racing in time with mine, and we lay there for a long time, both of us trembling, struggling to catch our breath.
“Christ,” he finally muttered against my skin, his voice wrecked. “That was...”
“Incredible,” I offered, because I couldn't form a coherent thought either.
“Exactly.” He pressed a soft kiss to my throat, then another to my jaw, so gentle my soul ached.
He rolled onto his back and pulled me against his chest, one arm wrapped securely around my waist. “You can use your hands now,” he murmured sleepily.
I finally lowered my bandaged hands down to rest against his chest.
He cupped my right hand and pressed a soft kiss to the gauze. “You okay?”
“More than okay,” I whispered.
He hummed, satisfied, and tucked me closer, his chin resting on top of my head. Within minutes, his breathing evened out, deep and steady.
I lay there, with the dim light filtering through the sides of the curtains, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the solid warmth of him wrapped around me. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt completely, utterly safe.
And that terrified me.
Because when I killed Vincenzo, I'd triggered a deadly chain of events. Did Rocco and Pike act on their own revenge? Or did they answer to someone higher up the mafia chain than Vincenzo had been?
Did killing Rocco and Pike put an end to our troubles with the mafia?
Or did it paint bigger targets on our backs?