10. Declan #2
“Okay.”
“There you go again,” he mutters.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” He reaches for my face, his thumb brushing my beard. The frustration in his expression softens. “Just… keep telling me what you mean.”
I lean into his hand. “I mean I like doing this for you. I like watching you relax. I don’t want anything back for it.”
“Sounds fake.”
“I know.” I kiss his palm. “But it’s not.”
He watches me for a long moment, then gives a single, sharp nod. “Keep going,” he says.
So I do.
I press one finger into him, slow enough for him to feel every inch. Shay’s breath catches, his knees opening wider. He’s so tight around me, even now, even ready like this.
“You were made for this,” I tell him, the words rough, half to myself. “Made to take me.”
“Yeah,” he breathes, and it’s not defiance, it’s agreement.
I work my finger in and out, then add a second when he starts pushing his hips back onto my hand. His slick coats my knuckles, messy and hot. I stretch him slowly, keeping my mouth on his cock, listening to every wrecked sound he makes.
“More,” Shay says, the word tight.
I slide in a third finger, and he groans, his body taking them, tight at first, then yielding around me like it knows what’s coming next. I watch my hand working him open and feel something feral twist in my chest.
When I finally climb up over him, Shay’s eyes drag down my body and stop on my cock.
His mouth parts.
“Still excessive,” he says, but his voice is breathy.
“You seemed to like excessive before.”
“That was different. I was proving a point.”
“And now?”
His gaze comes back to mine. There’s no performance there. Just want. His throat works on a swallow, and I can’t look away. “Now I want you.”
I brace my arms on either side of his head, caging him in. He’s so much smaller beneath me like this, my body blocking out the rest of the room, and the way he looks up at me—not scared, just hungry—makes my blood run hot.
He grabs the back of my neck and pulls me down for a kiss. It’s hungry now. His tongue pushes into my mouth, and he nips my lower lip hard enough to make me grunt.
“There,” he says against my lips. “That’s better.”
“Brat.”
He gives me a sharp, possessive smile that goes straight through me. I kiss him again, then shift us until I’m sitting up against the headboard, pillows propped behind my back.
He looks at me, his expression lost. “What are you—?”
“Come here.” I shift, pulling him by the hand until he’s straddling my hips. His knees settle on the mattress on either side of me, and I just hold his waist, my thumbs pressing into the sharp points of his hipbones. The size of my hands on him is obscene.
He takes my hand.
He doesn’t look at my cock, not at first. He just looks at me, his own breath unsteady.
Then he reaches down, his fingers warm when they close around mine, and together we guide the head of my cock to his entrance.
I feel how much bigger I am against him, the blunt pressure against where he’s slick and small and waiting.
He lets out a shaky breath and braces his hands on my shoulders. There’s no challenge in his eyes now, no sharp remark on his tongue. He just starts to lower himself, slow and deliberate. The first inch of me slides inside, and his whole body goes taut.
“Okay?” I ask, my voice rough.
He gives a short, sharp nod, his eyes fluttering shut. He sinks another inch, then another. The heat of him is staggering, so tight I can feel the texture of him, the involuntary clench and give of his body opening for me.
“Christ, you feel that?” I grit out. “How much of me you’re taking?”
“Yeah.” The word is a puff of air. “All of it. Eventually.”
He keeps going, his face a mask of concentration, breathing through the stretch. I watch his jaw tighten, feel the fine tremor that starts in his thighs and works its way up his body. When he’s taken about half of me, he stops, his hips hovering.
“Look at me,” I say.
His eyes open. They’re dark, his pupils blown wide.
“You’re doing so good, sweetheart.”
A flush creeps up his neck. His body gives a reflexive squeeze around me that almost undoes me. He presses his forehead to my shoulder, hiding his face like he can’t stand for me to see it.
“Don’t,” he whispers into my skin.
I just rub his back, a slow circle. “Just breathe. I’m right here.”
He takes a breath, then another, and finally sinks the rest of the way down.
My cock is buried to the root, and he stays there, completely still, forehead resting against mine.
We’re just breathing. I can feel the frantic beat of his heart against my own ribs, the impossible, perfect tightness of him holding me.
Then he moves.
It’s not a push. It’s a slow, deep rock forward, a surrender to the feeling. A soft, broken sound tears from his throat.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “Declan.”
“I’ve got you.”
His arms are loose around my neck, his hands tangled in my hair.
He rides me with a slow, easy rhythm, lifting and sinking until my cock is buried to the root.
His ass slides over my thighs, slick running down between us, and I have to clench my jaw against a groan.
Every rise is a loss, every drop a homecoming.
He looks different like this. Not just because he’s naked and on top of me, though that’s a significant part of it.
It’s the absence of tension in his face.
His curls are damp against his forehead, his mouth is soft and parted, and for once he’s just chasing a feeling instead of trying to outrun it.
He tips his head back, and the long, vulnerable line of his throat makes my teeth ache.
“This feels…” he starts, then stops, sinking down again. “Fuck. It’s too good.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah.” His fingers dig into my shoulders. “It’s unfair. Nobody should feel this full.”
The growl that rips out of me is barely human. I shift my hips, meeting his next downward slide, and a low moan vibrates through his chest and into mine.
“Right there,” he breathes against my neck. “Don’t stop doing that.”
So I don’t. The motion makes our thighs brush, a deliberate press of skin on skin. His pace quickens, not frantic, just honest. He wants this.
“You’re taking all of me,” I murmur against his jaw. “Every fucking inch. Knew you could.”
“Keep going.”
“Not planning on stopping.”
His scent floods the room, sweet and dark, turning everything in my head to smoke. My knot begins to swell at the base of my cock, a low, insistent pressure. I watch his face when he feels it—the tiny hitch in his breath, the way his lashes flutter.
“Oh,” he whispers. “You’re close.”
“Getting there.”
“Let me—” He tries to speed up, to push us both over the edge.
I catch his hips, holding him still.
He blinks down at me, confused. “What?”
“I want you to come first.”
His expression immediately hardens. “I can handle it.”
“I know you can.” My thumbs press into the creases where his thighs meet his hips. “That’s not why. I want to feel you fall apart around me before I do. Let me have that.”
The fight in his eyes flickers. He just looks at me for a long moment, his breath unsteady.
“Okay,” he finally whispers.