20. Epilogue Shay #2
Tessa, who’s definitely heard every word from the outdoor bar, doesn’t look up. “Ice machine’s fine.”
“Wow,” I say. “Nobody asked you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Declan’s mouth twitches.
I stand, smoothing my hands down the front of my shorts like I’m not one breath from climbing him in front of my entire found family.
Jude points at us. “If you come back smelling like sex, I’m stealing dessert.”
“You’re stealing dessert anyway,” I tell him.
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s literally the point.”
Declan takes my hand.
No one says anything. Not really. It’s just his hand around mine, warm and familiar, his fingers lacing through mine as he leads me toward the door.
But I notice.
I notice every single time.
The bar is cool after the patio, dim and empty except for the soft amber glow behind the bottles. The doors are locked, the stools are tucked under the counter, and the whole room smells like polished wood, lemon cleaner, old beer, and us.
It’s ours.
The thought hits harder than it should.
Declan lets the door swing shut behind us, then turns to look at me.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“That’s a lie.”
He steps closer. “You’ve been staring at the sign all night.”
“It was expensive.”
“You approved the quote.”
“I can still have concerns.”
“You like it.”
I fold my arms. “I tolerate it.”
His hands settle at my waist. Big. Steady.
The same hands that can haul kegs, fix a broken table leg, or hold me down in the nest until I stop spinning out.
The same hands that signed a contract giving me half of the one thing he spent years building alone.
I trace the thick tendons on the backs of them, the veins standing out under the skin, and my mouth goes dry remembering how those hands feel spread across my ribs when he’s keeping me exactly where he wants me.
“You love it,” he says.
“I love the return on investment.”
“Shay.”
I look away first, because of course I do. I’m not about to get emotional in the middle of our empty bar while our friends eat ribs outside.
“It’s a nice sign,” I mutter.
Declan’s quiet for a second.
Then he kisses my temple.
“You made this place better.”
My throat goes tight so fast it’s offensive.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say things in that voice.”
“What voice?”
“The one that turns my bones into soup.”
He laughs against my hair, and I hate that I can feel it all the way down to my toes.
“Come here,” I say.
“I’m right here.”
“No. Sit.”
That gets his attention.
His green eyes darken, just a little, and his scent deepens under the clean smell of the bar. He knows that tone. I’ve gotten a lot less interested in pretending I don’t like asking for what I want.
Which is progress.
Personal growth, even.
He glances toward the tables lined up near the wall. “That one sturdy enough for what you’ve got in mind?”
“You own the furniture. You tell me.”
“I know which tables I bought.”
“Then stop stalling.”
Declan’s smile goes slow.
“Brat.”
“Ancient.”
He catches my wrist, pulls me into his chest, and kisses me hard enough that I forget the next insult I had ready. His beard scrapes my jaw. His mouth tastes faintly of beer and something smoky from the grill. I fist the front of his shirt and kiss him back until my lungs start to complain.
Then he breaks away, breathing rough.
“Table,” he says.
“Yeah.”
He lifts me like I weigh nothing.
My laugh comes out startled and a little breathless as he sets me on the edge of the nearest table, then turns and sits in the chair beside it. He drags me straight into his lap, my back pressed to his chest, my thighs falling open over his.
“Bossy tonight,” he murmurs against my ear.
“Co-owner,” I correct him.
“Mm. That’s right.”
His hand slides under my shirt, palm flattening against my stomach.
I shiver, leaning back into him because there’s no point pretending I’m unaffected when my whole body knows him now.
Knows the solid line of him behind me. The warm scrape of his beard.
The low sound he makes when I squirm in his lap.
The almost-touch of his fingers just below my waistband is worse than if he’d already shoved them inside my shorts.
I can feel exactly how many inches separate his fingertips from where I want them, and the gap feels charged, electric.
My cock twitches, already filling, and a helpless bead of slick slips out of me at the thought of those thick fingers sliding lower.
I imagine them pressing inside me while he holds me open on his lap, that steady voice in my ear telling me how wet I already am for him.
Outside, somebody yells. Jude, probably. A burst of laughter follows.
The door stays shut.
Declan presses his mouth to my mark, and every thought in my head goes soft around the edges.
“You want this?” he asks quietly.
I turn my face enough to look at him.
His eyes are steady. Always steady.
Even now. Even when he’s hard against me and I’m already warm and restless in his lap, when the bar is empty and our friends are one door away and he can probably read my mind from the way my scent has gone sweet.
He still asks.
I used to hear questions like that as an escape hatch. A chance to prove I could leave.
Now I hear them for what they are.
A choice.
“Yeah,” I say. “I want this.”
His hand tightens on my waist.
“Tell me what you want, sweetheart.”
I smile, because I’m still me. I’m still allowed to be impossible.
“I want you to stop talking like you’ve got all night.”
Declan’s laugh is low and rough. “We’ve got maybe ten minutes before Jude sends a search party.”
“Then we should be efficient.”
“You say that like you’ve ever been efficient with me.”
“Rude.”
He kisses me again, swallowing the word, and then there’s nothing efficient about it.
It’s fast. Familiar. A messy tangle of hands and half-whispered swearing, my shirt shoved up, his mouth hot at my neck. I reach behind me, grab at him, and he groans into my shoulder.
“Jesus, Shay.”
“Don’t get emotional.”
“I’m about to get very emotional.”
“Gross.”
“Lift for me.”
I do.
Of course I do.