Chapter 7 - Ivy #2
“This isn’t gambling.” That infuriating confidence slips back into place. “It’s scientific.” His mouth curves, wicked and knowing. “If you can admit—right here and now—that you felt something when we kissed, I’ll cooperate with every single test. No complaints. No attitude.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll keep failing.” His eyes hold mine. “Your research data gets compromised by one very uncooperative subject.”
Hot fury floods my chest. “That’s blackmail.”
“That’s motivation.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Believe it.”
He’s so close my eyes betray me, dropping to his mouth—full, alluring, far too tempting. I blink slowly, forcing myself to breathe, counting to ten.
“I don’t owe you admitting to anything,” I say.
“No,” he agrees quietly. “You don’t. But you owe it to yourself.”
Silence stretches—thick, unbearable. The room feels smaller, the hum of the equipment louder. My chest rises and falls too fast, like I’ve just run a marathon instead of standing in a sterile assessment room with a man who’s dismantled my self-control.
“Ivy,” he says, and this time there’s no teasing in it. Just my name.
I close my eyes.
“I felt something,” I admit, the words tearing out of me before I can stop them. “I didn’t want to. I still don’t. But yes—I felt something.”
When I open my eyes, he’s watching me like he’s just been handed something precious. His breathing is uneven too now, his composure cracked. It makes him more human.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I did too.”
We’re too close. Too quiet. The air feels charged, fragile, like one more second might tip us right back into something we can’t afford.
Then—
The door swings open.
“Well, this is cozy.”
The voice is smooth. Polished. Cold.
I jerk back like I’ve been burned.
A man stands in the doorway. I try to force my mind to remember where I've met him before, who Dr. Logan introduced him as. Then I recall Dr. Logan showing me his picture and wish the floor would open and bury me whole.
It’s Greg Stallworth. Declan's agent.
He's shorter than I expected for someone with so much presence. Maybe five foot eight with graying temples and cold, gray eyes, cataloging every detail of the scene before him. His suit is expensive, perfectly tailored. A Rolex glints at his wrist.
Declan straightens instantly, something slamming shut behind his eyes. All warmth evaporates. The dangerous intimacy vanishes like it never existed.
“Gregory,” he says flatly.
Gregory’s gaze slides from Declan to me, lingering on my flushed face far too long.
"Declan." His voice is smooth, pleasant even, which makes things worse. "I've been looking for you. We have that meeting with the marketing team."
"I'm in the middle of an assessment," Declan replies with a neutral tone.
"So, I see." Gregory's lips curve upward, but he's not smiling. He gives me a predatory look, like I'm a threat to be eliminated. "Dr. Chandler, is it? I've heard about the new research project. Fascinating work."
"Thank you," I manage, my voice surprisingly steady.
"I trust everything is proceeding..." He looks around slowly, then pointedly at Declan and me. "...professionally?"
The emphasis on the last word carries a warning tone. I lift my chin in response.
"Of course. Mr. Hawthorne was about to retake his baseline assessments."
"Excellent." His gaze shifts back to Declan. "I'll wait outside. Don't be long."
The door closes with a soft click. I whirl on Declan, fury and mortification warring in my chest.
"What the hell was that?"
"That was typical Gregory behavior."
“He saw us!”
“There was nothing to see. Nothing even happened this time.”
“Nothing happened this time?” My voice spikes. “It doesn’t matter whether something happened or if he just thinks something did. This is exactly the kind of thing that can destroy my credibility.”
“Ivy—”
I press my face into my hands, shame crashing over me all at once.
“This. Whatever this is—it can’t ever happen again. No kissing. No cuddling. No nothing.”
He smirks.
“How about doing it on the equipment table?”
I drop my hands and glare at him. “No,” I say, flat and final.
“Shame,” he says mildly.
A laugh slips out of me—quick and startled, a soft burst of sound I don’t have time to swallow back. It surprises us both. His eyebrows lift.
His smile shifts—less smug now, more pleased. Like that laugh meant something.
“Oh, don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Good,” I snap, grabbing my tablet. “Because this conversation never happened.”
I turn for the door before I can betray anything else, leaving without a backward glance. Because if I stay one second longer, I won’t just laugh again.
I’ll do something far worse.
***
Hours later, I'm curled up on my couch, a finger pressed to my lips as I recall the taste of Declan, the small groan he made when I kissed him back. I’ve wanted to kiss him again ever since.
My eyes drift shut, and the memory blooms—his mouth, warm and sure, the way my body leaned into him before my brain could intervene.
My hand moves without conscious permission, brushing over my pajama shirt, my stomach tightening as I realize what I’m doing.
I’ve never done this before.
Just like I’ve never been with a man before.
I’ve always told myself there would be a right time. A right person. Someone safe and appropriate and approved by everyone who matters. I’ve been very good at waiting. At postponing want. At locking curiosity away like it’s something shameful.
But not tonight.
My breathing changes, slow at first, then uneven, as I let myself imagine—not just Declan, but me. The version of myself who doesn’t flinch at desire. Who doesn’t analyze every sensation like it needs a peer-reviewed explanation.
I slide lower against the couch cushions, an ache building deep in my core. I don’t know if what I’m doing is right. I just follow what feels good.
My hand slips beneath my panties—though in my mind, it’s his.
My underwear is already damp, and I bite my lip to stifle a soft moan.
It’s ridiculous how just the thought of him can make me this wet, but I can’t help it. I imagine his hands on my body, firm yet gentle, the way he’d trace my curves like they’re the most precious thing in the world.
My clit is throbbing, and I can’t wait any longer. I touch myself… there.
My other hand cups my breast, my thumb teasing my nipple, already hard and aching for attention.
I imagine Declan’s mouth there, his lips sucking and nibbling, his tongue swirling in a rhythm that makes me gasp.
My hips rock into my hand, my body clenching around nothing. How would he feel inside me? I know he’d feel good—stretching me. So good.
I moan softly, the sound muffled by the pillow beneath my head.
My mind is a blur of fantasies, all of them starring Declan. I picture him between my legs, his hair falling over his forehead as he looks up at me with those intense eyes. I imagine his tongue tracing my folds, slow and deliberate, his beard scratching my thighs as he holds them open.
Yes. I want him. I can admit it now. Of course I want I him. I want to kiss him. I want him to make the constant hum in my brain finally go quiet. I want him to fill me up. I want him to teach me everything there is to know about making love. I want him soft, and I want him hard.
I’m so close now, hovering right on the precipice. Yes, there. The thought is a spark that catches, and then the world simply falls away. For the first time in my life I experience an orgasm.
The sweet release feels like pressure and release all at once. Waves of pleasure rippling through my body. My pussy clenches, and I cry out, my body shaking with the force of it. I imagine him watching me, his eyes dark with desire, his cock hard and ready for me.
As my orgasm fades, I lie there, breathless, my body still trembling.
I don’t feel guilty.
I feel awake.
And that might be the most dangerous part of all.
***
My phone buzzes. It’s King. Why couldn’t I imagine him doing things to me instead of Declan? I read his message.
King:
How was your day? You've been quiet.
Relief floods through me. This is safe. It's a connection that doesn't threaten everything I've built.
Ivy:
Complicated. Work stuff. People stuff.
King:
Want to talk about it?
I snort. I can't tell him about Declan's kiss that makes me wish he'll smash his lips on mine, drive his tongue into my mouth and make me breathless again.
Ivy:
I feel like I'm not doing anything right.
King:
From what I've learned about you, I seriously doubt that. You're one of the most competent people I know.
A smile tugs at my lips.
Ivy:
We've never met.
King:
You know what I mean. But seriously, Ivy. Talk to me. What's got you so twisted up?
I think about deflecting, but I've been open to King. So far, he's been accepting.
Ivy:
There's this person at work who makes me feel off balance. I don't know who I am when they're around.
King:
Is that a bad thing?
Ivy:
It feels dangerous.
King:
Maybe danger isn't always bad. Sometimes, it's exactly what we need to grow.
Ivy:
What if growing means losing everything?
King:
What if it means finding something better?
I stare at the message for a long time. If King knows I'm texting about another man's kiss, he won't be encouraging me to accept the danger that's Declan. He'll be trying to get me to kiss him instead.
My chest tightens. King's kiss would be nothing like Declan's. It would be gentle, soft, the kind of kiss that asks permission instead of taking. The kind that builds slowly instead of consuming.
Declan's kiss was fire and demand and possession. It left me wanting yet terrified.
King's kiss would be safety.
But even as I text him, changing the topic, I can still feel Declan's thumb stroking my jaw. Can still taste him on my lips.
Although I want to forget that kiss, I desperately want it to happen again.