Chapter 15 - Ivy
IVY
Leaving the Socks on
Declan invited me over to his penthouse. And I’m nervous. Very.
Declan, on the other hand, is quiet confidence personified. The sight of him bustling around the kitchen has my nerves buzzing like exposed wires.
I hover near the island, hands fisting and unfisting at my sides.
He invited me over. To his place. Alone. In the evening. That has to mean something, right?
He’ll want to have sex with me tonight, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do or how I’m supposed to act.
Every time he gets too close, nervous energy skitters under my skin. Will he come on to me now? Will he kiss me first, or will he just lead me to his bedroom and tell me to strip? Do I leave my socks on? What do I do with my hands?
I’m exhausted from wondering when the moment is supposed to happen—tired of feeling like there’s a test coming that I haven’t studied for.
Maybe if I just… get it over with, I can relax.
Stop overthinking. Stop flinching.
Declan glances over his shoulder. “You’re very quiet.”
“I’m fine,” I say too quickly.
He hums, unconvinced, and turns back to the stove. The domesticity of it—him cooking, swearing softly, completely at ease—makes my chest tighten. He looks like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing in every area of his life.
Including this one.
I step closer. Too close. My toe catches the edge of the rug, and I stumble just enough that my hand shoots out, landing flat against his back.
Solid. Warm.
He stills.
“Oh—sorry,” I blurt.
He turns, concern already in his eyes. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I say, then add—without any idea where the words come from—“You can kiss me if you want.”
The words hang between us.
Declan’s eyebrows lift. Not in alarm. Not in irritation. Just surprise, followed by a flicker of amusement—and then something more intent.
“I can?” he repeats slowly.
I nod, my heart hammering.
“Well,” he says mildly, making no move to do anything of the sort, “thank you for clarifying.”
“I mean.” I scramble. “You invited me over. I just assumed—”
“Assumed what?” he asks gently.
That you expect this. That this is the part I’m supposed to play. That if I don’t, you’ll wonder what’s wrong with me.
“I don’t know,” I say—and because stopping feels impossible, I lean up and kiss him.
My mouth presses to his, and I push myself against him, trying to make my intentions unmistakably clear. My hands land awkwardly on his chest, fingers tense, uncertain of where they’re supposed to go.
Declan kisses me back—but carefully. He doesn’t deepen it right away. He lets me set the pace, even though my pace is a mess.
When his hand slides to my waist, my breath catches with a small, humiliating sound I can’t stop. The moment his thumb presses a little firmer, heat flares—
—and panic follows immediately.
I pull back.
“I’m fine,” I say too fast.
“You don’t look fine,” he says quietly.
“I am,” I insist, then ruin it by leaning in again, kissing him harder this time, like force might substitute for confidence.
My hands wander—clumsy, unsure. I grab his biceps, then his shoulders, then accidentally fist the fabric of his shirt like I’m bracing for impact. I’m not touching him with intention so much as urgency, like I’m trying to get from point A to point B without knowing the route.
When his hand moves up my back, my body betrays me.
I stiffen.
Declan feels it instantly.
He breaks the kiss—not abruptly, but decisively—and rests his forehead against mine.
“Ivy,” he murmurs. “Hey.”
I’m breathing too fast. My cheeks burn. I hate that I’m doing this wrong. I hate that I can feel how wrong it is.
“I’m okay,” I say for the third time, which is when I realize he hasn’t believed me once.
His gaze shifts, searching now. Not teasing. Not flirtatious. Analytical. Gentle.
The silence stretches.
Then he exhales, slow and careful.
“You’re a virgin.”
The words aren’t accusatory. Just a statement of fact.
Heat floods my face. “What? I—no, I—” The sentence falls apart before it can go anywhere.
He keeps looking at me with those patient green eyes. “No?” he asks gently.
“Well… actually, yes. I am.” I lift my chin, bracing myself. “Is that a problem?”
“A problem?” He blinks, genuinely startled. “No. Of course not.” He pauses. “It’s just… good to know. And I wish you’d told me sooner.”
“Why?” I cross my arms, suddenly needing the barrier.
“So I can slow down.”
His gaze holds mine—steady, serious, and softer than I’ve ever seen it.
Warmth spreads through my chest as we move closer, his arms coming around me, my head resting against his chest. For a moment, everything quiets—
Until a choking, burning smell drags me back to the reality of the kitchen.
"The chicken is burning," I whisper.
He glances at the oven then back at me.
"Let it burn."
But he pulls away anyway, rescuing what turns out to be hockey-puck chicken and pasta that looks undercooked and overcooked simultaneously. We end up ordering Chinese, sitting on his obscenely white couch, laughing about his complete inability to follow a recipe.
"I don't understand," I say between eating spoonfuls of rice. "You're a professional athlete who has nutritionists. How are you this bad at cooking?"
"Riley and Rowan usually handle the nutritionists and food when Riley is not in her experimental cooking phase."
He shrugs, his lips curving into a devastating grin. My stomach flips.
"And when they're not around, there's always takeout."
"You're hopeless."
He steals a piece of tender meat from my plate.
"Maybe. But I'm good at other things."
My mind immediately fills in a dozen possibilities—all the things he’s probably good at. And that’s the problem. Aside from tonight’s nerves, there’s nothing I can’t imagine doing with Declan. I can imagine everything.
And nothing about the way my body responds to him feels like practice. The way he looks at me—like I’m precious, like I matter—doesn’t feel temporary.
That terrifies me.
Because I’m also falling for King. Still texting him every night. Still craving his intellectual intimacy. Still building careful fantasies about finally meeting him.
I’m falling for two men at once.
And the guilt is eating me alive.
"You went somewhere," Declan says, pulling back to the present. "Where did you go?"
"Nowhere. Just thinking."
"About?"
"About how this is supposed to be practice but feels like more."
A flash of disappointment crosses his features. "Would it be bad if it's more?"
Yes.
No.
I don't know.
"Isn't the point to build my confidence so I can meet King?" I ask instead.
"Right, King." He smirks, his eyes turning sad. "The mystery man who texts you constantly and knows all your favorite things."
"You sound jealous."
"Yes, I am." He sets his fork down, turning to face me fully. "I don't like the idea of you with someone else, even if you've never met him."
My heartbeat spikes. "Declan..."
Standing, he holds out his hand. "Come here. I want to show you something."
I take his hand, and we walk past the black and gray furniture and minimalist art hanging on the wall until we get to a gorgeous grand piano near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Its black surface gleams under recessed lighting.
"You play?" I ask as he leads me toward it.
"My mom insisted on lessons from age six until..." He trails off.
I remember. His parents died when he was nineteen.
"You don't have to..."
"I want to." He sits on the bench, patting the space beside him. "Sit."
I settle next to him, my thighs pressed against his. His shoulders brush my arm when he lifts his hands to the keys, sending thrills through my body.
Then he plays.
The melody is hauntingly beautiful. He plays with reverence and a tenderness I didn't know he possessed. His hands move across the keys with the same precision he uses on the ice. But several emotions flow across his face as he plays: happiness, pain, sadness, satisfaction, and desire.
This is the real Declan Hawthorne.
And he's breathtaking.
The final notes fade. That's when I realize I'm crying, silent tears tracking down my cheeks.
"Ivy." He turns, concern etched across his features. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing is wrong," I say, burying my face in his shirt in embarrassment.
His hand wraps around my back as my head rests on his chest, my body getting warmer.
"That was beautiful," I say quietly. "You're beautiful."
He leans away from me, his eyes searching mine.
"You're the beautiful one. Don't you know that?"
"I'm not."
"You are." His breath is warm against my skin. "Brilliant and stubborn and so beautiful."
He brushes my hair back with his hand softly.
"Can I touch you? Really touch you?"
My mouth goes dry. "What do you mean?"
"I want to make you feel good."
I shift nervously. "I actually don't think I'm ready for sex, Dec."
"We won't do anything you're not ready for. Just let me touch you the way you deserve to be touched." His green eyes search mine. "Let me show your body how to feel."
The words make desire well up in me.
"Will you let me?"
I should say no. Should maintain some semblance of control, some boundary between practice and reality.
But I whisper, "Yes."
We walk to Declan's bedroom, holding each other's hands. A massive bed dominates the space with charcoal gray sheets. There are more windows and more city views. On the left is a door that most likely leads to the bathroom.
Declan guides me to the bed with gentle hands, his eyes dark with want.
"Lie down on your stomach," he murmurs.
I obey, my heart racing so fast I'm surprised it doesn't burst from my chest. The sheets are soft and cool against my warm skin. The bed dips as he joins me, straddling my thighs.
I tense automatically.
"Relax." His warm hands settle on my shoulders. "I've got you. Just breathe."
"What are you doing?"
"Shh. Let me take care of you."
He starts massaging my shoulders, his strong fingers working into the knots I didn't realize were there.