25. IVY
IVY
Are You Kidding Me?
Declan is waiting outside Sloane's building when I arrive.
My body recognizes him before my brain does. My heart stutters, then races. Heat floods my chest. A traitorous pull low in my belly makes me hate myself.
Then I remember the current rumors about him and Evangeline, and ice freezes over my heart.
He leans against the brick wall, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, dark hair falling across his forehead.
I turn off the ignition, come down from the car, lock the door and glance at him.
Exhaustion is etched into his face. The stubble on his chin has grown past its usual careful scruff. His broad shoulders curve inward.
He looks like hell.
Good.
I consider driving back to campus and spending the night in Dr. O'Connell's lab if I have to. Anything to avoid this.
But my feet keep moving forward.
He straightens, those piercing green eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"Ivy." My name sounds broken coming from his mouth. "Can I talk to you?"
I don't respond. I walk past him toward the building entrance, keys already in my hand.
He moves to block my path. "Please, give me fifteen minutes. That's all I'm asking."
We’re inches apart, and I can smell his cologne, see the shadow under his eyes and the tension in his jaw. That’s when my body remembers everything.
I go around him and keep walking as he says things I refuse to listen to. I’m at the front door to Sloane’s apartment when his hand catch my wrist.
The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm.
Memories flood my mind. His arm casually placed on my shoulder when we were at his penthouse.
The night he took out to dinner and brushed away something on my bare shoulder.
My skin remembers those fingers, what they can do, how they've mapped every inch of me.
I yank my arm away, but the damage is done. My pulse is racing. Heat pools between my thighs despite my anger.
"Don't touch me."
"I need to explain…"
"I don't want your explanations."
"Then let me apologize."
The door opens behind me. Sloane stands there, her wild auburn hair framing a face twisted with fury.
"You've got to be kidding me." She steps forward, positioning herself between us. "Get away from her."
"I just need to talk to her for fifteen minutes," he says, his gaze not leaving mine. Those green eyes are pleading, desperate. "Fifteen minutes. That's all I'm asking."
"You don't get to need anything when you destroyed her. You don't get fifteen minutes or even fifteen seconds."
"Ivy, please."
The desperation in his voice does something terrible to my resolve. Declan Hawthorne doesn't beg. He commands, takes, owns. But here he is, looking at me like I'm the only thing keeping him alive.
And some stupid, self-destructive part of me still responds to that look. Still remembers how those hands felt on my body. How he made me feel alive.
It wants to feel those arms around me, hear that rough voice murmur my name, let him kiss away all the hurt he caused.
My body doesn't care that he lied. It only remembers how he made me feel when he touched me, kissed me, filled me.
"You need to leave now before I make you leave," Sloane says.
"It's okay. I'll talk to him," I hear myself say. I glare at Declan and say, “Five minutes, then you’ll stay away from me.”
Her head snaps to mine, hazel eyes widening with betrayal. She grabs my arm.
"Ivy, no. This is a mistake. Don't do this to yourself."
"I need to do this. I’ll be fine," I say, squeezing her hand.
She searches my face for a long moment, then exhales sharply.
“Fine.” She levels Declan a glare that could melt steel. "You hurt her again, and I will destroy you. I don't care how famous you are."
Then she steps back inside, leaving the door slightly open.
I inhale, exhale. My eyes glance at Declan from head to toe, taking him in slowly. Swallowing hard, I look away. Sloane might be right. This is probably a mistake.
"Thank you for agreeing to talk," he says.
I don't respond, simply study the man I thought I knew.
The tattoo sleeve on his right arm disappears under his gray Henley. I know every inch of that ink. The puck breaking through ice, the skate blades, his parents' initials hidden in the design. I've traced it with my fingers, my lips, my tongue.
Stop it, Ivy.
He runs a hand through his hair. That familiar gesture that once made my stomach flip. Now it just makes me tired.
"I don't know where to start."
"Try the truth." My voice is flat. "That would be refreshing."
He flinches.
"I picked up your phone that first day we met in the therapy room." His green eyes meet mine, and I see genuine remorse there. Or maybe he's just a better actor than I thought. "After you ran out, I saw your phone on the bench and grabbed it before anyone else could."
Even though I’d guessed as much, the confirmation still feels like a punch to the gut.
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to talk to you and get to know you." The words come faster now. "I called your emergency contact, Sloane, and lied to her about finding it outside. Told her to call me King because I didn't want you to know it was me. Not yet."
"So you lied from the very beginning."
"I was intrigued by the way you stood up to me and looked at me in that room. I wanted to know the real you."
I snort. "By catfishing me. You created an entire persona to manipulate me into trusting you."
"It wasn't manipulation. Everything I said as King was real. Those were my words, my feelings…"
He steps closer. I should back away, but my feet won’t move. I force myself to meet his gaze.
"Except you were lying about who you were." I lean forward. "You watched me fall in love with someone who didn't exist while you pursued me as Declan. You had all the power, information. All the control. And I had nothing."
"I fell in love with you,” he says, voice raw. "I fell in love with your mind through those texts, and then I fell in love with everything else when I kissed you. When I touched you. When you let me inside your body and trusted me with your heart."
"Don't you dare romanticize what you did." The word come out strangled.
But he's still moving closer, backing me against the wall, like he can't help being drawn to me any more than I can help the way my body responds.
"I'm not trying to romanticize it. I'm trying to make you understand."
"There's nothing to understand. You lied. You manipulated me."
"Ivy…"
His hand comes up, fingers ghosting along my jaw. I should slap it away. Should tell him to go to hell. Instead, I lean into the touch, hating myself for it. His thumb traces my bottom lip, and a sound escapes me—half gasp, half whimper. His eyes darken at the noise.
"I never stopped wanting you," he whispers, leaning closer. "Never stopped thinking about the way you taste, the sounds you make when I touch you here." His other hand settles on my hip, thumb brushing the skin just above my waistband. "Or here."
"Stop."
But the word has no force behind it.
"Tell me you don't want this. Tell me you don't think about my hands on your body, my mouth on your lips"
I surge forward and kiss him.
It's angry and desperate and wrong, so wrong. But the moment our lips connect, fire explodes through my veins. His hands grip my hips, pulling me flush against him. I can feel how hard he is, how much he wants this.
Wants me.
I kiss him like I'm trying to hurt him, teeth catching his bottom lip. He groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me and settling between my thighs.
His tongue sweeps against mine, dominant and demanding. One hand tangles in my hair, tugging my head back to give him better access. The other slides under my shirt, fingers splaying across my ribs.
I should push him away.
Instead, my hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer. My leg hooks around his hip, pressing against the hard length of him.
"Fuck, Ivy," he breathes against my mouth. "I've missed this. Missed you."
He kisses down my throat, teeth scraping against sensitive skin. His hand moves higher, thumb brushing the underside of my breast through my bra.
I arch into the touch, a moan escaping before I can stop it.
His fingers find my nipple, circling it through the fabric. Pleasure shoots straight to my core. I'm getting wet for him, my body remembering exactly how good he feels inside me.
"I want you," he growls against my neck. "Right here. Right now. I want to make you scream my name the way you used to."
The words snap something inside me back to reality.
Because I did scream his name. I trusted him with my body, my heart, and he threw it all away.
"No." I shove at his chest. He stumbles back. "We're not doing this."
"Ivy…"
"What the hell is going on out here?"
We turn to find Sloane standing in the doorway, eyes blazing. She takes in our disheveled appearances: my swollen lips, his rumpled shirt, the way we're both breathing hard.
"Are you kidding me right now?" She grabs my arm, pulling me toward her. "Get inside, now."
"Sloane, I just wanted…"
"Now, Ivy."
I let her pull me past the threshold, but I can't help looking back at Declan. He's still standing there, hand raised like he's reaching for something he can't quite touch.
"Don't come back," Sloane snaps at him before slamming the door in his face. She rounds on me, hands on her hips. "What were you thinking? Five minutes alone with him and you're making out in the hallway?"
"I don't know what I was thinking." I sink onto the couch, my whole body trembling. "I just... I needed..."
"You needed to remember why you left him in the first place." She sits beside me, voice softening. "Ivy, he destroyed you. You can't let him do it again."
"I know."
"Then why were you five seconds away from forgiving him?"
"I wasn't going to forgive him." But even as I say it, I'm not sure it's true. "I just... my body remembers him even when my brain knows better."
She pulls me against her side. "That's going to take time to fade, but you can't give in to it. You're stronger than this."
But I don’t believe her. Right now, I feel weak and desperate for a man that will only hurt me more.
"I should probably go to bed," I say eventually.
"Good idea. I'll make you some tea first."
"No, I'm fine. I need to be alone for a bit."
She studies my face, then nods slowly. "Okay. But I'm right here if you need me."
I escape to the guest bedroom, closing the door behind me. My reflection in the mirror shows my swollen lips, flushed cheeks, dilated pupils. I strip off my clothes mechanically, pulling on an old t-shirt. My skin feels too tight, too hot. Every nerve ending is screaming for something I can't have.
For him.
I climb into bed, but sleep is impossible. All I can think about is Declan's hands on my body, his mouth on my neck, the way he felt pressed against me.
My hand slides under the covers, between my thighs. I'm already wet, ready, aching.
I touch myself the way he used to, circling my clit with slow, deliberate strokes. In my mind, it's his fingers, his hand, his mouth.
I imagine him here, pulling off my panties, settling between my legs. That wicked grin he always wore before he made me scream. The way his tongue felt against my most sensitive places.
"Declan," I whisper into the darkness, my fingers moving faster.
I picture him sliding inside me, filling me completely. The stretch, the burn, the overwhelming pleasure of having him so deep. His hands gripping my hips, holding me in place while he takes what he wants.
What we both want.
My other hand finds my breast, pinching my nipple the way he used to. Pleasure builds, coiling tighter and tighter in my core.
"Please," I gasp, not sure if I'm begging my own hand or the phantom of him in my mind. "Dec."
I imagine him leaning down, whispering in my ear all the things he wants to do to me. The way his voice would drop to that gravelly register that always made me clench around him.
I'm close, so close. My hips buck against my hand, chasing the release I desperately need.
But when I come, it's hollow. Empty. The orgasm washes over me without satisfaction, leaving me more frustrated than before.
Because it's not enough. My fingers aren't enough. The fantasy isn't enough.
I need him, and I hate myself for it.
I curl onto my side, tears streaming down my face. The orgasm did nothing except remind me of everything I've lost. Of how good it was when he touched me.
My body is still aching for more. But that would mean letting him back in to destroy me all over again.
I can't do that.
I won't.
Wiping my face, I sit up and reach for my phone. Declan's number stares back at me. Below it, saved under a crown emoji, is King's number.
Same man. Different lies.
I block them both.
Then I go through social media, making sure every trace of Declan Hawthorne disappears with a tap. Even if my treacherous body still craves his touch, my heart is done.
I fell in love with the wrong man. A man my heart still beats for but who will never deserve me. He chose control over honesty, playing with my emotions like they were pieces in a game only he knew the rules to.
From now on, I’ll focus on myself and my future.
I check my calendar. This is what matters.
Not Declan Hawthorne and his talented hands and devastating mouth.
I force myself to read through my research.
The words blur together at first, but gradually, they come into focus.
I notice the data I've collected, the patterns I've identified, the potential impact of my work.
This is who I am. Dr. Ivy Chandler, researcher, scientist, someone who makes a difference.
Not the woman who falls apart over a man who lied to her.
I work until my eyes burn and the ache between my thighs finally fades to something manageable. When I finally crawl back into bed, exhaustion drags me under quickly. My last thought before sleep claims me is that tomorrow, I'll wake up and focus on what actually matters.
I'll start building the life Declan Hawthorne tried to destroy.
Even if tonight, all I can think about is the taste of him on my lips and the emptiness of coming alone.