5. Declan #2
I shrugged off my jacket and settled it around her shoulders, my hands lingering on the collar, my thumbs brushing the sides of her neck.
She looked up at me from inside the jacket.
The image of her tiny frame seared itself into my memory so completely that I knew I'd see it behind my closed eyes for weeks.
We walked. She told me about a dating show — a competition she apparently watched with wine, offering, according to her, "passionate editorial commentary" to the screen.
"One contestant picked the investment banker who forgot her name. Twice." She held up two fingers. "And she picked him over the kindergarten teacher who brought her favorite flowers to every ceremony."
"Maybe she liked finance."
"Nobody likes finance. He was tall. That's why she picked him. She sacrificed her future happiness for height. That's stupid."
She was animated — hands moving, her guard fully down. I wasn't listening to the words. I was watching her mouth, the curl at her temple that the mist had loosened even further. She caught me staring and stopped walking.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Nuh-uh. It wasn't nothing."
I stepped closer, let the smile fall, let the charm drop, let her see my face without the facade. "Maybe I just like looking at you."
She went still. She stepped closer. I stepped closer. My hand found her jaw. Her hand pressed flat against my chest. Our mouths met in the space.
The kiss was not polite. It was not tentative.
It was four hours of wine and candlelight and knees pressed together under the table and pinkies almost touching on the bar and every glance that lasted a beat too long — all of it breaking the surface at once.
Deep and slow and thorough. My hand slid from her jaw to the back of her neck.
Her fingers curled into my shirt and pulled me closer.
The rain was falling now but neither of us moved.
We broke apart, breathing hard. Her hand was still on my chest, and my heart slammed against her palm.
"This is a terrible idea," she said.
"Probably."
"I just got divorced."
I blinked. I wouldn't have guessed. It made sense now. That's what she was running from. "I don't care."
"You're exactly the kind of man I promised myself I'd never — "
"I don't care about that either."
I kissed her again, harder. Her arms wrapped around my neck, her body pressing into mine. I wrapped my arms around her waist and lifted her slightly off the sidewalk. She made a soft sound against my mouth that carved itself so deep into my veins.
She pulled back, her forehead against mine, her breathing ragged.
"Your place." She breathed against my lips.
I didn't waste time. I drove to my apartment, desperately regretting that I'd driven myself tonight. If I hadn't, Thea's lips would be on mine right now. My hands would be making their way up her thighs. I wouldn't have to exercise such unrealistic patience.
We waited until I rolled into the parking lot, until we got up to my penthouse, before we pounced on each other.
She turned back to me, her hands finding my collar, pulling me down.
We didn't make it past the hallway. My back against the wall. Her fingers on my buttons. My mouth on her neck, the place below her ear where her pulse raced. She arched into me.
I lifted her. Her legs wrapped around my waist. I carried her to the bedroom and set her down.
She stood before me, breathing hard, her hair falling from the bun in loose spirals.
I reached up, found the pin, and pulled it out slowly.
Her curls fell past her shoulders — dense, spiraling, changing her entirely. Softer. Wilder.
I ran my fingers through her hair. She closed her eyes and leaned into my hand, tilting toward the touch, and the gesture split me open.
We undressed each other, layer by layer. My hands found the zipper at her back and drew it down, the fabric parting under my fingers. She pushed my shirt from my shoulders and pressed her palms flat against my chest. I watched her face — the focus, the curiosity, the way she bit her lower lip.
"You're still staring," she whispered.
"Always."
She reached for me. I walked her back to the bed. She sat at the edge and looked up at me, her eyebrows lowered, her dark eyes raking slowly over my body. Then her lips curled up ever so slightly. I braced one hand on the mattress beside her and took a breath.
I found the clasp of her bra and slid it free.
She exhaled. I pressed my mouth to her collarbone, the curve of her shoulder, the soft skin below her ear where her pulse was quickest. Her hands moved into my hair.
Her back arched slightly, pulling me closer.
I took my time with her. That's just how I was with things that mattered.
"Beautiful," I whispered against her skin.
She pulled me down to her. I let myself go. I couldn’t think. I just felt her — how she opened for me, how her body pulled me in, her heat, her core, everything that made her Thea Calloway.
I made sure it was as much for her as for me. I angled my body, used my hands, brought her to pleasure at the same moment that I…I groaned.
She moaned. I held her tightly as my body jerked in response. It was…I couldn't quite put my finger on why this dance with Ms. Calloway was so different from the others. And I didn't want to.
By morning, I offered to call her a car. She said she could take the subway, but I insisted. She let me, because she would be tired, and the fight wouldn't be worth it. She left, and we both pretended it was just a night.
But to me, it wasn't just a night.