10. Declan
Declan
The door closes behind us, and Talia is still kissing me.
Not carefully. Not politely. Not like a woman who intends to explain this away before it can become real.
She kisses me like restraint has finally exhausted her, like every argument she has made with herself has gone quiet long enough for wanting to become the only truth left in the room.
For a moment, I forget everything except the feel of her hands in my shirt and the soft, desperate sound she makes when I pull her closer.
The hotel room around us is dim, lit only by the city glow bleeding through the windows, and somewhere beyond the glass, the world is still moving, still noisy, still full of consequences neither of us is ready to face.
In here, there is only Talia.
Her back meets the door, and I slow down before either of us can get lost in the momentum completely.
Not because I want to stop. God, stopping is the last thing I want.
But wanting her has never been the problem.
Assuming wanting was enough was the mistake I made seven years ago, and I refuse to make it again.
I lift my head just enough to look at her.
Her breathing is uneven. Mine is worse. Her lips are parted, her eyes dark and bright at once, and I can see the fear there beneath the want.
Not regret. Not hesitation. Fear, because Talia understands consequences better than almost anyone I know, and she knows exactly how many are waiting on the other side of this night.
“If you want to stop,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend, “we stop.”
Her fingers tighten in my shirt. “I know.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
The answer is quiet, but there’s nothing uncertain in it. She reaches for me again, and whatever careful thread of control I was holding snaps with the touch of her mouth against mine. The kiss deepens, turning less like a question and more like an answer we’ve both avoided for too long.
I remember her like this.
I remember the way she gives herself over slowly at first, as if trust has to be negotiated even with her own body. I remember how that control begins to slip once she decides she’s safe. I remember the exact moment reluctance becomes hunger, the way her hands stop hesitating and start choosing.
But I know her differently now too.
The woman in my arms is not the woman from Singapore, not entirely.
She’s stronger. More guarded. Sharper in places life has forced her to become sharp.
She is a mother now, a woman who has built an entire life around protecting a little boy with my eyes and her whole heart.
She has carried years I was not there to witness, and every part of me understands that being allowed this close to her is not victory.
It’s trust.
Fragile, temporary, terrifying trust. And I treat it like something breakable.
My hands move slowly, giving her time to stop me, but she doesn’t. Instead, she exhales my name against my mouth, making the room tilt slightly beneath my feet.
“Declan.”
There’s no accusation in it this time. No warning. No attempt to put me back on the other side of a boundary.
Just my name.
I’ve heard my name said in boardrooms, across negotiating tables, in interviews, and in places where people either wanted something from me or wanted to prove they were not impressed by me. It has never sounded like this.
I kiss her again, softer now, because the hunger is not the only thing in me. There is relief too, so much of it that I don’t know where to put it. Relief that she is here. Relief that she chose this. Relief that when I reach for her, she reaches back.
Her hands slide to my shoulders, then into my hair, and the small, helpless sound she makes when I kiss the corner of her mouth nearly undoes me.
Seven years collapse in strange ways. Not disappearing, and never gone.
But folding in on themselves until the past and present exist in the same breath.
I remember morning light over rumpled sheets.
I remember her laughter in the dark. I remember waking alone and letting that absence rewrite everything that came before it.
I will not let absence have the last word tonight.
Talia pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead resting against mine. For several seconds, neither of us says anything. We don’t need to. The room is full of everything words would only interrupt. Then she lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh.
“This is still a terrible idea.”
A smile finds me despite the ache in my chest. “Probably.”
“You’re not supposed to agree with me.”
“I’m trying to be honest.”
“Now?”
“New strategy.”
She laughs again, and the sound moves through me with painful familiarity. It's quieter than the laugh I remember from Singapore, more careful, but it’s still hers. Still warm. Still capable of reaching places in me I thought had gone untouched for years.
I brush my thumb along her cheek. “I missed that.”
Her smile fades a little. “The laugh?”
“You.”
The word comes out before I can dress it up with charm or turn it into something safer. Talia goes still, but she doesn’t pull away. Her eyes search mine as though she’s looking for the catch, the angle, the version of me that will turn the truth into something easier to dismiss.
There is no angle. Not tonight.
“I missed you too,” she says.
The admission is barely above a whisper, but it pierces harder than any argument ever could. I kiss her because I have no defense against that.
After that, the night stops belonging to time in any useful way.
I walk her backward toward the bed, my mouth never leaving hers, breaking the kiss only long enough to guide her down onto the crisp, white sheets. The city glow frames her silhouette, and for a second, I just look at her. Talia. Here. Choosing this. Choosing me.
I lower myself beside her, propping on an elbow.
My hand moves to the hem of her shirt, my knuckles brushing the soft skin of her stomach.
I pause, giving her the space to stop me, to say this is too much, too soon.
Instead, she lifts her chin, her eyes meeting mine in the dim light, and gives a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
That’s all the permission I need.
I draw her shirt up slowly, my gaze following the path of fabric as it reveals her.
The plain, smooth skin of her ribs, the gentle curve of her waist, the lacy edge of her bra that’s more practical than provocative, and somehow more intimate because of it.
I’ve seen her body before, but I’m seeing her now, and the difference is everything.
I dip my head, pressing my lips to the warm skin just below her navel.
She inhales sharply, her fingers tangling in the duvet.
I work my way up, tracing a path with my mouth over her ribs, my tongue flicking out to taste her.
I can feel the frantic, shallow rhythm of her breathing, and it matches my own.
When I reach the lace of her bra, I don’t rush.
I kiss the swell of her breast, my hand moving to her back to find the clasp.
It’s a simple mechanism, but my fingers feel clumsy.
She arches slightly, helping me, and the hooks give way.
I slide the straps down her arms, baring her to the dim light of the room.
Her breasts are fuller than I remember, softer.
Her nipples are tight peaks, and I lower my head to take one into my mouth.
I suckle gently, my tongue swirling, and a soft, broken sound escapes her throat.
Her hand comes up to cup the back of my head, her fingers threading through my hair, holding me to her like she’s afraid I might disappear.
I lavish attention on her, learning her all over again. I switch sides, giving her other breast the same slow, deliberate attention until she’s writhing beneath me, her hips rocking in a silent, desperate plea for more.
My hand drifts downward, skimming over the flat plane of her stomach, my fingers tracing the waistband of her pants.
I undo the button, the zipper whispering down.
I hook my fingers in the fabric, tugging both her pants and her panties down in one slow, deliberate motion.
She kicks them away, and then she’s completely bare before me.
I settle between her thighs, my gaze holding hers. She’s glistening with wetness, open and wet for me in a way that hits me more than it should. The sight is a punch to my gut, a wave of pure, unadulterated lust so intense it almost brings me to my knees.
“Declan,” she whispers, her voice shaky. “Please.”
I don’t make her wait. I lower my head, my tongue finding her clit.
She’s salty and sweet, a taste that’s entirely Talia.
I groan against her, the vibration making her gasp.
I explore her slowly, methodically, my tongue tracing her folds, circling her entrance before sliding inside her just a little.
Her hips lift off the bed, a silent demand for more. I give it to her. I close my mouth over her clit, sucking gently as I slide one finger inside her. She’s so wet, so tight, her inner muscles clamping down around me immediately.
“God, Declan,” she cries out, her back arching.
I add a second finger, curling them just so, searching for that spot I know will drive her wild. I find it, and her whole body bows, a strangled cry tearing from her throat. I don’t stop, adjusting to her, following the way her body responds until she breaks apart beneath me.
It doesn’t take long.
Her orgasm hits her hard, a blinding wave of pleasure that has her crying out my name, her thighs trembling, her hands fisting in my hair. I lick her through it, prolonging the sensation until she’s a boneless, panting mess beneath me.
When she comes back to herself, I crawl back up her body, my mouth claiming hers in a deep, possessive kiss. She can taste herself on my lips, and the thought sends a fresh surge of arousal through me.
I need to be inside her. Now.