CHAPTER 17 Maeve #2
I swallow hard, the praise hitting me right in the chest. I am so used to people telling me I am too chaotic, too messy, too difficult to manage. And here is a man who literally kills people for a living, telling me that my chaos is exactly what saved his life.
"I didn't want you to die," I whisper, the truth slipping out before I can stop it.
Declan’s gaze drops to my mouth. The air in the room suddenly feels entirely too thick to breathe.
"I am not going to die," he murmurs.
I look at his mouth. I think about the kiss against the window. The desperate, bruising intensity of it. I think about the way I pushed him away because I was terrified of what it meant.
I am still terrified. But I am more terrified of the empty, suffocating silence of this penthouse.
I press the first butterfly bandage across the torn skin of his shoulder. He hisses slightly, his hands coming up to grip my hips.
The contact is electric. His fingers are warm, his thumbs pressing into the soft cotton of my sweatpants. He doesn't pull me closer, but he doesn't let me go. He just holds me there, anchoring me to him.
I apply the second bandage, my hands shaking so much I almost drop it.
"You're trembling," he observes quietly.
"I'm full of adrenaline," I lie, focusing entirely on the wound. "And I'm not a doctor."
"Look at me, Maeve."
I finish taping the gauze over the butterfly closures. I take a slow, shaky breath, and look down into his eyes.
The exhaustion is gone from his face. It has been completely replaced by the dark, obsessive hunger I saw in the car in Chicago. He is looking at me like I am the only thing in the room. Like I am the only thing in the world.
"I told you last night," Declan says, his voice a dark, rough whisper. "I am not going to treat you like glass. If you stay in this space, if you stay between my hands, I am going to touch you."
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, terrified bird trapped in a cage.
I could step back. I could pack up the medical kit, walk into the guest bedroom, and lock the door. He wouldn't stop me. He would let me go, just like he let me go yesterday.
But I look at the dark bruising on his knuckles. I look at the blood on the towel.
I don't want to step back.
I drop the medical tape onto the coffee table. The small plastic roll clatters loudly in the quiet room.
I place my hands flat against his bare chest. His skin is hot, the heavy musculature tense beneath my palms. I can feel the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat echoing against my fingertips.
"Then touch me," I whisper.
Declan doesn't hesitate.
His hands slide from my hips to the small of my back, gripping the fabric of my t-shirt. He pulls me forward, completely eliminating the space between us. I stumble slightly, my knees hitting the edge of the sofa cushions, and I practically fall into his lap.
He catches me, his arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest.
He doesn't kiss me immediately. He buries his face in the curve of my neck, right below the dark bruises, his nose brushing against my collarbone. He inhales deeply, the sound harsh and ragged in the quiet room.
"You smell like vanilla and rain," he murmurs against my skin, his breath sending a violent shiver down my spine.
I tangle my fingers in his dark hair, my thumbs pressing into his scalp. I tilt my head back, giving him access, giving him control.
He presses his mouth to the pulse point at the base of my throat. It isn't a gentle kiss. It is a brand. It is a heavy, possessive pressure that claims the space entirely.
I gasp, my hands gripping his hair tighter.
He lifts his head, his dark eyes locking onto mine. The control he values so much is completely fractured, hanging by a single, fragile thread.
"I am going to ruin you for anyone else," Declan promises, the words a dark, lethal vow.
"I'm already ruined," I breathe, leaning down to close the distance.
Our mouths collide.
The kiss is desperate, hungry, and completely devoid of the hesitation from last night. I open my mouth for him, my tongue meeting his in a chaotic, bruising war. He tastes like dark coffee and danger.
His hands slide up my back, gripping my shoulders, pulling me impossibly closer. I straddle his lap, my knees sinking into the soft cushions of the sofa on either side of his hips. The friction of his body against mine is a sudden, shocking heat that makes my head spin.
I pull back for a fraction of a second, gasping for air.
"Your shoulder," I pant, my hands hovering over his chest, terrified of hurting him again.
"Fuck the shoulder," Declan growls.
He grabs my hips, lifting me slightly, and shifts our weight. He falls back against the sofa cushions, pulling me down on top of him.
I land flush against his chest, my legs tangled with his. The sudden change in position knocks the breath out of me, but before I can recover, his hands are in my hair, pulling my mouth back down to his.
He kisses me like he is starving. He kisses me like I am the only oxygen left in the room.
And for the first time in my life, I don't feel the urge to run away. I don't feel the need to test the boundary or wait for him to leave.
I just hold on, letting the monster pull me completely into the dark.