5. Chapter 5
Chapter five
~DARCY~
This is a terrible idea.
I’m standing in Declan Shaw's hotel room with my back pressed against the door and his hands on my zipper.
Doesn’t help that my brain is doing that thing where it catalogs every reason this is about to ruin my life.
My cost-way-too-much dress is sliding off my shoulders, his mouth is on my neck, and, for the life of me, I cannot stop thinking.
"We should talk about this," I hear myself say.
He pulls back slightly, one dark eyebrow raised. "Now?"
"Yes, now. Before we—" I motion between us "—do anything we can't undo." I stop and start again. "Do you understand what consummation means? Legally?"
Declan’s hands are still on my waist. The dress is still halfway off. "I'm familiar with the concept."
"In some jurisdictions, consummation makes annulment significantly more complicated. It establishes—" I'm spiraling, I know I'm spiraling, but the words keep coming. "—it establishes intent. It suggests the marriage was entered into willingly, not accidentally, and if we—"
"Darcy."
"—if we sleep together, we're essentially providing evidence that this wasn't a mistake, that we—"
"Darcy."
"—that we meant to do this, and I don't know about Mexican law specifically, but I know that in Nevada—"
He kisses me.
It's brief, but effective…and definitely designed to shut me up. The problem is that it works.
Suddenly I forget what I was saying about Nevada. If you asked me right now to spell the damn state, I couldn’t.
My thoughts are too preoccupied with the sexy Adonis still touching me.
He tugs me closer.
"First," he says against my mouth, "we're not in Nevada.
Second, my lawyer will handle the legal complications.
Third—" His hand slides up my rib cage, thumb brushing the underside of my breast through the thin lace of my bra, and I completely lose my train of thought.
"—are you actually worried about the annulment, or are you stalling? "
"I'm not stalling—"
"You're listing legal precedents."
"I'm being responsible—"
"You're panicking."
"I don't panic."
"You're doing it right now." He pulls back just enough to look at me, and there's something in his amazing green eyes that's gentler than I expect. "We don't have to do this."
"I know that."
"So if you want to stop—"
"I don't want to stop." The words come out too fast, too honest. "I just— I can't turn my brain off."
"Then don't."
"What?"
"Don't turn it off." One large hand moves from my ribs to my face, his thumb tracing my lower lip. "Keep talking. Tell me every thought in that overactive brain of yours. I'll work around it."
I blink at him. "That's the worst dirty talk I've ever heard."
"Give me five minutes. I'll improve."
And despite everything—the situation, the marriage certificate somewhere in this resort with both our names on it, the fact that this is absolutely going to make Monday's annulment conversation significantly more awkward—I laugh.
He smiles, and the man is so gorgeous that it literally takes my breath away.
"Okay," I finally say, the word a whisper.
“You sure?”
"You have five minutes. Let's see if you can improve."
His smile turns wicked. "Challenge accepted."
And what little challenge it is for Declan Shaw.
Because in seconds, my dress hits the floor.
I'm standing in front of him in a strapless lace bra and matching underwear that I absolutely did not put on this morning thinking anyone would see them, and Mr. Melts-In-Your-Mouth-Not-In-Your-Hand is looking at me like I'm the solution to a problem he's been working on for significantly longer than three days.
Suddenly, the mouthy part of me—the part that's been arguing with him since I arrived—just evaporates.
Because I’m very aware this man—this Holy God of Hotness—is so much older, and so much more experienced. He clearly knows exactly what he's doing and I very much do not, and instantly, the age difference I've been ignoring for three days feels enormous.
"Christ," he says, voice rough. "You're stunning."
I cross my arms over my stomach. “You shouldn’t—“
“Shouldn’t what?”
“Look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're—" I gesture helplessly. "—calculating something."
"I am calculating something." He steps closer, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "I'm calculating exactly how I'm going to take you apart."
My breath traps in my throat, and Declan’s hands tighten around my waist.
"You're nervous," he comments.
"I'm not—"
"Darcy." He says my name like a reprimand. "Don't lie to me."
"I'm not nervous. I'm just—" I swallow. "—you're very... you."
"And you're very you. Which is the whole point."
"No, I mean—" I look at him, letting my greedy eyes get their fill. Taking in the silver at his temples, the lines at the corners of his eyes, the way he stands like he's been making decisions that matter for longer than I've been legally allowed to drink. “I just feel like we’re—"
“Doing something we shouldn't?" He cups my face, and his hands are so much bigger than mine, rougher, the hands of someone who's built things and broken things and knows the difference. "Yes. Which is why I'm going to ask you one more time. Are you sure about this?"
I should say no. Should put my dress back on and walk out to my own bed and forget this ever happened.
But I don't want to.
I want to know what it feels like to be with someone who knows what he's doing. Someone who doesn't fumble with bra clasps or ask "is this okay?" every thirty seconds or treat sex like an act only made for his pleasure.
I want Declan Shaw to do what he’s done since the moment I laid eyes on him: make me feel unraveled and overwhelmed and completely out of my depth in the best possible way.
"I'm sure," I whisper.
His pupils dilate. "Good girl."
Oh god.
Those two words should not do what they just did to me.
He backs me against the door again, one hand braced beside my head, the other softly sliding down my side to my hip.
"You're all I've been thinking about since you got here.
That smart mouth. Those fuck-me eyes. The three feet between us when I could smell whatever you wear that makes me forget I'm supposed to be closing a nine-figure deal. "
"Declan—"
"And now I'm going to take my time." His hand slides lower, fingers tracing the edge of my underwear so slowly I start to shake. "I'm going to find out if you taste as good as you smell. And then I'm going to make you forget every reason you think this is a bad idea."
His fingers slip beneath the lace, and that first touch makes my heart jump into my throat and stay there.
Declan is in no way tentative.
His fingers slide through the slickness between my thighs with the confidence of a man who knows exactly what he's doing, and when he finds me wet and ready, he makes a low sound that's pure masculine satisfaction.
"Christ," he murmurs against my neck. "You're soaked."
I should be embarrassed. I should have some witty response.
But his middle finger is circling my entrance—soft, teasing circles that make my hips rock forward—and all that comes out is a whimper.
"Sweetheart," he says, pulling back just enough to watch my face. "You're falling apart for me already."
He’s right. I'm making sounds I've never made before.
High, weak, thready sounds that would normally shock me but I'm too far gone to care.
Back in Miami, when I was still my father’s daughter, I dated a boy.
Parker Ellis.
A not-so-nice young man from a nicely known family.
I spent too many weekends visiting his expensive off-campus apartment, trying to make that cobbled-together relationship work.
It never did.
Parker never looked at me, never touched me, never listened to my body like this.
A cocky lacrosse player with too little regard for women and too much hair gel, his version of foreplay was maybe ninety seconds of fumbling before asking if I was ready.
Two years ago, I always said yes.
Because I didn't know it could be different.
This is different.
This is a tall, scruffy, no-nonsense work of male art pressed against my body, watching my face—reading every reaction and adjusting accordingly.
His thumb works my clit, moving in time with his finger, and the dual sensation makes my back arch off the wall.
"Declan—" I gasp. "Oh god—"
"That’s it," he murmurs, adding a second finger.
The stretch makes me whimper. It's good—so good—he moves slower now, letting me adjust to the feeling of two fingers while his thumb keeps a circling rhythm on my clit.
I can feel a literal pulse building low in my stomach, heat spreading through my thighs.
"You're close," he hums, pleased.
"I—" I can barely form words. "I'm—"
"I can feel it. You're getting tighter." He curls his fingers and hits that spot again and I actually sob. "Right there?"
"Yes. Right there— please—"
"Not yet."
"What?"
He pulls his hand away and I whimper at the loss, and when I look at him with something like betrayal, he's smiling.
That bastard is smiling.
“Get on the bed, Miss Madison,” he says, his voice dropped an octave. "Now."
"But I was—"
"I know exactly what you were. You're going to finish. Just not against this wall." He steps back, giving me space, and I realize I'm trembling. "Now, Darcy."
I move on shaky legs toward the massive bed, acutely aware of how I must look—flushed, panting, wearing nothing but a bra and underwear, dark hair a mess from his hands.
He follows with the predatory grace of someone who's done this before and knows exactly how this is going to go. The difference between us feels greater than ever.
Because this man fucks.
Probably dozens of women.
Probably women who knew what they were doing, who didn't need instruction, who could match his experience.
Meanwhile, I’m twenty-four and I've had sex exactly six times with a boy who thought seven minutes was sufficient.
"Stop thinking," Declan says, reading me easily.
"I'm not—"
"You're overthinking. I can see it." He reaches for me, spinning me in his arms. He kisses me, softer than before. "Now get on the bed."