11. Chapter 11 #2
My laptop is surrounded by vendor contracts and sticky notes and a fresh cup of coffee, and I’m finalizing the cost-optimization section when I hear footsteps.
The purposeful stride of expensive shoes on marble that I've learned to identify from forty feet away.
Because my body apparently developed a Declan Shaw early warning system.
Like a tornado siren, but infinitely more tingle-inducing.
I look up and find none other than Declan Shaw striding toward the desk with a folder in his hand, jacket off, tie loosened, the sleeves of his collared shirt rolled up.
My gaze roves over the finely tuned muscles of his forearms, the silver Rolex on his left wrist, the way his hands—big and capable—lightly tap the edges of the folder he’s holding.
Suddenly, my mouth turns into the Sahara.
"You're still here," he says, stopping at the desk, his voice heavy—deepened into that gravelly tone he gets when he's tired and the professional polish slips slightly.
I fight not to swallow. “And so are you.”
"I'm always here." He sets the folder down. "The vendor report. I read it."
"And?"
"And it's exceptional work. The reliability model alone—" He blinks, straightening. “Wyeth and I want to talk to you about it."
"Now?"
"Now feels appropriate."
The look he’s giving me makes my skin prickle and my pulse kick up in my throat.
"Okay," I say, trying to sound normal and failing.
He leans against the desk slightly, and I can smell his cologne—cedar and smoky with a hint of something crisp beneath.
The same scent from Tulum.
The same scent I can still detect on the suit jacket hanging in my tiny Queens apartment.
I hold my breath as his aqua-green eyes hold mine.
"Wyeth and I discussed the vendor analysis," he says. "The furniture consolidation strategy. The reliability model." His stare narrows. "We want to make the assignment permanent."
"Permanent?"
"You're not a receptionist, Darcy."
The sound of my name on his tongue pulls at my gut, and a warm, liquid sensation swirls low in my stomach.
"You haven't been since the Meridian pitch," he continues. "Starting Monday, you're officially hospitality coordinator. You'll have an office on the fortieth floor, next to the executive suites. Your own projects. Real responsibility."
I stare, mouth open, thoughts turning to soup.
“I—thank you," I huff, the words barely more than a breath. "This is— thank you."
"You don't need to thank me. You earned it."
"I do, though. This is—" I stand, come around the desk, and extend my hand. "—this is exactly what I needed. The chance to prove myself."
I can’t believe I’m doing this—trying to shake Declan Shaw’s hand. But it seems the right thing to do. The professional thing.
Appropriate.
A gesture of thanks.
Except I forget about the coffee. The fresh cup I set on the desk twenty minutes ago. The one that's directly in the path of my elbow as I extend my arm.
The hit happens in slow motion.
My elbow clips the cup.
It tips, and coffee—fragrant and devastatingly full—spirals through the air in a perfect trajectory.
Directly onto Declan's chest.
The second it splashes against his pristine shirtfront, the world freezes. Silence descends.
"Shit—" I grab for napkins as soon as my brain comes back online. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry—"
"It's fine—"
"It's not fine, it's—" I'm dabbing at his shirt now, touching his chest. Even through the soaked fabric I can feel hard muscle, the heat of his skin, the steady thump of his heart. "—it's everywhere—"
"Darcy—"
"I'll pay for dry cleaning—"
"Darcy." He catches my wrists. "Stop."
I glance up and realize how close we are, much closer than we should be.
Towering over me now, Declan is a wall of warmth. No, more than that. The man is a practical furnace, his tall frame radiating heat, his pupils dilating despite the bright lobby lights.
His jaw clenches and pulses as his green glare drops to my mouth.
I can barely think, let alone breathe. My body sways toward him on its own accord.
And what comes out of my mouth is worse.
I blink, chin tilting up at my boss. “I have to ask—Is this promotion real?"
He flinches as if slapped, thick brows drawing together. “Excuse me?”
“I need to know. Is this a real promotion, or are you trying to appease me?"
"Appease you?"
“You know, make me feel better about the fact that we—" I gesture between us. "—what happened at Quinn and Jessica’s wedding."
His jaw tightens, and the room sways. "This has nothing to do with Tulum."
"Are you sure? Because the timing seems convenient."
"The timing is based on your work."
"Because if this is some kind of guilt promotion—"
"It's not a guilt promotion." He leans in, and I realize he's still holding my wrists. "It's recognition that you're too talented to be answering phones. Unless that’s all you believe you’re capable of, Miss Madison."
“Is that what you think?”
“You said it, not me.”
I don’t know why, but I'm suddenly, irrationally angry.
This is a promotion, a compliment. And yet—
The stoic way Declan delivers the news.
Businesslike. Terse. Emotionless.
Like I’m just any other employee.
Like he doesn’t think twice about what happened in Tulum.
And that's when I realize what's really making me angry.
It's not the promotion or the timing.
It's that my ridiculously sexy, permanently brooding, groomsman-punching boss seems completely fine.
Perfectly capable of standing this close to me and talking about office assignments like we didn't spend an entire night in Mexico learning every inch of each other's bodies.
Like it meant nothing.
Maybe it didn't.
Maybe I'm the only one replaying it. Maybe I'm the only one who can't sleep because I keep remembering the way he said my name at four A.M. when he was inside me.
I jerk my wrists free from his grip.
"Thank you for the promotion, Mr. Shaw." My voice is barely a whisper now. "I appreciate the opportunity."
“Do you now?”
He stares harder, and I step back, grabbing my bag from behind the desk. “I should go. It's late. And I'm sure you have better things to do than stand here with coffee all over your shirt."
I'm moving toward the elevator, not looking at him.
"Have a good weekend, Mr. Shaw,” I throw over my shoulder.
Several seconds later, I reach the lift and press the button. The doors start to open.
But I don’t step inside.
Something tugs on my wrist from behind. I whirl on my heel to find myself staring up into Declan Shaw’s hard gaze, his stony stare downright starving.
His chest heaves, silver hair gleaming under the lowlights as he stands there, my wrist in his hot hand. Silent.
We stay like that, staring at each other in the humming silence of the office hallway.
Until he takes one large step toward me, grabbing my waist.
I know the kiss is coming, and still, it shocks me when his full mouth lands on mine—hard and insistent. My God.
The man kisses like he fucks.
Ruthlessly.
Unapologetically.
Forceful and yet tender—his touch teasing the line between rough and gentle.
His other hand grips my hip, pulling me flush against him, and I can feel how hard he is through his slacks—the thick length pressing against my stomach. Instantly, I make a sound, grabbing fistfuls of his wet shirt to pull him closer.
Every other thought goes out the window.
The coffee.
The promotion.
The fact we’re in the middle of the office lobby.
Anything that isn’t Declan Shaw and his hard, overpowering body evaporates.
His tongue slides against mine and I whimper, melting against him, my body molding to the planes of him—every ridge, every solid inch.
His mouth trails to my neck, to that spot below my ear he found in Tulum, his teeth scraping my skin.
"Declan—"
“Don’t you fucking dare.” His voice is a growl against my throat. “You think this is easy for me?"
His hand slides from my hip to my ass, gripping hard, pulling me tighter against an erection that could launch rocket ships.
"Feel that?" he rasps. "My dick's been hard since you walked around that fucking desk. Since you opened that overactive mouth and acted like I don’t think about how tight your pussy was wrapped around my cock."
I gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders.
His hand slides up my side, thumb grazing the underside of my breast through my blouse. "You think I don’t close my eyes and remember these tits bouncing for me when you rode my dick?"
The graze becomes a full-palmed caress as his large hand cups the swell of my breast, his thumb circling my nipple through the fabric until the nub sharpens to a hard point.
“Declan—“ I start, sucking in a greedy breath. “We can’t—“
"Can't what?" He pulls back just enough to look at me, green eyes dark with desire. "Can't fuck in the office? Can't finish what we started?"
His other hand slides down, gripping my thigh through my skirt, and then he's lifting my leg, hooking it around his hip, pressing his cock directly where I'm already wet and aching.
"Christ, I can feel how hot you are," he grits, grinding against me in a slow, deliberate roll of his hips. "You're soaked, aren't you? Tell me you're wet."
"Yes," I breathe, heart trapped in my throat.
"Yes what, Miss Madison?"
“Y-yes, I'm wet."
"For me."
"Yes—for you—"
"Good girl." His hand slides higher on my thigh, fingers skating under the hem of my skirt. His fingers trace the edge of my panties—just a ghost of a touch.
"How many times did I make you come that night?” he asks, voice low and commanding. "Remind me."
“F-four—"
"Four times." His fingers slip beneath the lace, finding me slick and ready. "And you still snuck out. Still left me alone in that bed."
He slides one thick finger inside me and I cry out, my head falling back against the wall beside the elevator.
"Quiet," he commands, and the danger—the absolute recklessness of what we’re doing, of where we are—only makes it hotter.
He adds a second finger, and my vision literally blurs.
His thumb finds my clit, circling, and my hips rock against his hand against my will.
"That's it," he encourages, voice a dark rumble. "Fuck my hand, Darcy. Show me how much you've been thinking about this."
I can’t help it.