17. Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
~DARCY~
It’s official. My life is literally upside down.
It's Saturday afternoon, thirty-six hours since Declan and I had sex in his hotel room, and I'm sitting in a private jet at thirty thousand feet, staring at my color-coded notebook and trying very hard not to have a complete emotional breakdown.
Outside the window, clouds drift past in endless white. The sky above them is that perfect crystalline blue you only get at altitude, and below us, somewhere, is the Gulf of Mexico.
And beyond that? Home.
Manhattan.
Reality.
Inside the cabin of the gorgeous jet, Wyeth is two rows in front, headphones on, working on his laptop, and Declan is across the aisle from me, also working, occasionally glancing up to catch my eye with a look that makes my insides melt.
To be honest, we’ve been careful—professional.
No touching in front of Wyeth. No lingering looks. Nothing that would suggest we spent Friday morning having sex before breakfast and again in the shower before checkout.
But I can still feel everywhere he touched me. Can still hear the things he said.
Can still taste him on my tongue.
And that's the problem.
Because I'm not supposed to be feeling this way about Declan Shaw.
I'm supposed to be using this job as a stepping stone, building my career, proving I'm more than Richard Cole’s daughter.
Instead, I'm falling for my boss.
My twenty-three-years-older, devastatingly attractive boss who makes me come so hard that my brain cells evaporate.
I open my notebook—the same color-coded system I've used since college—and start writing.
FACTS:
-Employed at Shaw Entertainment Group: 5 weeks
-Accidentally married to Declan Shaw: 5 weeks (annulment in 29 days)
-Times I've had sex with said accidental husband: Too many to count at this point
-Promotion to Tulum project coordinator: Pending (Wyeth mentioned it yesterday)
-Days since I've talked to Jessica: 12 (avoiding because she'll know something's wrong)
-Percentage certain this ends badly: 85%
I stare at that last number.
Because yesterday morning, wrapped in Declan's arms with the ocean outside and his heartbeat under my ear, I would have said 30%.
But that was before reality set in.
Before I remembered that I still don't know how and why my old life connects to my new life.
Before I remembered that men like my father don't have "poker buddies" who just happen to be consulting on legitimate business deals.
I flip to a new page.
THINGS I KNOW:
-The Shaws are pivoting from nightclubs to hospitality
-The Tulum property is the centerpiece of that pivot
-Ricardo and Alexander have "local relationships" in Mexico
-Declan said his father was destroyed by a "hostile financial attack"
-That attack happened 24 years ago
-My father has been in commercial real estate finance for 30+ years
I stare at that list for a long time.
Then I flip to another page.
THINGS I'M AFRAID OF:
-That whatever my father’s connections to the Shaws falls within that “gray area” Declan mentioned about his dad
-That when my best friend Jessica finds out what I’ve been doing (and who I’ve been subsequently screwing), she’ll disown me
-That this job—this real, legitimate opportunity I've earned since Miami will disappear if this sexual relationship with Declan takes a turn
My pen hovers over the page before I write one last line.
-That I'm my father's daughter after all
"You okay?"
Glancing up, I find Declan watching me, his green eyes steady and inquisitive, the laptop in front of him completely forgotten.
"Fine," I say, closing the notebook quickly. "Just organizing notes from the trip."
"You're a god-awful liar."
I scoff. “I’ll have you know that I’m an excellent liar…when I want to be.”
"Not to me." He stands up, walks over, and sits in the empty seat next to mine. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Darcy."
"I'm just—" I sigh, lowering my voice, before shooting a look at the back of Wyeth’s head. "Processing."
"Processing what?"
"Everything. The Tulum deal. The promotion. The fact that we—" I lower my voice, glancing again. "—the fact that we can't seem to stop sleeping together despite all the reasons we shouldn’t."
"Do you want to stop?"
The question catches me off guard.
I blink, stomach twisting in a million different knots. “I don't know," I admit. "Do you?"
"No."
"That's very direct."
"I'm a very direct person."
"I've noticed."
He falls silent, and I can practically see him thinking, weighing something in his brilliant and stubborn mind.
"When we get back to New York," he says carefully, "we should talk. About what this is. About where we go from here."
"Define 'this.'"
"You and me. What we're doing."
"We're accidentally married and sleeping together while pretending to be boring colleagues in front of your brother."
"Exactly. That."
I snort. “That's not a definition. That's a disaster waiting to happen."
"Maybe." He reaches over, takes my hand—a small gesture, but bold given Wyeth is ten feet away. "Or maybe it's something else."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. But I'd like to find out."
My chest threatens to cave in on itself.
Probably because I now know what Declan Shaw sounds like when he’s being sincere.
And right now, that’s exactly what he’s being.
He means it.
And that scares the daylights out of me more than anything else.
I nod. “Okay.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, Declan. I agree. We should talk. When we get back."
"Good." He squeezes my hand once, then stands and walks back to his seat.
I sit there, staring at my notebook, trying to figure out how I'm going to have that conversation with him when I can barely have it with myself.
The shower is not just a shower.
I find Declan in the master bathroom, which, of course, is another expanse of neutral tones with white subway tiles, a rainfall showerhead the size of a dinner plate, and a glass enclosure that's already steaming.
And Holy Mother of Malehood, the man’s already naked, water sluicing down his toned body, steam rising around him like he's some kind of silver-haired deity emerging from the mist.
I leave any sense of shame in the doorway, stripping off my clothes—the sundress I wore on the plane, the bra and panties underneath—and step into the shower with him.
The water is deliciously hot, exactly the way I like it, and for about two innocent minutes, it actually is just a shower.
Declan washes the flight off his skin with expensive-smelling soap. I stand under the spray, letting the heat work the tension out of my shoulders, the humidity filling my lungs.
Then his hands are on my waist.
"Darcy."
I turn, water streaming down my face, and he's there—close enough that I can see droplets caught in his silver hair, can see the way his pupils have dilated until his eyes are nearly black.
"I thought you said just a shower," I squeak.
"I lied."
"Shocking."
"You're not actually surprised."
"Not even a little bit."
He backs me against the tile—cool against my shoulder blades, a sharp contrast to the hot water—and his mouth finds my neck.
The first touch of his lips makes me gasp. The second makes my knees weak.
By the third, my head is falling back against the tile and I'm already lost.
His hands slide down my sides, over my hips, between my thighs, and I'm so wet for him that he slides two fingers inside me easily and I moan loud enough to echo off the tile.
"Jesus, Darcy," he mutters against my collarbone. "You're always so ready for me."
He pumps me with his fingers—slow and deep until my toes curl—his thumb flicking gently against my clit while the water continues to rain down on both of us.
The bathroom fills with steam, the sound of water, and my increasingly desperate gasps.
"Come for me, sweetheart," he orders, voice rough. "I want this pussy falling apart in my hand."
My body obeys, my orgasm washing over me like a wave while Declan swallows my cry with his hot mouth, his fingers continuing to stroke inside me until I’m a shaky, shredded mess.
Before I can catch my breath, he’s already lifting me, strong hands sliding under my thighs as my legs wrap around his waist, carrying me out of the shower.
Water pools on the marble as he crosses into the bedroom and drops me on a king-sized bed with slate-gray sheets.
I’m giggling by the time he climbs over me, water still dripping from his hair onto my chest, onto my stomach, making trails down my sides.
Good God almighty, I’ve never felt luckier.
"We're getting the bed wet," I tease as Declan hovers.
"I don't give a shit."
"You're going to have to change the sheets."
"I give even less of a shit now."
Then his mouth is on mine and I stop caring too.
This time the sex is different.
We have less to prove, less to compensate for.
No longer in a race to orgasm, Declan and I are free—free to indulge, enjoy, and devour every inch of each other.
He kisses me everywhere—my neck, my collarbones, the space between my breasts, the curve of my hips—his hands tracing my body as if molding me into his memory.
His mouth follows, warm and sure, leaving heat wherever he touches, and when he finally slides inside me, we're both breathing hard.
I look into his steady aqua-green eyes and know with every fiber of my being that I’m a goner—disappeared into a different dimension.
Because I am so absolutely, ridiculously, and stupidly in love with Declan Shaw.
I shut my eyes, hoping to banish the truth of what I'm feeling, to pretend this is just sex, just physical, just bodies finding pleasure.
But Declan doesn't let me hide.
"Look at me, Darcy," he orders, the words vibrating through his chest and into mine.
I open my eyes and have no choice but to watch him as he moves—watch the way his jaw clenches, the way his breathing changes when I arch my back and meet him thrust for thrust.
The sounds of our lovemaking saturate the air, the bed frame creaking, my breathy gasps mixing with his deep groans.
"You're so fucking beautiful like this." He pulls almost all the way out before sliding back in slowly, deliberately, making me feel every inch. "Spread out. Taking my cock. Made for me."