20. Chapter 20 #3
Find what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her grip the cushions so hard her knuckles go white.
"Oh God, Declan, please.”
"Please what? Tell me what you need."
"Your fingers. Inside me. Please."
I slide two fingers in, curl them forward, and her whole body arches off the sectional.
"Like that?" I ask against her skin.
"Yes, God yes. Don't stop."
I don't.
I stroke her with my fingers and my mouth until she's lost—until she's given up on language entirely and is just making sounds the whole terrace can hear.
Her climax crashes through her violently, thighs clamping around my head despite instructions, hands flying to my hair, holding me exactly where she wants me while I lick her through every aftershock.
When she finally goes limp, I pull back, stand, and admire my work.
A trembling Darcy on the cushions, pink nipples hard and perked, her legs open, that beautiful pussy glistening from the orgasm I just gave her.
She looks like every fantasy a man could ask for—hair a mess, chest heaving, completely exposed and wrecked.
“Oh my God, that was—" she starts.
"Just the beginning," I say.
I strip off my shirt, maneuvering around my split knuckles, drop it on the terrace floor. Next to go is my belt, slacks, boxers, until I'm as naked as she is.
She watches, already wetting her bottom lip.
"On your back," I tell her. "Properly. Head on the cushion."
She scrambles to comply. I climb over her, caging her with my arms, marveling at her face in the moonlight.
"I need you to hear something," I grunt. "You're my wife, Darcy. Whatever name you use. Whatever you're keeping from me. Whatever happened two weeks ago that made you pull away—none of it changes the fact that you are my wife."
Her eyes fill with tears.
"The annulment—"
"Is a piece of paper. This—" I press my cock to her entrance without pushing in, letting her feel it "—is not a piece of paper."
"You can't just—"
"Tell me to stop and I will."
She doesn't.
"Tell me to stop," I say again.
Nothing.
"That's what I thought."
I slide inside her in one slow, deep thrust, and we both groan.
"No barrier," I say through gritted teeth. "Nothing between us. Just me and you."
"Declan—"
"Say my name again."
"Declan."
"And say you're mine."
"I'm—" She swallows. "I'm yours."
"Again."
"I'm yours, Declan."
“Yes, you are… my mouthy, stubborn, beautiful girl.”
I start to move—slow at first, deep, rolling thrusts that let her feel every inch—watching her face, the way her eyes flutter when I hit that spot inside her, the way her mouth falls open and her cheeks flush and her nails find my back.
"Look at me," I tell her. "Don't look away."
She holds my gaze.
"You feel incredible," I say. "Every time. This pussy was made for my cock. Wasn’t it?"
"It was—God—it was—"
"Again."
"Made for you—yes—"
I thrust harder, deeper, and she cries out.
"That's it," I say. "Let me hear you. Let the whole city hear you."
I pick up the pace, setting a rhythm hard and relentless, exactly what she needs tonight. My hands grip her hips, claiming and hungry, angling her to take me deeper.
"Declan, I'm close—"
"Not yet."
"But—"
"Not yet, baby. I'll tell you when."
She makes a desperate sound.
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"Please let me—I need to—"
"Tell me who you belong to."
"You. I belong to you."
"Who's your husband?"
"You are, Declan. Please—"
“My greedy, perfect girl.” I slide my hand between us, find her clit with my thumb, and rub with just the right amount of pressure. "Now come for me. Show me."
She shatters, the orgasm tearing through her so hard she screams my name—raw and unguarded and loud enough to echo off the surrounding buildings.
I give her two more deep thrusts and follow her.
My orgasm detonates at the base of my spine; I bury myself to the hilt in her perfect pussy, filling her completely—marking her, claiming her, refusing to let there be any doubt about what this is and who we are to each other.
We collapse together on the sectional, gasping, wrecked.
I'm still inside her; neither of us moves to change that.
Her fingers find my back, palms smoothing my skin while my face buries in her neck.
We lie there for a long time while the city hums and the warm night air cools our skin.
Eventually I pull out carefully, roll onto my back, and pull her to my side.
She molds into me without hesitation, head on my chest.
For a while neither of us speaks.
We just exist—wrapped in each other, the lights of Manhattan glowing around us like we're suspended in the sky.
"Come on," I say finally, standing and pulling her up. "Let's go inside."
"I thought you said no one could see us."
"They can't. But you're cold." I wrap my shirt around her shoulders even though she won’t need it in thirty seconds. "And I'm not done with you yet."
She blinks. "You're not?"
"Not even close."
She laughs.
It's the first real laugh I've heard from her in two weeks.
The knot in my chest finally loosens.
I gather our clothes and lead her inside.
And just as I said, we end up back in my bed.
This time, I don't let her pull away.
Not once.