21. Chapter 21 #3
"No." His thumb traces my jaw. "Whatever it is. Whatever you're carrying. Bring it to me. That's what this is now. You understand?"
I should tell him.
Right now.
But I can't bring myself to ruin this moment.
"Yes," I whisper.
His eyes travel over my face for a long beat, then he reaches up and finds the zipper at the back of my blouse.
"I want you," he says. "Right now."
He slowly draws the zipper down, knuckles skimming the length of my spine.
He peels the dress forward off my shoulders and lets it fall before reaching behind me to unclasp my bra in one smooth motion.
I hear it fall somewhere nearby before Declan stands back and looks at me in the warm amber light.
In his sea-green eyes, I can see what he sees.
Me.
Naked to the waist, skirt still on, heels still on, in the middle of this obscenely beautiful Miami hotel room with the ocean glittering in jeweled tones behind me.
He takes his time looking, and I let him.
This is one of the things about Declan Shaw that undoes me most completely—the way he looks at me like seeing me is something he intends to do thoroughly.
"The skirt," he says.
I reach for the zip at my hip.
"Slowly," he adds.
I go slowly and the skirt drops.
My panties follow without him having to ask.
Now I'm standing in nothing but heels while he's still fully dressed—crisp white shirt, dark trousers, sleeves rolled to the elbow the only concession to informality.
That contrast.
Always that contrast.
"Sit on the floor," he says.
"The bed is—"
"I know where the bed is." His voice is calm—rumbling in that tone that has never accepted negotiation. "Floor, Darcy."
I sit on the floor.
The carpet is thick—the expensive kind hotels like this use, warm from the day's heat still trapped in the building.
Declan lowers himself to the floor in front of me, still dressed, still entirely in command.
Reaching out, he takes both my ankles and unhooks my heels one at a time with a focus and care that is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened tonight.
He sets the shoes aside, then takes my bare feet in his hands and looks at me.
"Lie back," he says.
I lie back, feeling the plush carpet warm against my skin, the ceiling above clean white plaster and soft recessed light.
I can hear the ocean outside—distant and rhythmic.
I can hear my heartbeat closer as Declan moves over me, still fully dressed, one hand braced beside my head.
He looks down at me for a long moment.
"You're thinking again," he says.
"I'm always thinking."
"Stop."
"I can't just—"
"You can." He lowers his head, puts his mouth to my throat, and whatever I was about to say evaporates.
"Nothing exists right now except this room.
Except us." His lips move lower, to my collarbone, my chest. "Everything else waits.
Say yes or say stop." His mouth finds my bare breast, his tongue stroking slow over one soft nipple. "Those are the only words you need."
"Yes," I breathe. "Yes."
"Good girl."
He takes his time, moving down my body with unhurried, thorough attention that makes me feel simultaneously worshipped and utterly owned.
His mouth finds my ribs, my stomach.
He pauses there—just below my navel—and presses a slow, open kiss against my skin.
Something about it makes my eyes sting.
Maybe because he doesn't know.
Doesn't know what's happening there, just beneath that kiss.
Doesn't know about the tiny, impossible thing that is somehow both my greatest secret and his.
"You're tensing," he says against my skin.
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Just come back to me." He presses another kiss, softer. "Right here. Come back."
I breathe out slowly, coming back into my body, and his mouth moves lower until I stop thinking at all.
He takes me apart with his tongue—slow, steady, and absolutely merciless, his hands pinning my hips flat against the carpet when I try to move.
"Declan, please," I whine, not recognizing my own voice. "I need—"
"I know what you need." He doesn't stop, doesn't speed up. Just continues at the devastating pace he's decided on. "You'll get it when I'm ready to give it."
"That's—that's not—"
"Fair?" I feel him almost smile against my slick folds. "No. It's not."
"You're terrible."
"You love me."
"I do," I gasp. "So much."
He brings me to the edge with his mouth and then stops, and I make a sound that’s more grunt than word.
"Please," I huff. "Please, Declan, please—"
"There it is." His voice is gritty, fraying at the edges. "That's what I wanted to hear."
He moves up my body, and I reach for his shirt.
"Off," I say.
He raises an eyebrow.
"Bossy."
I grin, working the buttons with hands that aren't entirely steady, pushing the fabric apart to reveal his chest—broad and warm and solid.
I push the shirt off his shoulders and press my palms flat against him, splaying my fingers across hard muscle, feeling his heartbeat steady and fast under my hands.
Proof that he's human after all.
Even if he refuses to show it most of the time.
He shrugs the shirt the rest of the way off, drops it somewhere behind him, and unbuckles his belt.
It hits the carpet, followed by his slacks, and then his boxers.
He sits back against the foot of the bed—back straight, completely naked, looking down at me on the carpet with those green eyes that see everything and give away only what he chooses.
"Come here," he says.
I move toward him.
"Turn around."
I turn.
"In my lap," he says. "Face the window."
I settle into his lap, his bare thighs solid beneath mine, his cock hard against the small of my back, the wall of glass in front of me filling my vision.
I look over to the black, glittering ocean beyond it, the Miami skyline bleeding gold and neon along the horizon.
His oversized hands find my hips, pulling me back flush against him, and his lips lower to the curve of my neck.
"Look at the city," he murmurs against my skin, his breath warm. "What used to be your city. Look at it while I remind you who you belong to."
The words send a shiver through me that has nothing to do with cold.
Because he doesn't know what he's saying.
Doesn't know how precisely, how perfectly cruel that sentence is.
His hand slides between my thighs from the front, his fingers finding my pussy slick and swollen and so desperate it should embarrass me. "Don't look away."
I look at the window.
At the whole of Miami spread beyond it.
At my own reflection ghosted in the glass—dark hair loose and wild, cheeks flushed deep rose, completely naked, trembling in the lap of the silver-haired God my father spent twenty-four years trying to destroy.
At his reflection behind mine—broad shouldered, jaw set, green eyes fixed on me in the glass with an intensity that makes my breath seize in my throat.
At both of us. Together. In this window. In this city.
And I feel everything at once.
Love and guilt and terror and want and grief and feelings so vast I don't have a name for them.
"I can see you thinking," he says against my neck. His fingers move—slow, insistent circles against my clit that make my hips rock forward. "Stop."
"I can't."