Prologue #3
“I could tell you about a hundred better places off the top of my head without even fucking trying,” he says, lowering his chin to look at me again. “Such as anywhere else.”
He drags a hand through his hair. “I don't know why you look at me like I'm being unreasonable. Literally anywhere—a hotel, your home, the back of a car belonging to a boy your own age.” He shakes his head. “Not here. Not tonight. Not like this.”
My face heats. “You make it sound so… cheap.”
“I'm not making it sound like anything.” His voice has gone lower, and somehow that's worse.
He takes a step toward me. My long hair has fallen in my face, my forehead damp.
He reaches over and tucks it back, sliding it gently behind my ear.
I swallow hard. “I'm just telling you that you deserve someone who would make it memorable. Special. Someone who would take good care of you.”
I shrug. “People have casual sex all the time. It’s not that big a deal.”
His eyes darken. “Oh, really? Fine, then, Trouble.” He steps closer. Did he just call me Trouble, like it’s my name? “Let’s find out the difference between…”
His eyes are locked on mine. My heart is beating too fast.
He kisses me—brief, closed, almost clinical, like he's making a point before he's made it. I gasp and blink, surprised at his nearness, the brush of his lips against mine so quick I half wonder if I imagined it.
“—and this.”
His hand comes up slowly and cups my jaw.
He tilts my head back just slightly, and I feel the imprint of every single fingerprint on my skin like a brand.
He pauses, as if he has all the time in the world and intends to use it, close enough that I can feel the heat of his mouth before we touch.
His eyes hold mine, steady and dark. My breath catches.
His lips brush once, barely, and then again.
This time, my lips part, and he drags an involuntary moan from deep within me.
The kiss is unhurried and deliberate, and my brain goes completely blank.
I forget what we were talking about. I forget where I am. One of my hands finds his shirt and grasps for purchase, and I feel him almost smile against my mouth before he pulls back, brushes a gentle kiss to my forehead, and lets me go.
I stifle a whimper and stare.
I have no idea what he just asked me.
“The difference, Bridget.”
“The… what?”
He sighs and nods. “Yeah. Exactly. Your first time should be memorable, not an afterthought or a notch on some lad’s belt.” He reaches into his jacket for his phone. “Give me your number.”
I feel exposed and vulnerable, and I’m grumpy about it. “Why?”
His gaze snaps to mine, and his voice drops to a register I haven’t heard yet. “Because I’m a dungeon master in the club where you’ve set foot, and that means you do as you’re told.”
I don't have a response. I don't know what to say to him. “Because Cavin McCarthy is my best friend in the entire world,” he says. “And Erin is going to be his wife.” He looks at me, and again I feel small. “And you matter.” He looks back down. “Now give me your number.”
I give him the wrong one because I'm so nervous, then correct myself, my cheeks burning. The corner of his mouth quirks up, the dimple in his cheek making him look a tiny bit less feral.
“There. I've sent you a message. Keep the number, Bridget.” He grows stern again, his brow low and serious. “And do not come back in here ever again. Unless you have an invitation from someone who has the right to give you one.”
When he opens the door, Erin is standing in the hallway, blinking in the noise and lights. Declan deposits me beside her with the quiet efficiency of a man completing a task, his hand on my elbow the entire time, then steps away. “There's a car outside. A black one. It'll take you home.”
“We don't need—” I start.
He looks at me. I stop.
“Thank you,” Erin whispers, with the instincts of someone who has already learned to read the room. Declan nods. His eyes move to me for a moment—something unnameable in them—then he's gone, swallowed by the dark and the music like he was never there.
I stare at the contact on my phone the entire way home.
Declan M.
I was supposed to lose my virginity tonight. Instead, I got sent home in a black car with my sister, my wings thoroughly clipped. I should be annoyed about that. I am a little.
But I can't quite regret who clipped them—the way he looked at me, the low rumble of his voice and what it did to me, or the kiss he gave me, which I’ll measure every other kiss against for the rest of my life.
Declan.
I think about the way his voice rumbled over my body. I use the last ounce of courage still floating through me from the drinks and the decision that brought me here tonight, and I send him a text.
Got your number so you can invite me anytime you want…
I bite my lip and immediately wish I could take it back. That was either very brave or very stupid, and I genuinely cannot tell which.
My phone buzzes with a response, and my heart leaps into my throat. My hands shake as I open it.
Declan
Be a good girl, Trouble.