Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 22583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
I wrap my arms around his back, hands skimming the ridges of muscles there, and decide to go for it, just a little. “Are you always this handsy in the morning?”
He pulls back to look at me, eyes hooded but awake now, dangerous and electric. “With you? Yeah.”
“Good,” I whisper, and he kisses me so hard I forget my own name for a second.
By the time we make it to the shower, my knees are already shaking. Declan slams me up against the tile, water scalding hot, steam rising around us like a screen. He crowds into my space, hands braced on either side of my head, and the look in his eyes is pure, undiluted hunger.
“Do you trust me?” he asks, voice low and rough as he kisses a line down my neck to my collarbone.
“God, yes,” I gasp, clutching at his shoulders for support. He’s got me so worked up I can barely think.
He drops to his knees, not worshipful but ravenous, and drags his tongue down my body, tracing a slow, wet line over my stomach, pausing just long enough to swirl over my belly button before moving lower. He slides my leg over his shoulder and pushes his tongue against my clit, and the sensation is so intense I nearly scream.
He doesn’t just lick me—he devours, holding my hips steady while he works me over with ruthless, military precision. He flicks and circles, alternating pressure and pace, never letting me settle into a rhythm. I can feel my body coiling, tightening, desperate for release. I grip his hair and ride his face, no shame, no hesitation, just raw need.
He slides two fingers inside me, curling them slightly, and I shatter, clenching around him as the orgasm rips through me. I sag against the wall, boneless, but he’s not done. He stands, lifts me effortlessly, and I wrap my legs around his waist, letting him support my entire weight.
He kisses me hard, biting my lower lip, and I taste myself on his tongue. He lines up his cock and pushes in, slow at first, stretching me until I’m full. He waits just a second, letting me adjust, and then slams into me with a force that rattles the heavy glass door.
I brace my hands on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. The angle is perfect, every thrust hitting exactly where I need it, over and over. He growls against my ear, words mostly nonsense, just raw, animalistic sounds. I feel his hands tighten on my ass, lifting me higher, changing the angle, and I come again, white-hot and blinding.
He follows a second later, hips snapping into me as he spills inside, biting down on my neck to muffle his own shout.
For a minute, we just stay there, water beating down on our tangled bodies, his heart pounding against my chest. I hold on to him like I’ll drown if I let go.
He sets me down gently, brushes my hair out of my face, and kisses my forehead.
“You okay?” he asks, voice soft for once.
“Better than okay,” I say, meaning it.
We towel off, get dressed, and when he hands me a fresh cup of coffee, exactly the way I like it, I wonder if maybe, just maybe, I have a shot at a happy ending with Declan McDaid, after all.
CHAPTER 8
NATALIE
I’m not prepared for how fast it happens, the shift from bedroom to battlefield, from intimate to intimidating.
Declan, for once, is in an outfit that doesn’t look like it belongs in a boardroom. The aqua blue polo shirt he’s wearing makes his eyes glow, and his faded jeans scream “designer” from a mile away. He orders me to drive his Corvette, claiming he wants to relax, but I think he really just wants to give me a chance to drive my dream car.
The city bleeds into bland suburbia in twenty minutes. The further we get from steel and glass, the more Declan seems to decompress. His hands relax, his shoulders drop, and he lets himself smile for no reason. I get the feeling that, for him, home is a place you protect by pretending not to care about it.
I park in front of an adorable, white-brick bungalow with geraniums in the planters and a miniature Irish flag flapping on the porch. The lawn is aggressively green and trimmed within an inch of its life. The house is small but radiates a kind of stubborn, permanent coziness.
Declan unbuckles, leans over, and kisses me. “Ready?”
“No,” I admit, “but let’s get it over with before I chicken out.”
“I can’t see you ever chickening out.” He laughs, for real, and grabs my hand, pulling me up the walk. The front door swings open before we even hit the first step.
“Declan McDaid, if you don’t wipe those boots, I’ll have your arse,” comes the voice, thick with Irish vowels and sharper than a shot of whiskey.