Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“You’re trembling, love.”
“Don't misunderstand me, Declan,” I whisper. “I'm trembling with anticipation. Not fear. Because I can't quite believe we're here, alone together, and that you want me.”
“Want you?” he says, low and rough. Both hands frame my face, holding me in place. “I've never wanted anyone more in my entire life.”
Something in my chest cracks open at that, slow and irreversible.
“Then tell me what you want, Bridget,” he murmurs. “I want to hear you say it.”
I'm not used to anyone asking me this. I'm used to wanting things quietly, privately, and not saying so. I'm used to folding my hopes away so they take up as little room as possible, because everyone else's always seemed to matter more than mine. But Declan doesn't want that. He never has.
“I want tonight,” I whisper. “Just tonight.”
He doesn't rush. I don't know why I love that about him so much. My childhood was drawn in frantic measures—my mother trying to make us into people we weren't, my father running with a crowd that terrified me. I grew up on the edges of things that could kill you. But with Declan, I feel something I haven't felt in a long time.
It’s like… I'm allowed to be me. Like I'm safe enough to stop performing.
“Just tonight,” he whispers, like a promise. He tilts my chin up and studies me slowly. “I need you to tell me if anything I do is too much or not enough.”
Oh, Declan. As if anything from him could ever be too much?
Heat floods me, my pulse is racing, and I damn near squeeze my thighs together because I want him.
“Can you do that for me? Can you communicate with me? I don't want you to be afraid. You're safe with me.”
“Yes,” I breathe out. “I promise.”
His mouth curves. “Good girl, sweetheart.”
My whole body goes warm at that. Why do I love it when he praises me? It's like stepping into sunlight. Like the approval in his voice fills in something I didn't know was hollow.
“I saw that,” he says, then kisses my cheek.
“Saw what?” I whisper.
“The way you melted when I called you a good girl.” His voice drops, close to my ear. “Do you have a praise kink? Mo chuisle,” he says softly.
I’m still too caught up in praise kink to try to decipher the Gaelic. I’ll look it up when I’m alone. Instead, I shrug, shaking my head and nodding at the same time, awkwardly, making a complete mess of it.
“Don't know what that means,” I manage.
“It means”—his mouth comes to my ear—“are you aroused when I approve? When I praise you? Do you feel yourself go warm when I say you're doing well?”
I swallow hard, my mouth dry, and manage to nod. “Aye. So much.”
He reaches back and drags the desk chair out, drops into it, and pulls me onto his lap. “Take off your top,” he says softly. “For me. That’s my girl.”
It's just a little tube thing held on by friction and a prayer. I lift my arms, and it slips free. I toss it aside.
He makes a low sound in his throat that does something devastating to me, and his gaze tells me he likes what he sees. “My god, you're more gorgeous than I imagined.”
“You imagined?” I say before I can stop myself.
“Look how beautiful you are,” he says instead of answering, one warm hand sliding slow across my waist. “You’ve got a butterfly tattoo.” He kisses my shoulder. The heat of it travels. Then he sighs. “Look how you fit right here,” he murmurs, watching me come apart under the smallest attentions.
He's right. I'm already on fire.
Then his mouth meets mine again, careful and deliberate, and my fingers are curling into his shirt. I'm basking in the praise falling from his lips as if I've been waiting for this my whole life.
“I’m going to go slow,” he says against my ear. “I’m going to learn every inch of you.” A pause. His hand tightens slightly at my waist. “And when I’m done, you’ll know exactly who you belong to.”
His mouth meets mine, and we kiss. His hand finds the back of my neck, his tongue against mine, and I swallow the low sound of approval he makes in his throat, barely stifling one of my own that would embarrass me entirely.
“That's my girl,” he murmurs into my mouth. “That's right.”
I can't help it. I moan outright when his large hand comes to my breast, his thumb circling my nipple. I cry out louder when he bends his head and takes the peak between his lips, lapping and circling, slow and deliberate.
“Aren't you a beauty,” he whispers. “Tell me if you need me to slow down.”
“Declan, don't you dare slow down,” I tell him, my voice barely my own. “Please trust me when I tell you.” I gasp.