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Goodness, he really is just beautiful to look at. The snug-fitting T-shirt look is really doing it for me.

Tattoos and muscles on full display.

Forearm veins making things happen in my… you know… VIP lounge… if you catch my drift.

Declan tilts his head slightly, amusement dancing in his emerald eyes because he totally caught me ogling him.

I could be drooling.

I have no idea.

“No. Just thinking about some very fond memories I have of a couch,” he says, stepping closer. “And a desk.”

Feigning ignorance, I blink sweetly. “Really? I don’t recall either of those.”

The grin he gives me could melt ice caps.

“You don’t remember?” His voice drops, backing me up to the wall. “Your legs wrapped around my head. You and me committing a felony in six positions on my desk?—”

“You’re exaggerating,” I say, breathless, heart pounding.

“Am I?” His hands bracket the wall, caging me in. His heat, scent, presence devour the space. “Because I remember nearly seeing stars when this sweet hand”—he lifts mine, kissing my knuckles—“wrapped around my cock.”

My thighs clench. Pickles and pie. Is it hot in here?

“Yeah, it’s not ringing a bell.” What am I doing?

He leans down, brushing his lips along my neck. I melt, bracing my hands on his chest like I could stop him.

“But…” I murmur, voice barely mine, “maybe if I had a refresher.”

I have no idea where this sexual confidence is coming from.

He chuckles low against my skin—a sound so sinful it could probably get us arrested. “Well, I’m happy to volunteer as tribute.”

Before I can think, before I can talk myself out of it, I let him kiss me.

Slow at first. Testing. Tasting.

I meet him halfway, my hands sliding into his hair, fingers tangling in the soft, thick strands I can’t stop touching.

When I kiss him back, it’s like striking a match to gasoline.

He growls low in his throat, pulling me tighter, his mouth slanting over mine with a hunger that burns down to my bones. His hands roam—one cupping the back of my neck, the other gripping my thigh, yanking it up and around his hip.

I gasp when he rolls his hips into me, the hard ridge of his erection grinding against the ache he’s ignited deep inside me.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he growls against my mouth, voice shredded with need.

A moan escapes my lips when I press into him, desperate for more—for everything.

One minute, I’m melting into him like butter on a stack of sin, and the next—he’s spinning me around and setting me on the evidence table with a startled yelp.

My back hits the cold metal. His body cages mine, his hand reaching up my shirt and finding my nipple. He feels so good.

But then he says words that snap the world in half.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you.”