Page 112 of A Convenient Secret

“Sorry, I was waiting for the kids to fall asleep, and I lost track of time. This woman’s line is obvious for four generations, and then I keep hitting a wall. There are three potential people who could have been her paternal ancestors.”

“You know you don’t need to impress me with your sleuthing skills.” Closing the door, I walk over to the corner and sit on a wing chair. I’m wearing a short, silky nightgown. Nothing else.

I sit un-lady-like at first, my legs wide, before I cross my legs elegantly.

“Seagull,” he groans.

“Yes?” I smile, batting my lashes innocently.

He pushes his chair and rounds the desk, but then he stops, studying me from afar. Oh, the need in his eyes makes me so wet, I worry he will need to reupholster his chair. Shit. I hope it’s not an antique.

He’s wearing a black T-shirt that hugs his muscles like a second skin, and flannel, checkered pajama pants. How can I be this attracted to someone? It baffles me.

“Have you forgotten your underwear?” he rasps, folding his arms across his chest.

I smile. “No, I haven’t forgotten.”

He narrows his eyes. “You planned this.”

“Kind of a spur-of-the-moment decision. Like the unplanned sushi night.” I lick my lips. “Who knew you could be spontaneous?”

“I blame that on you,” he rasps.

His pants tent, and it gives me confidence. “I always wanted to be fucked against bookshelves. Like that library scene inAtonement.”

He probably doesn’t know the movie.

He groans. “Tell me more about it.”

It’s a challenge. He doesn’t necessarily want the scene description; he wants me to express myself about my desires. I didn’t understand why he pushed that at first, but I’m grateful now.

He respects my boundaries—minus the cyber-watching—but he also pushes them, and that’s liberating. So I lick my lips and smile coyly.

He’s clenching his fists, and I love the reaction. I make an exaggerated spectacle of re-crossing my legs.

“He lifts her leg to the ladder.” I lick my lips. “Sheis pinned against the shelves behind her. And the camera shows this detail when he thrusts in…” I swallow, suddenly parched, my arousal pooling between my thighs.

“A detail?” Declan rasps, his pupils large, making his eyes even darker than usual.

I swallow again. “He weaves his fingers through hers and holds her arm up, above her head.”

It’s a minor detail that makes the entire scene more intimate. Like their connection is beyond the act itself.

“And she tells him she loves him,” he murmurs.

Shit. I didn’t plan on going there, and I didn’t know he’d watched the movie. And why would he remember that part?

I stand up, panicked, and glance at the door like I’m scouting exit routes. Am I? I guess my newfound confidence has its limits.

Declan must have the same thought because he lunges at me, whipping us around. “I don’t have a ladder.” He holds my hands behind me, walking me backward.

“Oh…” This man keeps reducing me to monosyllables. An achievement given my tendency to blabber.

My back hits the bookshelves.

Declan hooks his foot on a stool beside the shelf and drags it closer. He lifts me and thrusts his hipsforward, pinning me, while he guides my foot to the chair. “This will have to do.”

He raises both my hands above my head, imprisoning my wrists in his large hand. I’m completely at his mercy. I guess that’s what I wanted.