Page 11

NATALIE

The faint light of dawn filters through the curtains as I open my eyes, casting soft shadows across the room.

The sheets are a mess, twisted and knotted around me, evidence of a nighttime struggle.

I can almost feel the ghostly imprint of Declan's arms that had wrapped around me tightly, pinning me in place around four in the morning.

My right leg is numb, trapped under his thigh, and the left one is stretching out from beneath the covers to cool me off a little.

The minor inconvenience of being unable to move any part of my body without waking the six-foot-seven Marine glued to my body is a small price to pay for the cozy night of sleep.

I shift, gently, just to test the limits of circulation, and Declan’s arm tightens around my ribs. His hand cups my breast, thumb idly brushing over the nipple like he’s running a systems check before the start of business hours.

“Nice try,” he growls, voice all gravel and heat. “Thought you could sneak out?”

“It’s not sneaking out. More like trying to restore circulation,” I say, but my voice is still lazy with sleep, and I can’t bring myself to fake an escape. “Before I get up to face Monday and deal with my bossy boss.”

I feel him smile into my hair, lips pressed to the back of my head. “You could just call in sick and stay in bed with your bossy boss.”

I consider this, weighing the pros and cons of what would happen if I called HR to say I can’t make it in today because my legs didn’t work from all the illegal things my boss did to me last night. “That’s tempting, but we have so much going on this week.”

He laughs, and the sound shakes my whole spine.

He’s in an absurdly good mood for someone who doesn’t believe in sleep or mornings.

I peel myself free enough to roll over and face him, taking in the evidence of our wild night.

My panties are hanging from the headboard, his black undershirt is wadded into a ball by the lamp, and my bra is somehow draped over the Glock on his nightstand.

Declan looks down at me with that wicked little squint, the one that says he’s plotting either a hostile takeover or round two, possibly both. His snake tattoo, coiled on his bicep, flexes as he props himself up on one elbow. The snake’s tongue flicks out, black as sin.

He drags his knuckles up my thigh, slow and deliberate. “You want coffee?”

“I want lots of things,” I say, wishing we had time for him to finish what he’s starting. “But also coffee.”

“I’ll make it,” he says, already half out of bed, but I yank him back by the wrist.

“You don’t make coffee,” I remind him. “You slip the little pod in the holder, refill the hot water, and then glare at it until it gives you what you want.”

He huffs, “It works.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Somewhat.”

He’s hovering, all tense and lean, like he’s about to start a new campaign and I’m just the first obstacle.

“Get dressed, Ms. Hollister, before I’m tempted to show you my bossy side,” he orders, but then he kisses me hard before rolling off the bed, leaving me stunned and flushed and definitely not interested in pants.

By the time I’m vertical, he’s already in the kitchen, bare-assed except for boxers, putting two mugs under the coffee maker that probably cost more than my rent.

I steal one of his button-downs from the closet and shuffle out, still bleary, and climb up onto a barstool.

The shirt hits me mid-thigh, which means I look like I’m prepping for the walk of shame at Harvard Business School.

Declan turns, arms folded, and eyes me up and down. “You’re not wearing pants,” he points out.

“Neither are you,” I say. “I thought it was the Monday morning look we’re going for.”

“Touché,” he admits. He pushes a mug across the marble, the steam hitting me in the face, which is nice because it distracts me from the way his eyes are raking over my exposed legs.

He leans over the counter, not quite touching, but close enough I can count the lines on his lips when he says, “I was thinking about what you said last night.”

I rack my memory, sifting through a haze of orgasms and pillow talk. “I said a lot of things.” And so did he.

He ignores the snark, which is his special skill, and says, “I meant when you said you love me.”

Oh. That. I take a gulp of scalding coffee, burn my tongue, and try not to look as panicked as I suddenly feel. “Right.”

He reaches over and tugs my hair, just enough to make me look him in the eye. “Since we agree on the depth of our feelings,” he says, low and serious, “I want to make you my partner.”

I don’t know what to say. Partner? My mouth is full of a million responses, none of which seem to fit. I want to tell him that I’m ready to be his partner in everything. But the words won’t line up, so I just take another sip of coffee and hope he keeps talking.

He does. “I want us to go down to the courthouse and tie your ass to me for life. Then we’ll figure out what it takes to make sure half of everything I have is yours.”

I look down at my lap, suddenly very interested in the pattern of my own knees. “What about a prenup? To protect you.”

He scoffs, voice sharp, “You own me heart and soul, baby. There’s no way I’ll ever let you go, so I’m not worried about my money.”

I laugh despite myself, and the tension breaks a little.

He comes around the counter, wrapping both hands around my mug so I have to look up at him. The snake tattoo flexes as he squeezes, the scales catching the under-cabinet light.

“People are going to say I’m after your money.” I bite my bottom lip.

“And they’ll say I’m after you for your body.” He shrugs, and the movement is so perfectly Declan I can’t help but admire it. “Let the fuckers talk. I don’t give a shit about what anyone thinks. You’re all I care about. If anyone steps out of line, I’ll show them the error of their ways.”

It’s maybe the most romantic thing he’s ever said, and it comes out like a freaking battle order.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him. “You’re pretty much stuck with me for life.”

He nods like he already knew. “Then let’s play hooky and get married on our way to work this morning.”

“Let’s do it.”

“Then we’ll get married,” he teases as he walks over to wrap his arms around me.

The kiss is a fucking hurricane, all teeth and tongues, messy and desperate like we’re trying to devour each other alive.

His hands move everywhere at once, rough and greedy, fumbling with the buttons on my shirt until they pop off and scatter across the kitchen floor.

His palms are calloused, hot as they slide up my back, then down to my ass, squeezing hard enough to make me yelp.

He’s not gentle, and I don’t want him to be.

I want him to leave marks, to make me feel it tomorrow.

He grins his fucking predator smirk that makes my knees weak, and growls, “Mine.” I bite his shoulder in retaliation, hard enough to leave teeth marks, and he groans, low and dark, like I’ve just lit a fuse.

The counter is cold against my bare thighs, but his hands are everywhere, keeping me warm, keeping me on fire.

He dips his head, his mouth trailing down my chest, and when he takes my nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, I dig my nails into his shoulders, leaving crescent moons in his skin.

“Yours,” I gasp, and he doesn’t stop, just keeps working me over with his tongue and teeth until I’m arching off the counter, moaning like a porn star.

He shoves my shirt higher, bunching it under my armpits, and slides two fingers between my legs. “Wet and ready,” he mutters, like he’s worshipping me. His fingers are thick, and they slide in deep enough to make me see stars.

“You make me that way,” I pant, clinging to his neck for dear life.

He doesn’t even bother with his boxers, just pulls himself out, thick and hard and already leaking. He lines up, eyes locked on mine, and orders me, “Hold on tight.” His voice is rough, like gravel, and it sends shivers down my spine.

“Yes,” I say, and he pushes in, slow but relentless. The stretch is perfect, so deep I see stars for a second. He’s big, and I feel every damn inch as he fills me up.

His hips snap against mine, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room. He’s relentless, driving into me with a rhythm that has me clawing at his back, begging for more.

He brings me to the edge so fast I forget my own name.

Out of nowhere, an orgasm blasts through me.

My inner muscles clench around him, and he follows with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt and holding me so tight I can barely breathe.

His cock pulses inside me as he spills, hot and thick, and I feel every fucking drop.

But he’s not done. Not even close. He pulls out slowly, his cock slick with both of us, and flips me over, bending me over the counter.

My ass is in the air, and he slaps it once, hard, before lining up again.

“We’re not done yet,” he growls, and I whimper as he pushes back in, even deeper this time.

He fucks me harder now, his hands gripping my hips so tight I know I’ll have bruises tomorrow.

So worth it. The counter is digging into my stomach, but I don’t care.

All I care about is the way he feels inside me, the way he’s stretching me open, filling me up.

He leans over me, his chest pressed against my back, and whispers in my ear, “You’re mine. ”

I climax again, screaming his name this time, and he follows right after, his cock twitching as he comes deep inside me again.

We stay like that for a moment, both of us panting, before he pulls out and collapses onto the floor, pulling me down with him.

We’re a tangled mess of limbs and sweat and cum, but I don’t care. I’ve never been happier.