Page 8

NATALIE

I wake up next to Declan, enveloped in a cocoon of luxury and something more profound, a comforting weight that grounds me. The room is still cloaked in the soft darkness before dawn, but I’m fully awake, my senses alive and craving the familiar warmth and taste of him.

I'm curled up against his bare chest, feeling it gently rise and fall with each deep, even breath, confirming that he is still deeply asleep.

With all six-foot-seven of him slack and sprawled, I have time to study him.

This is the first morning I’ve ever watched him sleep, and I take full advantage.

His face, unguarded, is almost gentle. The usual scowl has smoothed out, the line between his eyebrows barely a crease.

His lips, usually clamped tight, have parted just enough that I can see the glint of his straight, white teeth.

I imagine kissing him awake, slow and lazy, until those lips start issuing orders.

His arms are thrown above his head, giving me an unfiltered view of his tattoos.

There’s the snake twining up his left arm, scales black as a war story, a dagger clutched in its mouth.

On his right arm, he’s got a full black arm sleeve.

He has a scar over his right collarbone, pale against his tan skin, and I find myself wanting to trace it, just to see if he’ll twitch.

It’s been a few weeks since I let him fuck me over his glass desk.

Our lives since then have been a blur of contracts, conference calls, and fighting our desire for each other until the end of the workday.

I tell myself it’s just the thrill, the adrenaline rush of being with someone so intense, but that’s a lie I can’t even sell myself at seven AM on a Sunday.

I’ve fallen for him, hard and fast and completely against my better judgment. It should terrify me, but instead, it feels like walking into a hurricane on purpose.

He shifts, and his arm falls down around my waist, his massive hand splayed across the small of my back. Even asleep, the guy’s a control freak.

I lie there, breathing in his scent, sharp and dark and clean, and for the first time in my adult life, I wish I believed in things like fate, or destiny, or happy endings.

Instead, I just close my eyes and savor the moment, because I know these things never last. The universe has a sick sense of humor, and I’m always the punchline.

Still, I let myself hope, a little.

Maybe he’s not just fucking me. Maybe he feels something, too.

Maybe this isn’t just sex, isn’t just the weird magnetism that’s kept us orbiting each other in ever-tighter circles.

Maybe last night, when he asked if I wanted to meet his grandmother, he was taking a step toward cementing our relationship.

I wonder what it would be like to actually tell him how I feel.

If I just blurted out, “Hey, I know you’re a walking fortress of emotional repression, but I think I’m falling in love with you,” would he even care?

Would he smirk, or would he freeze and eject me from his bed and his life in the span of a single heartbeat?

I want to know, but I also don’t. There’s something delicate about this, a balance I’ve never managed before, and I’m terrified to tip it one way or the other.

His eyes open suddenly, not fluttering or blinking, just open, sharp as a wolf’s and focused straight on me.

“Hey,” he says, voice gravelly from sleep.

“Hey yourself,” I answer, and his arm tightens around my waist.

“You were watching me.” He doesn’t ask, just states it like a fact, like he can read my mind and is mildly amused by what he found there.

I consider denying it, but then realize how pointless that would be. “You drool a little in your sleep,” I say instead, poking him lightly in the side.

He grins, a real one, all teeth and no restraint. “You snore. Loud.”

I gasp, mock offended. “I do not.”

He flips me over so fast the world spins, pinning me under his weight. “Loud enough to scare small children.” He nuzzles into my neck, biting just hard enough to make me squirm. His cock is already hard, pressing between my thighs with perfect aim.

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.