Page 6
The condescension in his voice ignites something fierce inside me. "You don't get to tell me who I am anymore, James. You lost that right when you decided our relationship meant so little to you that you could throw it away for a night with my cousin."
"It was a mistake," he repeats, as if saying it enough times will erase what he did.
"So you've said." I straighten, finding strength in Declan's solid presence beside me. "And now I've heard you. You've apologized. Consider your conscience cleared. But it changes nothing between us."
"We built a life together," James argues, growing more desperate. "We had plans, a future. You can't just—"
"She can," Declan interrupts, his patience visibly wearing thin. "And she has. Now, I think it's time for you to leave."
"Or what?" James challenges, drawing himself up to his full height—still several inches shorter than Declan. "You'll make me? Big hockey star throwing his weight around?"
I feel Declan tense beside me, his jaw clenching. For a moment, I fear the confrontation will turn physical.
"No," I say quickly, stepping slightly forward. "No one's making anyone do anything. James, you came to apologize. You've done that. Now please, respect my wishes and leave. There's nothing more to say."
James looks between us, defeat finally registering in his expression. "Is he really what you want, Ellie? Some athlete who probably won't remember your name a month from now? You know how these guys are."
The irony of James questioning someone else's fidelity would be laughable if the situation weren't so painful.
"What I want," I say firmly, "is for you to go back to Oregon. Go back to your life and let me live mine."
Something in my tone—the absolute finality, perhaps—seems to finally reach him. His shoulders slump slightly. "At least take my number," he tries one last time. "In case you change your mind. In case this... whatever this is... doesn't work out."
"It's working out just fine," Declan says, the steel back in his voice. "Better than fine, actually."
And then, before I can process what's happening, he turns me gently toward him and kisses me.
Not a chaste peck on the cheek or forehead, but a real kiss—his lips warm and insistent against mine, one hand cupping my face with surprising tenderness. I feel my body instantly relax into his, as if this is what it’s been waiting for. At the same time, desire flies through my body, igniting my nerve endings. Declan’s lips are surprisingly soft and firm, and there’s intention behind the kiss, whispering the promise of something more. The kiss only lasts only a few seconds, but it's enough to leave me breathless, my mind spinning with confusion and desire.
When he pulls back, his eyes hold mine for a moment—a silent question, a wordless apology. Then he turns back to James, his expression resolute.
"We're done here," Declan says, not a question but a statement of fact.
James looks between us once more, the hurt and jealousy in his eyes gradually replaced by resignation. "I get it," he says finally. "Just... be happy, Ellie. That's all I've ever wanted for you."
A hollow claim from the man who shattered my happiness without a second thought. But I nod anyway, suddenly too exhausted for further confrontation.
"Goodbye, James," I say softly. Final. Definitive.
He hesitates a moment longer, then turns and walks toward a rental car parked nearby. I watch him go, an odd emptiness settling in my chest—not grief or longing, but the strange lightness of a burden finally, completely released.
Only when his taillights disappear around the corner do I realize I'm trembling. Declan's arms come around me immediately, pulling me against his chest in an embrace that feels like shelter.
"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice gentle against my hair.
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "That was... unexpected."
"I'm sorry about the kiss," he says, pulling back slightly to look at me. "I should have asked first. It just seemed like the fastest way to make him understand."
The kiss. Right. Another performance, another tactical move in our elaborate charade. Not real. Not meaningful. Just like everything else between us.
"It's fine," I say, stepping out of his embrace. "It worked. He's gone."
Declan studies me, concern evident in his eyes. "Do you think he'll come back?"
"No," I say with surprising certainty. "He got his closure. That's all he really wanted."
"Are you sure you're okay?" Declan asks again, his hand reaching for mine. "You're still shaking."
"Just cold," I lie. "And tired. It's been a long night."
"Let me walk you up," he offers.
"That's not necessary."
"Ellie." His voice softens. "After everything tonight—my family, your ex showing up... just let me make sure you get to your room safely, okay? It's not part of our deal, it's just... what I need to do right now."
The raw honesty in his voice silences my objections. I nod wordlessly, allowing him to guide me into the building and up the stairs to my floor. We stop outside my door, an uncomfortable silence falling between us.
"Thank you," I say finally. "For tonight. For everything."
"Don't thank me," he says, his expression troubled. "I'm the reason you had to deal with all of this—my parents, the pressure, the performance."
"You couldn't have known James would show up," I point out.
"No, but—" He breaks off, running a hand through his hair in frustration, as if he wants to say more.
"We knew this would be challenging," I say, striving for a practical tone. "But we're making it work. Your coach believes it. Your teammates believe it. Even your parents believe it. That's what matters, right?"
"Right," he agrees, but there's a hesitation in his voice that matches the uncertainty in my own heart. "That's what matters."
We stand there a moment longer, the air between us heavy with unspoken words, with questions neither of us is brave enough to ask. I'm acutely aware of my body's response to his proximity—heart racing, skin tingling with the memory of his kiss, a strange hollow ache forming low in my abdomen.
"I don't want you to be alone tonight," he says. “I’m going to stay.” He raises his eyebrows, daring me to deny him. He holds up his hands, as if saying he’s not going to push anything further than it’s already gone. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
I know this is a horrible idea. But I nod anyway, unlocking my door and stepping into the dimly lit space of my dorm room.
I say another prayer of thanks to the housing gods that I have a single. Small but private, with a twin bed, desk, and minimal furniture. Declan fills the space immediately, his presence making the room seem even smaller.
"Nice place," he says, clearly trying to ease the sudden tension between us. "Very... academic."
He's not wrong. Books cover nearly every surface, stacked on the desk, the windowsill, the small bookshelf that can't contain my collection. Papers and notes are arranged in neat piles, color-coded according to my meticulous system.
"It's home," I shrug, suddenly self-conscious about the plainness of the space compared to what I imagine his apartment must be like. "For now, at least."
An awkward silence falls. I'm painfully aware that we’ve established that he’s going to stay, but haven't really specified what that means. The bed seems to loom in the corner, a minefield of implication.
"I should change," I say finally, grabbing my sleepwear—plain cotton shorts and a t-shirt—from the dresser. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll just be a minute."
In the tiny bathroom attached to my room, I take a deep breath, studying my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, eyes bright with a mixture of fear and anticipation. What am I doing? This wasn't part of our agreement. Wasn't part of the plan.
But then, nothing about the past week has gone according to plan. The lines between real and fake, between performance and truth, have blurred beyond recognition.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Declan has removed his shoes and dress shirt, sitting on the edge of my bed in his white t-shirt and pants. The sight of him there—in my personal space, partially undressed, the fabric of his shirt clinging to the cords of his muscles —sends a wave of heat through me that has nothing to do with room temperature.
"Is this okay?" he asks, gesturing to his state of undress. "I can put the shirt back on if it makes you uncomfortable."
"It's fine," I say, though 'fine' is hardly the word for the riot of emotions his presence is stirring in me. "Thanks for staying."
"Anytime." The simple response carries weight, a promise extending beyond tonight.
I move to the bed, uncertain how to navigate this new intimacy. Declan solves the problem by shifting to one side, making space for me to sit beside him.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks gently. "About James?"
The question surprises me. I'd expected him to ignore the topic, to pretend the uncomfortable confrontation hadn't happened. "There's not much to say," I reply, settling beside him, careful to maintain a small distance. "He cheated. I left. End of story."
"Not quite the end," Declan observes. "He came all the way across the country to find you."
"To ease his guilt," I correct. "To make himself feel better about what he did. It wasn't about me, not really."
Declan studies me, something thoughtful in his gaze. "You don't think he actually regrets losing you?"
"I think he regrets getting caught," I say, the bitterness in my voice surprising even me. "Regrets that his perfect future got derailed. But me specifically? No."
"Then he's an even bigger idiot than I thought." The statement is matter-of-fact, delivered without the false sympathy or platitudes I've come to expect when people learn about my breakup.
I laugh despite myself, a short, surprised sound. "That's one way to look at it."
"It's the only way," Declan insists, his expression serious. "Anyone who would risk losing you for a meaningless hookup isn't just unfaithful, they're fundamentally stupid."
The conviction in his voice steals my breath. This doesn't sound like part of our act—there's no audience here, no one to impress or convince. Just us, in the quiet intimacy of my room, having a conversation that feels dangerously real.
"Why did you kiss me?" The question slips out before I can censor it.
Declan's eyes meet mine, something vulnerable flickering in their depths. "To make him believe. To make him understand that you've moved on."
"Is that the only reason?"
His gaze drops to my lips, then back to my eyes. "No," he admits quietly. "But it should have been."
The honesty in his answer makes my heart race. This is dangerous territory, far beyond the boundaries we established at the beginning of our arrangement. But I can't seem to stop myself from venturing further.
"And if I asked you to kiss me again?" My voice is barely above a whisper. "Right now, with no one watching. No one to convince."
The question hangs between us, charged with possibility. Declan's expression shifts, desire darkening his eyes to midnight.
"I would," he says, his voice rough with something I don't dare name. "But I'd be crossing a line we drew for a reason, Ellie."
"Maybe the line has already moved," I suggest, surprising myself with my boldness. "Maybe it was never in the right place to begin with."
His hand lifts to my face, thumb tracing the curve of my cheek with exquisite gentleness. "Are you sure about this? Because once we cross this line, we can’t go back."
The question forces me to confront the truth I've been avoiding—that my feelings for Declan have evolved far beyond our original arrangement, into something terrifying and wonderful and real.
"I'm not sure of anything anymore," I confess. "Except that I want you to kiss me again. For real this time."
No more words are needed. Declan leans forward, his hand sliding into my hair as his lips find mine with deliberate tenderness. This kiss is nothing like the performance outside—it's slower, deeper, a conversation rather than a declaration.
I respond instantly, my body making decisions my mind hasn't fully processed. My hands find his shoulders, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath thin cotton. He tastes faintly of wine from dinner and something distinctly him, a flavor I realize I've been craving since our first kiss.
The kiss deepens, transforms, as Declan's arms wrap around me, drawing me closer until I'm practically in his lap. A small sound escapes me—half sigh, half moan—and I feel his response, the subtle tightening of his hold, the quickening of his breath.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, the world feels fundamentally altered. The pretense has been stripped away, leaving only raw truth between us.
"That wasn't fake," I whisper against his lips.
"No," he agrees, his forehead resting against mine. "Nothing about this feels fake anymore, Ellie."
The admission sends a wave of relief through me, followed immediately by fear. This wasn't the plan. Wasn't what we agreed to. And yet, it feels more right than anything has in months.
Declan must see the conflict in my eyes. "We can slow down," he says, his thumb tracing my lower lip in a gesture that contradicts his words. "Figure this out when we're not both emotionally raw from tonight."
He's right. Tonight has been a rollercoaster—the tension with his parents, the confrontation with James, the boundaries of our arrangement shifting beneath our feet. We should wait, think, talk about what this means.
But my body has other ideas. I lean forward, reclaiming his lips in a kiss that communicates more clearly than words what I want, what I need. His response is immediate, arms tightening around me as he returns the kiss with equal fervor.
Somehow we shift, lying down on my narrow bed, bodies aligned from chest to thigh. The weight of him pressing me into the mattress should feel confining, but instead feels like an anchor in a stormy sea. His hands remain respectful, though—one tangled in my hair, the other at my waist, not venturing further despite the obvious heat building between us.
"Ellie," he murmurs against my neck, where his lips have traveled in a burning path. "We should stop."
"Why?" I challenge, my fingers exploring the firm planes of his back beneath his t-shirt. The texture of his skin, smooth over hard muscle, ignites something primal in me—a hunger I've denied for so long that its sudden liberation feels almost violent in its intensity.
He pulls back slightly, his eyes finding mine in the dim light of my bedroom. The blue is almost entirely consumed by black now, pupils dilated with a desire that mirrors the ache spreading through my core.
"Because once we cross this line," he says, voice rough with restraint, "everything changes. And I need you to be sure."
The tenderness beneath his desire undoes me completely. How is it that this man—whom I once dismissed as nothing but surface and performance—can see through to my deepest fears? The terror of vulnerability, of giving myself to someone who might discard me just as James did, just as my mother did.
"I've never been more sure of anything," I whisper, reaching up to trace the sharp line of his jaw. "I want this. I want you, Declan."
Something breaks in his expression—control giving way to raw need. His mouth crashes back to mine, the kiss transforming from questioning to demanding in an instant. His tongue slides against mine, tasting of wine and desire and promises I'm suddenly desperate to believe.
My hands find the hem of his shirt, tugging upward with an urgency that surprises us both. He helps me, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull the fabric over his head before returning to me as if separation is physically painful. I get a glimpse of his bare torso, all muscles and hard planes, his six pack flexing as he moves. His body is magnificent, as if it’s been cut from stone, and the first press of his bare chest against mine—even through the thin cotton of my t-shirt—pulls a sound from deep in my throat that I hardly recognize as my own.
"I need to see you," he breathes against my lips. "Please, Ellie."
The vulnerability in his request, shatters any remaining hesitation. I nod, words failing as he slowly, reverently, begins to pull my shirt off. He moves the fabric slowly, revealing my skin inch by inch, which he immediately christens with his lips, creating a path of fire up my sternum.
When he finally has my shirt completely off, his breath catches audibly. "God, you're beautiful," he murmurs, eyes tracking over me with an intensity that should make me self-conscious but instead makes me feel powerful, desired in a way I've never experienced.
I reach behind me to unhook my bra, the rational part of my brain silenced by the need coursing through my veins like molten gold. The garment falls away, and Declan's expression transforms into something almost worshipful.
"I've dreamed about this," he confesses, his hands hovering just above my skin, as if waiting for permission. "About you. Every night since that day in Harmon's class when you eviscerated my Hemingway interpretation and I realized I'd do anything to make you look at me like that again."
The admission steals my breath—not just the longing it reveals, but the timeframe. He's wanted me since before our arrangement, before the pretense, before everything that's developed between us. It wasn't convenience or opportunity or strategy that drew him to me. It was me. Just me.
"Touch me," I whisper, the command barely audible above the pounding of my heart.
His hands finally, finally make contact—palms warm and slightly callused as they cup my breasts. His thumbs brush across my nipples, and my back arches involuntarily, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of everything he's making me feel.
Declan lowers his head, replacing one hand with his mouth, and the wet heat of his tongue against my sensitive skin sends electricity arcing through my body. I gasp his name, fingers tangling in his hair to anchor myself as sensation threatens to overwhelm me.
His free hand traces down my ribcage, across my stomach, coming to rest at the waistband of my panties. Again, he pauses, eyes seeking mine in silent question.
"Yes," I breathe, lifting my hips in invitation. "Please, Declan."
The need in my voice seems to break something loose in him. He sits back on his heels, just looking at me as if committing every curve, every freckle, every imperfection to memory.
"You're staring," I whisper, vulnerability creeping in despite the desire pulsing through me.
"I can't help it," he says simply. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
Before I can respond to this devastating honesty, he's kissing me again—deeper, hungrier, one hand sliding beneath the elastic of my underwear to find the slick heat at my center. The first touch of his fingers against my most sensitive flesh pulls a moan from deep in my chest.
"Fuck, Ellie," he mutters against my mouth. "You're so wet. So perfect."
His fingers explore with maddening precision, finding spots that make my breath hitch, my hips buck, my mind spiral into incoherence. All the while, his eyes hold mine, watching as pleasure transforms my features, as I come undone beneath his touch.
When he slides one finger inside my pussy, then another, my eyes flutter closed, overwhelmed by sensation.
"Look at me," he commands softly. "I want to see you. All of you."
I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze as his thumb circles my clit in rhythmic pressure that has me climbing rapidly toward release. There's something transcendent in this connection—more intimate than the physical act itself, this sharing of vulnerability, of unguarded reaction.
"That's it," he encourages, his voice tight with his own restraint. "Let go for me, Ellie. I've got you."
The combination of his words, his touch, and the intensity of his gaze sends me hurtling over the edge. My body tenses, then shatters, waves of pleasure radiating outward as his name tears from my throat. He works me through it, gradually slowing his movements as the aftershocks ripple through me.
As I drift back to awareness, I become conscious of his arousal pressed hard against my thigh, of the tension in his body as he holds himself carefully in check. In this moment, I want nothing more than to give him the same release he's given me, to watch him come undone the way I just have.
I place my palm against his chest, gently pushing him back until he's lying on my narrow bed. His eyes follow me, darkened with desire but also questioning, as I shift to straddle his thighs. The hard length of his cock strains against his pants, and I run my palm over it deliberately, savoring the sharp intake of breath this elicits.
"Let me," I murmur, reaching for his belt. "I want to make you feel good."
"Ellie," he breathes my name like a prayer, his hands coming to rest at my waist. "You don't have—"
"I want to," I interrupt, meeting his gaze directly. "I want to see you. All of you." I echo his earlier words, and the recognition flickers in his eyes, followed by something like surrender.
His head falls back against the pillow as I unbuckle his belt with newfound confidence, then tackle the button and zipper. He lifts his hips to help me as I tug his pants down his muscled thighs, leaving him in just black boxer briefs that do little to conceal his arousal.
I take a moment to simply look at him—the broad expanse of his chest with its light dusting of dark hair, the defined ridges of his abdomen, the powerful thighs that speak of countless hours on the ice.
When I hook my fingers in the waistband of his boxers, his breath catches audibly. His eyes never leave mine as I pull the fabric down, freeing him completely. The sight of his cock—hard, thick, straining, undeniably affected by me—sends another surge of heat through my core.
"Jesus," I breathe. “You could have warned me.”
I wrap my fingers around him, feeling the velvet-smooth skin over rigid hardness, the pulse of blood beneath my touch. His eyes flutter closed, a groan escaping from deep in his chest.
"Look at me," I command, just as he did earlier. "I want to see you, Declan."
His eyes snap open, locking with mine as I begin to move my hand, exploring what makes his breath hitch, what draws those delicious sounds from his throat. I vary pressure and speed, learning his body with the same dedication I apply to academic pursuits.
When I lower my head to take him into my mouth, his hands fist in the sheets, his body going rigid with the effort of maintaining control. The taste of him—clean skin with that indefinable essence that is uniquely Declan—is intoxicating. I explore his dick with my lips and tongue, watching his face transform with pleasure, storing away each reaction for future reference.
"Ellie," he groans, one hand moving to tangle gently in my hair. "God, that feels—I can't—"
The broken sentences, the inability to form coherent thoughts—it's a power I never expected to have over someone like him, and it's intoxicating. I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, reveling in the way his hips buck slightly before he forces himself to be still, always careful not to hurt me even in the depths of his pleasure.
"I'm close," he warns, tugging gently at my hair. "Ellie, I'm going to—"
I hold his gaze as I continue the rhythm with my hand and my mouth, sucking his cock, taking him as deep as I can.
The last turn of my wrist seems to break the last of his restraint. His body tenses, head pressing back into the pillow as his release hits him in powerful waves. I watch, transfixed, as pleasure transforms his features, as vulnerability and ecstasy render him completely open, completely unguarded.
There's something sacred in this moment—this gifting of complete trust, of control surrendered. I understand now why he wanted to see my face as I came apart beneath his touch. It's a kind of nakedness beyond the physical, a sharing of something most people keep hidden behind careful masks and practiced performances.
When the last aftershocks have subsided, I grab tissues from my nightstand to clean us both, then crawl up to lie beside him. His arm immediately wraps around me, pulling me against his side as if he can't bear any distance between us.
For long moments, we lie in silence, hearts gradually slowing, breathing synchronizing in the quiet darkness of my room. I trace idle patterns on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath my palm.
"That was..." he begins, then shakes his head, apparently lost for words.
"Yeah," I agree, understanding completely. "It was."
He presses a kiss to my temple—that signature gesture that's become so familiar, so precious—before adjusting our positions so I'm tucked perfectly against his side, my head on his chest, his arm secure around my waist.
As sleep begins to claim us both, I feel something shift and settle inside me—a piece long out of place finally clicking into alignment. For the first time since James's betrayal, perhaps for the first time ever, I'm not analyzing, not second-guessing, not maintaining careful emotional distance.
I'm simply being.