Page 8
T he next three days pass in a blur of avoidance and anxiety. I skip the one class Declan and I share, having Mia deliver my portion of our project notes with strict instructions not to engage beyond the academic. I take new routes across campus, eat at odd hours, and retreat to the sanctuary of the library's most obscure corners.
His texts come regularly—respectful but persistent, never demanding a response but making it clear he's waiting, hoping. Take all the time you need, but know I'm here. And: I miss you, Ellie. When you're ready to talk, I'll tell you everything. And finally, simply: I'm sorry. For all of it. But not for falling for you.
Each one lands like a stone in the still pond of my carefully maintained detachment, sending ripples through my determination to keep emotional distance. Each one makes me question whether I'm protecting myself from genuine hurt or simply avoiding the risk inherent in opening myself to genuine connection.
By Wednesday evening, restlessness drives me from my dorm room, the walls closing in after days of self-imposed isolation. The campus is quiet, most students at dinner or beginning their midweek partying ritual. I walk aimlessly, letting my feet guide me while my mind continues its circular argument about Declan, about trust, about the feasibility of something real growing from such artificial beginnings.
I'm so lost in thought that I don't immediately register where I've ended up—standing outside the library's east entrance, staring at a familiar figure seated on a bench, head bent over a notebook, pen moving across the page with deliberate focus.
Declan.
Even in profile, backlit by the library's outdoor lamps, he's breathtaking—all sharp angles and strong lines, intensity radiating from his concentrated posture. He's dressed simply in jeans and a black hoodie, his hair falling across his forehead as he writes. This version of him—the student, the thinker, far removed from the hockey star or campus celebrity—still surprises me, still contradicts the easy stereotypes I initially assigned him.
I could walk away. Should walk away, before he notices me. But my feet refuse to move, frozen in the moment of decision—retreat to safety or advance into the unknown complications of whatever exists between us.
Before I can choose, he looks up, some sixth sense alerting him to my presence. For a heartbeat, we simply stare at each other across the twenty feet of concrete and carefully tended shrubbery that separate us. Then he closes his notebook slowly, tucking it into his bag without breaking eye contact, as if afraid I'll vanish if he looks away.
"Ellie," he says, just loud enough to carry to where I stand. Not a question, not a demand. Simply an acknowledgment of my presence, leaving the next move entirely to me.
I could still walk away. But the hollow ache that's been living in my chest throbs with renewed intensity, demanding resolution, closure— or something far more frightening.
My feet move of their own volition, carrying me toward him until I'm standing a few feet away, arms crossed protectively across my chest. "What are you doing here?" I ask, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.
"Waiting," he says simply.
"For what?"
"For you."
The directness of his answer steals my breath. "How did you know I'd come this way?"
He shrugs, a small smile touching his lips. "I didn't. I've been at different spots on campus every evening. Quad on Monday, coffee shop yesterday, here tonight." His expression turns rueful. "Was planning to work my way through all your usual haunts until you were ready to see me."
The revelation silences me momentarily. He's been strategically positioning himself in my path, not to force a confrontation, but to be available when I was ready. The consideration in this approach—the respect for my boundaries while still demonstrating his commitment—touches something deep inside me.
"Can I?" I gesture to the bench beside him.
Relief washes over his features as he slides over to make room. "Of course."
I sit, maintaining a careful few inches between us, my hands clasped tightly in my lap to resist the treacherous impulse to reach for him. For a moment, we sit in silence, the evening air cool around us, the library's lights casting long shadows across the walkway.
"I owe you an explanation," he finally says. "About Kaitlyn. About how this all started."
"Yes," I agree. "You do."
He takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself. "Kaitlyn and I dated last semester. It was casual—at least, I thought it was. I was seeing other people, and I thought she was too.”
“How many other people?”
"It got bad enough that Coach noticed, started questioning my judgment, my stability. With NHL scouts coming to watch, the timing couldn't have been worse."
"So you needed a girlfriend," I surmise. "A stable, drama-free relationship to convince him you were focused."
"Yes," Declan admits. "And in a moment of desperation, I approached Kaitlyn. Thought if she would go along with it for a little while, that Coach would back off."
"But she refused."
"She wanted more than I could give her," he says carefully. "Commitment, exclusivity, public declarations. Things I wasn't ready for, especially not with her."
"So you found someone else to play the role," I say, unable to keep the hurt from my voice. "Someone who wouldn't demand those things. Someone who had her own reasons for agreeing to the arrangement."
"Yes," he acknowledges, not defending himself, simply stating the truth. "But Ellie, the moment I really got to know you—not just as the scary-smart girl from class, but as you—everything changed."
"How?" I challenge, needing to hear him articulate what I've been feeling, needing confirmation that I'm not alone in this confusing evolution from false to genuine.
He turns toward me fully, his eyes intent on mine. "You challenge me. Not just academically, but fundamentally. You see through the bullshit, the performance I put on for everyone else. You expect more from me, and it makes me want to be more." His hand lifts, hesitates, then settles back in his lap—respecting my unspoken boundaries even now. "I started falling for you that day in the coffee shop, when you called me on my assumptions and refused to be impressed by anything except the content of my character."
The sincerity in his voice, the vulnerability in his expression—they disarm my defenses, silencing the cynical voice that insists this is just another performance, another role he's playing to get what he wants.
"I was never playing a role with you," he continues softly. "Maybe at the very beginning, but it stopped being fake so quickly I barely noticed the transition. All I knew was that suddenly, the arrangement didn't matter anymore. You did."
"And what about now?" I ask, the question that's been haunting me since our first real kiss. "What is this between us, Declan? What are we doing?"
"Whatever you want," he says without hesitation. "Friends, academic partners, something more—I'm in, Ellie. For however much or little you're willing to give. But I'm done pretending what I feel for you isn't real."
My heart thunders in my chest, his words simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating. This is so far from the controlled arrangement we began with, so far from the safe, defined parameters I thought I wanted.
"I'm scared," I admit, the confession costing me more than he can know. "Not just of you, or of us, but of what happens when this ends. Because things like this always end, Declan. People leave. They change their minds. They find someone better, someone who fits more neatly into their world."
"Is that what you think will happen?" he asks softly. "That I'll wake up one day and decide you're not worth the effort? That I'll want someone who doesn't challenge me, doesn't push me to be better?"
Put that way, it sounds absurd, paranoid even. But the fear remains, bone-deep and persistent. "You're going to the NHL," I point out. "I'm going to Columbia. Those worlds don't exactly align."
"They can," he insists. "If we want them to. Look, I'm not asking for promises or guarantees, Ellie. I'm just asking for a chance—a real chance, no arrangements, no performances. Just us figuring it out together, one day at a time."
The hope in his eyes, the earnestness in his voice—they crumble the last of my resistance. Because the truth, the terrifying, exhilarating truth, is that I want this too. Want him, want us, want the chance to discover what might grow between us without the artificial constraints of our original deal.
"One day at a time," I agree softly.
The smile that breaks across his face is like sunrise after the longest night, transforming his features with a joy so genuine it steals my breath. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," I confirm, a small laugh escaping me at his boyish enthusiasm. "But I need honesty, Declan. Complete honesty, even when it's hard. I can't do this if I'm always wondering what you're not telling me, what's performance and what's real."
"Absolute honesty," he promises immediately. "Starting now. Ask me anything, and I'll tell you the truth. No matter what."
I consider this, the dozens of questions still swirling in my mind. But one rises to the surface, the one I need answered before we go any further: "Why me? Really. After Kaitlyn said no, why did you choose me specifically?"
He doesn't hesitate. "Because you scared me," he admits, a small smile playing at his lips. "You were the only person on campus who looked at me and saw nothing special, nothing worth impressing. You expected me to earn your respect, not just coast on reputation or charm." His eyes hold mine, intense and sincere. "I needed that, Ellie. Needed someone who wouldn't let me hide behind the performance, who would demand the real me. Even though I didn't realize it at the time."
The answer settles something inside me, a question I've been afraid to fully articulate even to myself. Not that I was second choice, but that I was somehow less—less beautiful, less social, less suitable for someone like him. But his answer suggests the opposite—that what drew him to me, what continues to draw him to me, are precisely the qualities that make me different from the Kaitlyns of his world.
"Okay," I say, unclenching my hands from their tight grip in my lap. "One day at a time. Real, not fake. No arrangement, no expiration date."
"No arrangement," he echoes, relief and joy mingling in his expression. "Except the kind where I get to take you to dinner right now.”
"I'd like that," I admit.
He stands, offering his hand—a question, not a demand. After only a moment's hesitation, I take it, let him pull me gently to my feet. His fingers intertwine with mine, warm and solid and real.
"Where to?" I ask, suddenly ravenous now that the emotional turmoil has ebbed.
"My place," he suggests, then quickly adds, "I'll cook. No pressure, no expectations. Just food.” His thumb traces my knuckles, sending shivers up my arm.
The memory of his lips on mine, his hands exploring with careful restraint—it sends heat spiraling through me, settling low in my abdomen
As we walk across campus, his hand warm around mine, I feel something shifting inside me—fear giving way to cautious hope, doubt to tentative trust.
One day at a time, I remind myself. No arrangements, no performances. Just us, figuring it out together.
It's enough. For now, it's enough.
Declan's apartment is nothing like I imagined. Located in one of the upscale complexes near campus, it's spacious but not ostentatious, the furniture comfortable rather than trendy, the walls lined with books that show signs of actual reading rather than decorative display.
"This is... unexpected," I admit, turning slowly to take in the space as he moves confidently around the open-concept kitchen, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator.
"Good unexpected or bad unexpected?" he asks, glancing up from chopping vegetables.
"Good," I clarify. "I was expecting..."
"Hockey trophies and beer pong tables?" he suggests with a knowing smile.
"Something like that," I acknowledge, moving to the bookshelf that takes up an entire wall of the living room. The collection is eclectic—classic literature, modern fiction, poetry, biographies, books on hockey strategy and sports psychology. Many show signs of wear, dog-eared pages and cracked spines indicating frequent handling.
"My grandfather was an English professor at Princeton," Declan explains, noticing my interest. "Most of these were his. He left them to me when he died my junior year of high school."
Another piece of the Declan puzzle clicks into place—his unexpected literary knowledge, his appreciation for poetry, the depth beneath the surface I've been gradually discovering.
"You were close," I surmise, running my fingers along the spines, noting the careful organization by author and genre.
"He was the first person who saw me as more than just an athlete," Declan says, his voice softening with memory. "Made sure I developed my mind as much as my body. Used to say, 'Hockey may feed your future, but books will feed your soul.'"
The sentiment resonates deeply with me, echoing my own relationship with literature. "Smart man," I observe.
"He would have liked you," Declan says, the simple statement carrying surprising weight. "Been impressed by your mind, your insight. Probably would have argued with you about gothic feminist interpretation for hours."
The thought of being accepted by someone Declan clearly admired sends a warm glow through my chest. I move away from the bookshelf, drawn to the kitchen by the delicious smells beginning to emanate from the stove.
"Need help?" I offer, leaning against the counter as he expertly stirs ingredients in a large pan.
"Nope." He flashes me a grin that makes my stomach flutter. "Just sit, relax, let me feed you. Been wanting to cook for you for weeks now."
"Really?" The admission surprises me. "Why?"
He shrugs, a faint color touching his cheeks. "It's... personal, I guess. Intimate in a way going to restaurants isn't. And I wanted to show you this side of me."
The vulnerability in the confession touches me deeply. Another layer of the performance peeled back, revealing the real man beneath. I perch on a stool at the kitchen island, watching him move with the same fluid confidence he displays on the ice, though channeled now into the domestic rhythm of cooking.
"Wine?" he offers, gesturing to an open bottle on the counter.
"Please." The events of the past few days have left me emotionally raw, and a little liquid courage seems appropriate for wherever this evening might lead.
He pours two glasses, sliding one toward me before returning to the stove. The wine is good—better than the cheap varieties that usually circulate at campus parties—but I sip slowly, wanting to maintain clarity for the conversations still to come.
"So," I begin, searching for neutral ground. "The project for Harmon's class. We should discuss how we're handling it.."
Declan laughs, the sound rich and genuine. "Academic talk as a safety buffer. Very on-brand, Gardner."
Heat rises to my cheeks, but I can't deny the accuracy of his observation. "We still have to finish it," I point out. "Regardless of... other developments."
"True." He stirs the pasta he's preparing, adds a splash of something from a nearby bottle. "And we will. But maybe not tonight? Maybe tonight can just be about us, not about arrangements or assignments or obligations."
The suggestion is both tempting and terrifying—a night without pretense or performance, without the buffer of academic discussion or the structure of our original deal. Just Declan and Ellie, figuring out what exists between them when all the artifice is stripped away.
"Okay," I agree softly. "Just us."
His smile is worth the anxiety the agreement stirs. We talk while he finishes cooking—about his childhood in the Wolfe family dynasty, about my father's emotional distance after my mother left, about the pressures of being the hockey star who also wants an intellectual life, about my ambitions for Columbia and beyond. The conversation flows with surprising ease, punctuated by moments of laughter and occasional silences that feel comfortable rather than awkward.
By the time we're seated at his small dining table, pasta served in elegant simplicity, I feel a tension I didn't fully recognize beginning to unwind inside me. This—the quiet intimacy of shared food and honest conversation—feels more real than any of our public performances as a couple.
"Can I ask you something?" I say, twirling pasta around my fork.
"Anything," he responds immediately. "Absolute honesty, remember?"
"Why hockey?" The question has been lingering in my mind since I learned about his family's expectations, his father's clear preference for a business-oriented future. "Why risk everything on a sport when you have the Wolfe legacy waiting?"
He considers this, taking a sip of wine before answering. "Freedom," he says finally. "Hockey is the one thing that's truly mine, not influenced by family expectations or traditions. On the ice, I'm just Declan—not a Wolfe, not an heir, just a player with something to prove."
The answer resonates with me more than I expected. Isn't that what literature has always been for me? An escape, a world where I'm defined by my mind rather than my circumstances, where I can explore identities and possibilities beyond the limitations of my actual life?
"I understand that," I tell him. "More than you might think."
His eyes meet mine across the table, recognition and connection flowing between us. "I know you do," he says softly.
The observation strikes deep, articulating something I've felt but couldn't name. For all our superficial differences—the athlete and the academic, the social butterfly and the introvert, privilege and scholarship—there's a fundamental similarity in how we navigate the expectations placed upon us, how we seek spaces of authentic self-expression.
We finish dinner with lighter conversation, laughing over campus anecdotes and shared observations about Professor Harmon's eccentricities. Declan refuses my offer to help clean up, instead directing me to the living room while he handles the dishes.
I wander back to the bookshelves, drawn to a collection of poetry books on the middle shelf. One volume catches my eye—Auden, the poet Declan mentioned reading when he can't sleep. I pull it from the shelf, noting the worn cover, the pages marked with small sticky notes, the occasional penciled annotation in margins.
"My favorite," Declan says, appearing beside me so quietly I start slightly. He gently takes the book from my hands. "Auden got it right," he continues, closing the book carefully. "Better to be the one who loves more, who risks more. Even if it hurts."
The simple philosophy, delivered without pretense or calculation, strikes at the heart of my deepest fear—the vulnerability inherent in loving, in opening oneself to potential hurt. I've spent years guarding against precisely this risk, building walls to ensure I'm never again the one left behind, never again the one who loved more deeply, trusted more completely.
But watching Declan replace the book on the shelf, his hands gentle with the treasured volume, I wonder if safety is worth the isolation it requires. If protection from potential pain is worth the sacrifice of potential joy.
"Declan," I say, his name a question and an answer both.
He turns to me, his expression open, vulnerable in a way that steals my breath. Without conscious decision, I step closer, eliminating the careful distance we've maintained since entering his apartment. My hand lifts to his face, palm against his cheek, feeling the slight roughness of evening stubble beneath my fingers.
"Ellie," he breathes, standing perfectly still, letting me dictate the pace, the boundaries.
I rise on tiptoes, closing the final distance between us, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that feels like stepping off a cliff—terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. He responds instantly, arms wrapping around me, pulling me against the solid warmth of his body as the kiss deepens from tentative to hungry in heartbeats.
This is different from our previous kisses—no audience to perform for, no arrangement to maintain, no confusion about what's real and what's pretense. Just Declan and Ellie, choosing each other with clear-eyed awareness of all the complications entailed.
His hands remain respectful even as the kiss grows heated—one at my waist, the other tangled in my hair, not venturing further despite the obvious tension radiating through his body. Always giving me control, letting me set the pace.
But tonight, I don't want careful. Don't want restrained. I want to feel everything, to experience the full reality of whatever is growing between us without the filters of performance or pretense.
My hands slide beneath his t-shirt, exploring the warm skin and defined muscle beneath. He sucks in a sharp breath, breaking the kiss to stare at me with darkened eyes. "Ellie," he says, his voice rough with desire and restraint. He captures my wandering hands in his. "I need you to be sure. No regrets, no confusion. If we do this, it's because we both want it, fully and completely. Not because of wine or emotional reconciliation or the heat of the moment."
The care in his words, the absolute respect for my agency—they confirm what I already know in my heart. "I want this," I tell him, holding his gaze. "I want you, Declan. Not because of the wine or the moment, but because I'm choosing this. Choosing us."
Something shifts in his expression—restraint giving way to hunger, control to desire. "Say it again," he murmurs, his hands releasing mine to slide around my waist, pulling me closer.
"I want you," I repeat, more boldly this time. "Now. Tonight."
No more words are needed. He lifts me in one fluid motion, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me toward the bedroom, our lips never separating, the kiss growing more urgent with each step.
His bedroom continues the theme of understated comfort—a large bed with simple navy linens, more bookshelves, a desk in the corner with a laptop and scattered papers. But I notice these details only peripherally, my attention focused entirely on Declan as he lays me gently on the bed, his body covering mine with delicious weight.
His weight above me is exhilarating—solid and real in a way that makes my heart race with anticipation. His eyes hold mine, intent and searching, as if memorizing every detail of my face. The moment stretches between us, charged with everything unsaid, everything we've been circling for weeks.
"You are so beautiful,” he whispers, his voice raw with honesty.
My response dies in my throat as his lips find mine again, the kiss deeper now, more demanding. Gone is the careful restraint he's shown until this moment—replaced by a hunger that matches the ache building low in my abdomen. His hands slide beneath my shirt, palms warm against my skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
When he tugs at the hem, I lift my arms, allowing him to pull the fabric over my head in one fluid motion. The cool air prickles my skin, but I barely notice, lost in the intensity of his gaze as it travels over me.
"I've thought about this," he confesses, fingers tracing the lace edge of my bra with heartbreaking tenderness. "Dreamed about it. But nothing compares to the reality of you."
The vulnerability in his admission steals my breath. This isn't the cocky hockey star or the strategic partner in our arrangement. This is just Declan—raw, honest, seeing me with a clarity that terrifies and exhilarates me in equal measure.
He lowers his head, lips tracing a burning path from my collarbone down to the swell of my breasts. My back arches instinctively, seeking more contact, more pressure, more of everything he's making me feel. His hand slides beneath me, unclasping my bra with practiced ease that I can't bring myself to resent. Not when he's looking at me like I'm something precious, something to be cherished rather than simply consumed.
"Is this okay?" he asks, voice rough with desire but still careful, still mindful of my boundaries.
"Yes," I breathe, the single syllable carrying the weight of weeks of denial, of fear overcome, of walls carefully dismantled.
The garment joins my shirt on the floor, and I fight the instinct to cover myself, to hide from the naked hunger in his eyes. Vulnerability has never come easily to me—not since my mother walked away without a backward glance, not since James betrayed me in the most intimate way possible. But here, with Declan, the exposure feels like liberation rather than danger.
His mouth continues its exploration, lips and tongue and the gentlest scrape of teeth creating sensations that draw sounds from my throat I hardly recognize as my own. When he takes my nipple between his lips, pleasure spirals through me so intensely my fingers twist in the sheets, seeking anchor in a world suddenly reduced to sensation.
"Declan," I gasp, his name a plea for something I can't articulate.
He understands anyway, his hands moving to the button of my jeans, eyes seeking mine in silent question. I nod, lifting my hips to help as he slides the denim down my legs with agonizing slowness, his fingers trailing fire along every inch of newly revealed skin until I’m left in nothing but my underwear.
Something flares in his eyes—wonder, gratitude, and a hunger so acute it makes my breath catch. He lowers himself over me again, capturing my lips in a kiss that feels like claiming, like promise, like coming home after the longest journey.
His hands continue their exploration, tracing the curve of my waist, the flare of my hip, the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. When his fingers brush against the thin fabric still covering my center, I gasp against his mouth, hips lifting instinctively toward his touch.
"I want to taste you," he murmurs against my lips, the words sending a jolt of liquid heat straight to my core.
The request, delivered with such raw need, ignites something primal within me. Words fail, so I simply nod, spreading my legs slightly in invitation.
His smile turns predatory as he begins moving down my body, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along my sternum, across my ribs, over the sensitive skin of my stomach. Each point of contact feels like a brand, marking me as his in ways that transcend the physical.
When he reaches the elastic of my underwear, his eyes lift to mine once more—checking, always checking that I'm with him, that I want this as much as he does. The care he shows, even in the depths of his own desire, makes my chest ache with an emotion I'm still too frightened to name.
He hooks his fingers under the fabric, dragging it slowly down my legs until I'm completely bare before him, vulnerable in a way I've never allowed myself to be since James's betrayal. But where I expect to feel fear, I find only anticipation, only certainty that whatever happens next will shatter and remake me in ways I've been too afraid to imagine.
Declan settles between my thighs, his broad shoulders creating space, his breath warm against my most sensitive flesh. The first touch of his tongue against me pulls a sound from deep in my chest—half gasp, half moan, wholly surrender.
He explores with deliberate patience, learning what makes my breath catch, what draws those helpless sounds from my throat, what makes my fingers tangle in his hair seeking both anchor and encouragement. All the while, his eyes remain locked on mine, watching as pleasure transforms my features, as writhe and moan beneath his dedicated attention.
It's the most intimate thing I've ever experienced—not just physically, but emotionally. The way he reads my body, responds to my unspoken needs, adjusts pressure and rhythm with intuitive precision. This isn't performance or calculation—this is connection in its purest form, communication beyond words.
When he slides one finger inside me, then another, curling upward to hit a spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids, I know I won't last much longer. The dual sensation of his fingers and mouth pushes me rapidly toward a peak that looms like a precipice, terrifying and irresistible.
"Declan," I gasp, my voice breaking on his name. "I'm close, I—"
“Come for me," he murmurs against me, the vibration of his voice adding another layer to the building pleasure. "Come for me, I want to taste you.”
It's his words as much as his touch that send me hurtling over the edge—the tenderness in them, the certainty, the promise of safety even in my most vulnerable moment. My back arches, his name tearing from my throat as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me, obliterating thought, obliterating fear, obliterating everything except the sensation and the man creating it.
He works me through it, gradually slowing his movements as the aftershocks ripple through me, as my body relaxes back into the mattress, boneless and sated in a way I've never experienced before.
When he moves back up my body, his expression holds something I never expected to see directed at me—triumph, yes, but also reverence, as if witnessing my pleasure is a gift he treasures above his own gratification.
"You're incredible," he breathes, pressing his forehead against mine.
I reach for him, needing to feel his weight above me, needing the grounding reality of his body against mine. His arousal is evident, pressing hard against my thigh, but there's no impatience in his touch, no demand for reciprocation. Only tenderness, only care, only the steady assurance that this—whatever this is becoming—happens on terms we set together.
"I want you," I whisper against his lips, suddenly certain beyond doubt or fear. "All of you, Declan. Not just parts."
His eyes search mine, seeking confirmation that I'm sure, that this isn't just the haze of pleasure speaking. What he finds must satisfy him, because he nods, reaching toward the nightstand, retrieving what we need without breaking eye contact, as if afraid I might disappear if he looks away even for a moment.
He shucks off his pants and boxer briefs and then settles back between my thighs, something shifts in the air between us—anticipation giving way to inevitability, performance to authenticity. This is real. He is real. We are real.
But for once, change doesn't terrify me. For once, I'm not analyzing, not calculating, not maintaining careful emotional distance. I'm simply present, simply feeling, simply being.
"You're beautiful," he murmurs as he slides his cock inside of me. I gasp and hold his shoulders, not used to the fullness, how big he is. He stretched me around him, and I whimper in pleasure. "You’re so fucking tight, Ellie." He slides a finger down over my lips. “So fucking good.”
He starts to fuck me, harder, hitting a rhythm, finally letting this be about his own pleasure. When he comes inside of me, another orgasm rips through me, and I come undone underneath him.
After, he wraps me in his arms, my head on his chest listening to the gradual slowing of his heartbeat.
"You okay?" Declan asks softly, his fingers tracing patterns on my bare shoulder.
"More than okay," I assure him, pressing a kiss to his chest. "That was..."
"Yeah," he agrees when I trail off, unable to find adequate words. "It was."
We lie in comfortable silence for a while, basking in the afterglow of connection, of barriers breached and truths acknowledged. This is real, I think with wonder. This is actually real.
"Stay," Declan murmurs, his arms tightening slightly around me. "Stay the night."
"I'll stay," I agree, settling more comfortably against him.
His soft kiss against my hair feels like benediction, like promise. We drift toward sleep wrapped in each other, the lines between performance and reality, between caution and courage, permanently redrawn.
And As Declan's breathing deepens beside me, his arms secure around my waist, I surrender to the simple, terrifying truth: I'm falling in love with him. Have been falling since long before I was willing to admit it. And whatever comes next—whether joy or heartbreak or some complex mixture of both—I'm done pretending otherwise.
To myself, or to him.