Page 18 of Worth the Risk (Worth It All #1)

He obliges, his pace quickening as he drives into me with purpose, each thrust hitting exactly where I need him.

The headboard knocks rhythmically against the wall, keeping time with our gasps and moans.

My hands roam his back, feeling the muscles flex and contract as he moves within me, the slick slide of our bodies creating a delicious friction that builds and builds.

“Maya,” he groans against my neck, his voice ragged. “You feel so good. So perfect.”

I can’t form words, can only respond with breathless sounds of pleasure as he shifts his angle, hitting a spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. My body tightens around him, drawing him deeper, and I feel the telltale tension building low in my belly.

“Let go,” he whispers, his lips brushing my ear. “I want to feel you come apart.”

His words push me over the edge. I shatter around him, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crash through me.

My back arches off the bed, my body clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that seem to go on forever.

Through the haze of my release, I feel him watching me, his eyes dark with wonder and hunger.

“God, you’re beautiful when you come,” he breathes, his pace faltering as my body grips him tighter.

He follows me moments later, his hips jerking against mine as he finds his own release. The sound he makes—half-growl, half-groan—sends aftershocks rippling through me. His body tenses above mine, powerful muscles going rigid as he pulses inside me.

For several heartbeats, we stay locked together, his forehead pressed against mine, our ragged breathing the only sound in my darkened bedroom. Then he gets up and disappears into the bathroom. I hear water running briefly before he returns, sliding back into bed and gathering me against his chest.

The solid warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear, creates a strange sense of security that I know is dangerous to feel. This is temporary—a release of tension, a moment of weakness, nothing more.

But as his fingers trace lazy patterns along my spine, I can’t help melting into him, savoring the weight of his arm around my waist. Neither of us seems ready to speak, to break the fragile bubble of intimacy with words that might acknowledge what we’ve just done—and all its complications.

The night air feels cool against my heated skin.

I should feel guilty or worried about what this means for Highland, for our professional relationship, for the presentation looming just days away.

Instead, I feel strangely peaceful, my body humming with satisfaction, my mind quieter than it’s been in weeks.

“What are you thinking?” Declan finally asks, his voice a low rumble against my ear.

I consider lying, offering some platitude about how wonderful it was—which wouldn’t be a lie, but wouldn’t be the full truth either. Instead, I give him the same honesty he’s given me.

“I’m thinking about how I should regret this,” I murmur, tracing circles on his chest, “but I don’t.”

His arm tightens around me. “I don’t regret it either.”

“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t reckless.” I prop myself up on one elbow to look at him, taking in the way moonlight sculpts his features into something almost otherworldly. “Highland’s future is still at stake.”

“I know.” He captures a strand of my hair between his fingers, twisting it gently. “But this doesn’t change my commitment to finding the best solution.”

“Doesn’t it?” The question hangs between us, weighted with implications neither of us can fully dismiss. “You said yourself your judgment is compromised.”

Declan’s eyes search mine in the half-light. “Compromised doesn’t mean corrupted,” he says finally, his fingers still playing with my hair. “But Highland is the last thing I want to think about right now.

“That makes two of us,” I whisper, though the words feel like betrayal to everything I’ve been fighting for.

His fingers continue their gentle exploration, tracing the curve of my shoulder, the dip of my collarbone, as if memorizing my body through touch. The intimacy of it makes my breath catch. This isn’t just sex—this is something deeper, more dangerous.

“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” he says, his voice a low rumble in the darkness. “Something that doesn’t involve Highland or work. Just you.”

I consider the question, aware of our naked bodies pressed together, the vulnerability of being exposed in more ways than one. “I was named after what used to be considered the Philippine national bird, the maya. Well, until the national bird was changed to be the Philippine eagle.”

“What does it look like, this… maya?” Declan asks as he pulls me against him.

“Small, like a tree sparrow,” I reply. “Usually caught and sold in these little bamboo cages where they didn’t do too well. My mother always bought them and set them free.”

“You never told me about your mother.”

“She was a preservationist too, in her own way.” I smile against his chest, memories washing over me in the dim light. “Not of buildings, but of traditions, stories. She taught Filipino folklore at the university—spent her life documenting oral histories that might otherwise have disappeared.”

“Is that where you got it from? The need to preserve what matters?”

I consider this, tracing idle patterns across his skin.

“Maybe. She always said that once something’s gone, you can’t get it back—not really.

You can rebuild, recreate, but the soul of the original is lost.” I pause, realizing how much this explains about my fight for Highland.

“She died when I was in high school. Cancer. My father dedicated Highland’s classroom to her. ”

Declan’s hand stills against my back, then resumes its gentle stroking. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.” The familiar ache is there, but dulled by time. “What about you? Tell me something I don’t know about Declan Pierce.”

He’s quiet for so long I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. Then he shifts, pulling me closer against the solid warmth of his chest. “My mother left us when I was seven.”

The admission hangs in the air, his voice carrying a detachment that feels practiced, as if he’s learned to say the words without feeling them. I wait, giving him space to continue or retreat.

“She decided corporate life wasn’t for her,” he says finally. “My father was building Pierce Enterprises, working eighty-hour weeks. She wanted something... simpler.”

“Where did she go?” I ask softly, my fingers tracing the contours of his chest.

“New Mexico, initially. Then Colorado. She moved around, following whatever spiritual path caught her interest.” There’s a controlled neutrality in his tone that tells me more than his words. “She sent birthday cards for a few years, then Christmas cards, then nothing.”

I press my lips against his shoulder, a wordless comfort for a wound I can tell has never fully healed. “Did you ever see her again?”

“Once, when I was in college.” His voice is distant now, as if he’s recalling something he keeps carefully locked away. “I tracked her down to this commune in New Mexico. She was living in a yurt, making pottery and teaching meditation to tourists.”

I stay quiet, feeling the tension in his body as he speaks.

“She seemed happy to see me, but it was like meeting a stranger. Someone who happened to have my eyes and knew details about my childhood.” His fingers trace idle patterns on my bare shoulder. “She asked if I was still playing baseball. I hadn’t played since eighth grade.”

The sadness in his voice makes my chest ache. I press closer to him, offering wordless comfort.

“My father never remarried. Just threw himself into the business. Pierce Enterprises became his entire identity.” Declan’s chest rises and falls with a deep breath.

“I suppose that’s why he expected I’d follow in his footsteps.

Take over the company and take it to new heights. Build the Pierce legacy.”

“Is that what you wanted?” I ask, hearing the echo of expectation in his words.

He’s quiet for a moment, his fingers continuing their gentle exploration of my skin. “I wanted to make him proud,” he finally says. “After my mother left, that became... everything.”

I lift my head to look at him, finding his eyes in the moonlight. There’s vulnerability there I’ve never seen before—not in the boardroom, not during our negotiations, not even when he kissed me in the storage room.

“And now?” I whisper, knowing I’m asking about more than just his relationship with his father.

“Now I’m lying in bed with a woman who challenges everything I thought I knew about what I want.” His hand cups my face, thumb tracing my lower lip. “A woman who fights for what matters to her with a ferocity that makes me question what I’m fighting for.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“I don’t know yet,” he replies. “But I know I want to find out.”

He kisses me then, slow and deep, his hand sliding into my hair to cradle my head.

This kiss is different from our earlier urgency—deliberate, exploratory, like he’s trying to memorize the taste and feel of me.

I melt into him, my body responding with a languid heat that builds slowly from my core outward.

When he pulls away, his eyes are dark pools of desire in the moonlight. “It’s late,” he murmurs, but makes no move to leave, his hand tracing the curve of my hip and sending shivers across my skin.

“Stay,” I whisper, surprising myself with how much I want him to. How much I need the warmth of his body next to mine tonight.

Maybe because I know in the morning, everything will be different. In the harsh light of day, we’ll have to face the consequences of what we’ve done. The way we’ve complicated an already precarious situation. The lines we’ve crossed that can never be uncrossed.

But tonight, in the soft darkness of my bedroom, I want to pretend those complications don’t exist.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice rough with something that sounds like hope.

I answer by pulling him closer, my lips finding his in the darkness. His response is immediate, arms tightening around me as he rolls me beneath him. This time there’s no urgency, no desperate rush—just the slow, deliberate exploration of bodies learning each other’s secrets.

At least, for tonight.