Page 21 of Worth the Risk (Worth It All #1)

“Maybe that’s why I was drawn to your approach from the beginning.” Declan settles onto the sofa, and I join him, noting how the expensive cushions bring us closer together. “My father never understood his father’s community focus. He thought it was inefficient, sentimental.”

“What do you think?”

“I think my grandfather understood something about building lasting value that my father missed.” Declan takes a sip of wine, his gaze thoughtful, but I catch the way his fingers tighten around the glass.

“Highland has been serving the community for twenty years with minimal resources. Pierce Enterprises builds luxury developments that generate profit for five years and then get sold off. Which approach creates more lasting value?”

“You’re asking the wrong person. I’m obviously biased toward my father’s model.”

“You’re exactly the right person to ask.

” Declan sets down his wine and turns to face me more directly, and there’s an intensity in his expression that makes my pulse quicken.

“Maya, I need you to understand something. The collaboration with Highland, the research into historic preservation, the advocacy I’m planning for Monday’s meeting—none of that is about impressing you or winning your approval. ”

“What is it about?”

“It’s about discovering that there are better ways to measure success than the approach my father taught me. It’s about learning that some things are worth preserving even when demolition would be more profitable.”

I study his face, searching for any hint of corporate calculation or strategic positioning.

Instead, I see vulnerability, uncertainty, a man questioning everything he was raised to believe about business and success.

But underneath that, there’s something else—a tension that suggests he’s fighting battles I don’t fully understand.

“Declan.” I set down my own wine and move closer, close enough to see the gold flecks in his gray eyes, close enough to notice the faint lines of stress around them. “Can I tell you something?”

“Anything.”

“When you first proposed the collaboration, I thought it was an elaborate stalling tactic. A way to neutralize Highland’s opposition while you finalized demolition plans.”

“And now?”

“Now I think you’re a man who’s trying to figure out who he wants to be when he’s not living up to his father’s expectations.

” I reach up to trace the line of his jaw with my fingertips, feeling the tension there.

“The difference is that my father’s legacy aligns with who I want to be. Yours doesn’t.”

“No,” he agrees quietly, and for a moment, his carefully controlled expression cracks, revealing something that looks like fear. “It doesn’t.”

“So what do you want, Declan? If you could build anything, be anyone, what would that look like?”

He’s quiet for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the windows where LA’s lights twinkle in the darkness.

When he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.

“I want to build things that matter. Developments that strengthen communities instead of displacing them. Projects that create value for residents, not just investors.”

“That sounds like a worthy goal.”

“It sounds impossible within Pierce Enterprises’ current structure.” His phone buzzes on the side table—probably work emails he’s ignoring for tonight—and the sound seems to pull him back from wherever his thoughts had wandered.

“Maybe Pierce Enterprises’ structure needs to change.”

“Maybe it does.” Declan’s gaze returns to my face, and I see him make a visible effort to push away whatever was troubling him. “But enough about corporate philosophy. I didn’t bring you here to discuss business strategy.”

“What did you bring me here for?”

“To show you who I am when I’m not representing Pierce Enterprises.

To find out who you are when you’re not fighting for Highland’s survival.

” His hand slides up to cup my face, and there’s an urgency in the gesture that makes me wonder if he’s thinking about how little time we might have.

“To explore this thing between us without professional obligations getting in the way.”

“And what is this thing between us?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’d like to find out.”

He leans down to kiss me, and this time there’s nothing tentative about it.

This kiss is hungry, searching, full of the desire that’s been building between us for weeks.

But underneath the passion, I sense something else—a desperation that suggests he needs this connection as much as I do, maybe more.

When I respond, parting my lips under his, he makes a soft sound of approval that sends heat pooling low in my stomach.

“Maya.” My name comes out rough when we break apart, and there’s something in his voice—not just desire, but an urgency that makes me wonder if he’s thinking about Monday too. About how this might be our last night before everything changes.

“No more talking,” I whisper. “Just show me.”

Declan’s response is to deepen our kiss, his hands sliding down to my waist and then lower, pulling me closer until I’m practically in his lap. I can feel the solid warmth of his chest against mine, can catch the scent of his cologne mixed with wine and something that’s purely him.

When he trails kisses down my neck, finding the sensitive spot where my pulse flutters, I arch against him, wanting more contact, more pressure, more everything.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs against my throat. “Do you know how hard it’s been to maintain professional boundaries when all I wanted was to touch you like this?”

“Show me how hard it’s been,” I breathe, and I feel him smile against my skin.

“With pleasure.”

He lifts me easily, carrying me toward what I assume is his bedroom, and I’m struck by how natural this feels despite the surreal setting. Not rushed or desperate, but inevitable.

Declan’s bedroom continues the house’s warm, comfortable aesthetic—a king-sized bed with soft linens, windows that overlook the garden, art that feels personal rather than decorative.

It’s a room designed for rest and intimacy, not for impressing visitors, but the quality of everything reminds me again of the gulf between our worlds.

He sets me down beside the bed and steps back slightly, his gaze traveling over my face with something that looks like wonder mixed with something I can’t quite identify.

“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.

“I just want to remember this moment. The way you look right now, the way the moonlight catches your hair, the fact that you’re here with me.

” There’s an intensity in his voice that suggests he’s memorizing more than just this moment—as if he’s preparing for the possibility that there might not be many more.

“I’m here,” I confirm, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

“Maya.” He catches my hands, stilling my movements, and for a second, I see something like regret flash across his features. “We don’t have to rush this. We have all night.”

All night. As if that’s all we have.

“I don’t want to rush it,” I whisper.

In response, he releases my hands and allows me to continue unbuttoning his shirt. When I push the fabric off his shoulders, revealing the broad chest and defined muscles I’ve been imagining, I take a moment to simply appreciate the view.

“Your turn,” he says softly, his hands moving to the zipper at the back of my dress.

The reveal feels familiar now, but no less electric. When my dress pools at my feet and Declan’s gaze travels over my body, I remember how he looked at me in my small apartment—but this time, there’s an added intimacy of knowing exactly how his hands will feel on my skin.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, drawing me back into his arms. “Absolutely perfect.”

The feeling of skin against skin is electric.

Every point of contact sends warmth shooting through my nervous system, and when Declan’s hands begin to explore—tracing the curve of my waist, the line of my spine, the sensitive skin at my hip—I realize I’ve never felt so completely present in my own body.

I sigh into his touch, my body responding with a hunger that’s been building for weeks.

His hands are gentle but confident, mapping my curves with reverent attention that makes me feel both cherished and desired.

When he unclasps my bra, letting it join my dress on the floor, I don’t feel exposed—I feel seen.

“You’re so beautiful,” he growls, his voice low and rough, like gravel dragged over silk as he lowers me onto the bed.

His breath is hot against my skin, and I shiver as his lips find my nipple, sucking it into his mouth with a slow, deliberate pull that makes my back archd.

His tongue flicks over the sensitive peak, teasing it into a hard little bud, and I can’t help but moan, the sound clawing its way out of my throat.

His hand is on my other breast, fingers pinching and rolling the nipple with just the right amount of pressure, sending jolts of electricity straight to my core.

My body is on fire, every nerve ending alive with want.

I gasp as he moves lower, trailing kisses down my stomach and lower still until he settles between my thighs, parting my legs with gentle hands.

My pulse hammers in my throat as he looks up at me, eyes dark with hunger, seeking permission.

I nod, unable to find words, and then his mouth is on me, hot and insistent.

“Oh God,” I breathe, my fingers tangling in his hair, anchoring myself to him as pleasure spirals through me. His tongue is relentless, circling and flicking with devastating precision. My hips rise off the bed, seeking more of this exquisite torture.