“And I’ve never seen you look so nervous. What awful thing do you imagine I’m going to do to you?”
He’s trying to intimidate me. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of an answer and remain silent.
He pulls me close, fists a hand into my hair, and puts his mouth next to my ear. His voice husky, he says, “Whatever it is, you’re right.”
Heart, calm down. This isn’t the time to explode. That goes for you, too, ovaries.
“Being in your presence is awful enough.”
He inhales against my neck, sending a cascade of shivers down my spine. “Why didn’t you tell me about the other tests?”
“I was too busy being worried that you were okay, which, in retrospect, is one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done. Or thought. Or heard of.”
“And why were you worried about me, hellcat? Tell the truth.”
God, his voice is hot. And his body is hot. As are the air, my skin, and my panties. I’ve got a conflagration in my underpants that could turn the entire East Coast into a pile of smoking ashes.
I say hoarsely, “Because I hate you, and I want to be there when you finally get shot through the heart by one of your enemies.”
“But I already have, lass,” he murmurs, his lips moving against my skin. “I already have.”
He pulls my head back and kisses me.
And just like that, I’m gone.
All the fight drains out of me. The will to resist him vanishes in a snap. I sag against him and let him drink deep from my mouth, not caring about the little sounds of pleasure I’m making or that Kieran is witnessing all this or anything else.
I simply surrender.
To his mouth.
To the kiss.
To him.
When the kiss finally ends and I return from outer space, I’m curled in his lap like a kitten, my legs thrown over one of his muscular thighs and my bound arms wound around his broad shoulders. His arms hold me tight as a vise.
I’m panting. Trembling. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alive.
“So fucking sweet,” he says, breathing raggedly. “I want more of that sweet side. Give it to me.”
I whisper, “Okay.”
He takes my mouth again. I sink, then sink farther until I’m completely lost, floating lazily on waves of delicious heat, as thick and sugary as cotton candy. He moans into my mouth, and I shudder.
He grasps my jaw and bites my lips. When I whimper, he slides his hand down to my neck. His big hand wraps almost all the way around it.
I might gasp. I might groan or shift against him. I’m not sure what I do, but it makes him even hotter, greedier, and ten times more intense.
“Look at me.”
My lids drift open. He stares down at me with eyes like fire.
“You’re my captive.”
I nod, my head fuzzy. He wants something, but I don’t know what it is. I can’t think. I can barely even breathe. I’ve got Red Bull and heroin scorching through my veins.
“You’re going to stay with me. And do what I tell you to do this time. And be good. Obedient.”
That makes me smile. I like him when he’s delusional.
“Say yes.”
“Yes. For tonight.”
“We’ll talk about timing later. Why are you only wearing one shoe?”
“It’s a long story.”
His mouth claims mine again, seeking, pulling, demanding. He kisses me like he’s on death row, about to be executed, and I’m his last meal. I’ve never been so savored. So devoured.
Or so turned on. I think if he even breathed on my nipple, I’d come.
But he doesn’t go anywhere near my breasts. He simply kisses me, over and over, all the way back to the city. Every once in a while, he stops to murmur something to me in Gaelic, his mouth pressed close to my ear so only I can hear. By the time we pull into the parking garage of his building, I’m out of my mind with need.
For the elevator ride to the top floor, I’m thrown over his shoulder again.
With any other man, being treated like luggage would make me crazy. I’d never accept it. I’d kick him in the face and make him lick my foot.
But there’s something incredibly hot about the way Declan’s big hand is splayed possessively over the back of my thigh, and how easily he can carry my weight, and how he didn’t ask permission to manhandle me. He just did. Like it wasn’t up to me. Like he’s calling all the shots from here on out, whether I like it or not.
God help me, I like it.
A lot.
The elevator doors slide open. He walks us inside his home. The automatic lights come on, illuminating our way down the corridor to the master bedroom. Neither of us speaks a word.
He flips me over and tosses me onto the bed. I bounce, breathless, and stare up at him with wide eyes, my heartbeat flying, my bound arms raised over my head.
He gazes down at me with a hard jaw and half-lidded eyes, working at the knot in his tie.
“You need food. And a shower.”
I take a moment to catch my breath. “That wasn’t what I was expecting you’d say.”
“I’m going to bathe you. Then feed you. Then fuck you, in that order. No, close your mouth. No talking.”
Trembling, I bite my lip and stare up at him. He smiles.
First, he discards his tie to the floor. Next, he shrugs off his suit jacket and tosses it aside. He unbuttons his white dress shirt, his strong fingers working deftly until they reach the bottom button. Then he pulls the shirt off and stands there with it dangling from one hand as I struggle to draw another breath.
The man is art.
Hot-as-fuck, tattooed, muscular art.
Had I known what he looked like under his tailored Armani suits, I might have been nicer to him sooner. I’m lucky I wasn’t standing up for this, because I’d definitely have melted into a puddle at his feet.
“Are you drooling?” he says, his smile growing wider.
He’s relishing my obvious lust and astonishment, but I ignore him.
He’s covered in ink, from his shoulders all the way down both arms and all over his chest and washboard abs. There are roses and skulls and angel’s wings, crosses and sunbeams shining through clouds. I glimpse other Biblical stuff, including a line from scripture, inked in heavy black serif right over his heart: “Vengeance is Mine.”
And he’s ripped as hell, like all he does is eat lean protein and work out twelve hours a day. His shoulders are wide, his lats taper to his waist in a perfect V, and why am I only now just noticing that even his hands are gorgeous?
Someone should sculpt this person. This kind of masculine beauty should be on display in a museum.
Please, god, let him have a good dick. Nothing skinny or crooked or short. Do me this one favor, and I’ll start going to church again.
I stop praying when Declan leans over me and plants his hands on the mattress on either side of my head.
“My turn.”
He hooks a finger into the open collar of my blouse. His expression turns thoughtful. “I just remembered…you didn’t ask for any bras on that clothing list you gave me.”
“Yes, I did. You just didn’t buy them.”
“Must’ve slipped my mind. Speak again, and I’ll spank you.”
He stares deep into my eyes as I suffer through a moment of existential angst trying to decide if I should obey him and be quiet or burst out singing the national anthem. Which will earn me an orgasm first?