His shirt.
My shoes.
His hands never stop roaming. Never stop claiming. As if he’s terrified I’ll disappear the second he stops touching me.
By the time my back hits the mattress, I’m panting, flushed, aching. His eyes darken as they rake up and down my body like a predator stalking its prey. And like an untamed beast, his attack is brutal as he thrusts into me in one hard, punishing stroke that steals the breath from my lungs.
The world narrows to the sound of our bodies colliding in a raw, feral rhythm that feels like he’s carving his name into my bones. It’s rough. It’s desperate. It’s pure need.
Yet hidden beneath the animalistic frenzy, there’s something else. Something softer. Something that feels frighteningly close to worship. The way he circles his hips. The way he presses a kiss to my neck. The way he takes my hands in his, linking our fingers together. It makes me feel wanted. Cherished. Craved.
No one has ever made me feel like this.
It’s a terrifying thought.
What if my mom’s right? Am I only pretending I’m content with scraps because I’m scared of asking for more?
Because I don’t think I’m worth it?
Because I’d rather accept pieces than be left with nothing?
Declan slams into me harder, faster, erasing every shred of doubt and scattering it like snowflakes in the wind. For a few blissful seconds, he succeeds, his punishing thrusts the reminder I need of who we are. Of what makes us work. Why complicate things unnecessarily?
“Goddamn, you feel good,” he grunts. “Like you were made for me.”
He lifts a leg, propping it over his shoulder and plunging so deep I cry out. He leans closer, his eyes wild, his breath warming my skin.
“Say you’re mine, Claire.”
I’m not. I can never be. But how can I deny him when he looks at me like my words are oxygen, the only thing keeping him alive?
“I’m yours, Declan.”
He closes his eyes, relief etched across his face, before crushing his mouth against mine. He pounds into me with ruthless abandon, each thrust propelling me higher. Each touch igniting a war I’ll never win.
“Give it to me, Claire,” he rasps. “Let me feel what only I can do to you. Don’t deny me. Not now. Not this.”
His plea undoes me, and I break for him, utterly and completely. He joins me seconds later, his body convulsing, his roar ripping through the room, followed seconds later by a familiar voice.
“Declan? Are you here?”
Joshua.
My entire body turns cold.
Declan wrenches out of me like I’ve burned him, his eyes panicked. Grabbing my wrist, he yanks me up, dragging me across the room. “Get in the closet. Now.”
“What? Just tell him?—”
“Do it.” His tone is harsh, desperate.
“My clothes?—”
“I’ll get them. Please, Claire. Just hide.”
Something in his tone unsettles me. I’ve never seen him like this. So terrified. So anxious.
I stumble into his walk-in, my heart battering against my ribs. He tosses my clothes at me, then shuts the door.
