"Turn over," he says, in exactly the same tone, because he has none.
I turn over. So much for dignity.
His hands run down my back. My sides. My hips. He gets his hand between my thighs from behind, two fingers finding my clit, and I make a sound into the pillow.
I turn my face and make it again, louder, because I've decided I'm not doing the quiet thing anymore. It's a waste of everyone's time and he told me not to keep it quiet on the first night and I took that note and I'm applying it.
His fingers curl inside me and I gasp and grip the duvet and he works me up slowly. Two fingers, his thumb, steady and absolutely not at the pace I want. I push back against his hand and he lets me get nowhere. This man has the patience of someone who has been doing things on his own schedule and has no plans to accommodate mine.
"Declan—"
"I know, baby girl." He does not speed up.
I press my forehead into the pillow. I am experiencing a full range of emotions about this pace. Frustration. Want. A grudging respect for his commitment to making me lose my mind. If I were reviewing this performance on stream, the chat would be losing it. I would be losing it. I am, in fact, losing it, quietly, into a pillow.
He works me until I stop having thoughts and start making sounds. Real ones. The ones I can't shape or manage. That's apparently what he was waiting for because he says “Good girl,”low against my spine and I come with my thighs shaking and his fingers curling inside me and my hands fisted in his very expensive duvet, which I feel slightly bad about, but not enough to let go.
He turns me back over. I am, objectively, a wreck. He looks at me like I'm exactly what he wanted to find.
I look up at him. The lamplight on the silver at his temples. His dark eyes on my face.
"Come here," I say.
He does.
This time I don't go for his temple. I wait until he's kissing me, until his weight is on me and his hand is sliding down my stomach, and I turn my mouth to his ear and I say, very quietly: "I've been thinking about this since Sunday dinner. About you, at the table, and what I wanted to do to you after."
The effect is different from the temple. Bigger. His whole body goes taut against mine and his hand tightens on my hip and the sound he makes against my neck is low and wrecked and I feel it in my ribs.
So the temple is the exploit. But the forbidden is the kill shot. Good to know. I am building a very thorough understanding of what takes Declan Maguire apart, and I intend to be the foremost expert in this field. It will be my life's work. I'm accepting the grant money now.
He pushes his cock into me and I stop being clever about anything.
He goes slow. Deliberate. He's thick and I feel every inch of it and I make a sound that has nothing constructed in it, nothing performed, just real. He stays there a moment, fully inside me, not moving, and looks at me in the lamplight and I look back.
This is happening,says my brain, which has maintained operations throughout with the tenacity of a server that refusesto crash.You are in Declan Maguire's bed. You are choosing this. Every time.
Then he moves.
He pulls back slowly, almost all the way out, and I feel every inch of the withdrawal and make a sound I wasn't planning. Then he pushes back in, deep, and finds the angle from the first night. Same place. Same pressure.
I gasp. My hips snap forward to meet him. He does it again and whatever sentence I was building dissolves entirely.
He sets a rhythm. Slow and deep and controlled, his hands on my hips holding me where he wants me, and every stroke bottoms out in the place that makes my whole body tighten. I try to speed him up. I roll my hips, I pull at his shoulders, I dig my heels into the backs of his thighs, and he lets me get absolutely nowhere. His pace. His hands. His decision.
"Declan, I need—"
"I know what you need."
He does. That's the infuriating part. He knows exactly what I need and he's giving it to me at a pace that is going to make me lose my mind before I get there. Every slow, deliberate thrust fills me completely, and his thumb finds my clit between us, pressing in time with his hips, and the dual sensation makes my back arch off the mattress.
I would be furious about the pace except I can't hold onto fury when he rolls his hips on the next stroke and grinds against something that makes my vision go white at the edges. My thighs are shaking. I'm wet enough that I can hear it, the slick sounds of his cock moving inside me, and that should be embarrassing and it isn't. It's the realest thing in this room.
"Please," I say. "Please,Declan, faster!"
He gives me faster. Not much. Enough. His hips driving deeper, his thumb still working my clit in tight circles, and I grab his shoulders and hold on because the bed is moving and I ammoving and the sounds I'm making are not sounds I'm choosing to make, they're just coming out of me, real and loud and his.
I get both hands in his hair when I'm close. I can feel it building, the tension pulling tight low in my body, my thighs clenching around him. I pull him down and put my mouth right against his ear.
