The other hand gripped my hip hard enough to bruise. It held me in place while he fucked me. Used me. Took what he wanted while giving me everything I needed.
I came first. I spilled over his hand and against the tile, my ass clenching around him, pleasure ripping through me so hard my knees nearly buckled.
Declan followed seconds later. He buried himself deep and stayed there while he filled me up, his groan echoing in the small space, his whole body going rigid against mine.
We stood under the spray for a long moment after. Both of us breathing hard. Both of us trying to process the fact that we had just done that again. That this was real. That we couldn't take it back even if we wanted to.
And I didn't want to. Couldn't imagine wanting to, not with the feel of him still inside me, not with his hands gentle on my hips now, not with the way he was breathing against my neck like I was the only thing keeping him grounded.
“We should actually wash.”
“We should.”
We did. We took turns soaping each other down, hands lingering in places that didn't strictly need cleaning. He washed my hair with careful fingers that felt too good to be just practical. I washed his back, tracing the ink there with soapy hands. We rinsed off together, bodies sliding against each other under the spray.
By the time we got out, my skin was pruned and I was starving.
Declan handed me a towel. “You hungry?”
“Fuck yes.”
“I'll make breakfast.” He dried off quickly, wrapped the towel around his waist. “Take your time.”
I got dressed slowly. I found my jeans and a clean shirt in Declan's room. Everything smelled like him. Like us. The sheets were a mess. Evidence of what we'd done scattered across the bed in wrinkled fabric and displaced pillows.
I stood there for a second just looking at it. Trying to reconcile the fact that I'd had sex with my stepfather in this bed. That I'd wanted it. That I'd begged for it. That it had felt right in a way that nothing else in my life had ever felt.
And now I had to go downstairs and figure out what the fuck that meant.
Downstairs, I could hear Declan moving around the kitchen. The smell of coffee hit me before I made it to the bottom of the stairs. Bacon too. My stomach growled in response.
He was at the stove when I walked in. Shirtless again, just wearing sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His back was covered in tattoos I'd seen before but never really looked at. Hadn't let myself look at, hadn't let myself notice how good they looked on his skin.
Now I couldn't stop looking.
“Coffee's ready,” he said without turning around. “Mugs are in the same place.”
I poured myself a cup. I took it black because adding milk felt like too much effort. The first sip was exactly what I needed. Hot and bitter and grounding.
“You want eggs?” Declan asked.
“However you're making them.”
“Scrambled then.” He cracked eggs into a bowl with one hand, showing off in a way that was probably unconscious.
I sat at the table. The same table where he'd fucked me last night. There were still faint marks on the wood where my hands had gripped too hard. A water ring from where we'd set the first aid kit down. Evidence everywhere if you knew where to look.
The silence stretched between us, heavy with everything we weren't saying.
Declan brought over plates a few minutes later. Eggs, bacon, toast. Simple food that looked better than anything I'd eaten in weeks.
We ate without talking. The quiet felt wrong now, loaded with tension that hadn't been there before. Like we'd crossed a line and now neither of us knew how to exist on this side of it.
Finally, Declan set his fork down. “We need to talk about this.”
“I figured we would.” I took another bite of eggs, buying time because I didn't know what I wanted him to say. “What do you want to say?”
“I don't know.” He ran a hand through his hair, still damp from the shower. “I'm trying to figure out how I feel and I keep coming up blank.”
