Page 38 of Wicked Ruin

“It means”—his mouth comes to my ear—“are you aroused when I approve? When I praise you? Do you feel yourself go warm when I say you're doing well?”

I swallow hard, my mouth dry, and manage to nod. “Aye. So much.”

He reaches back and drags the desk chair out, drops into it, and pulls me onto his lap. “Take off your top,” he says softly. “For me. That’s my girl.”

It's just a little tube thing held on by friction and a prayer. I lift my arms, and it slips free. I toss it aside.

He makes a low sound in his throat that does something devastating to me, and his gaze tells me he likes what he sees. “My god, you're more gorgeous than I imagined.”

“You imagined?” I say before I can stop myself.

“Look how beautiful you are,” he says instead of answering, one warm hand sliding slow across my waist. “You’ve got a butterfly tattoo.” He kisses my shoulder. The heat of it travels. Then he sighs. “Look how you fit right here,” he murmurs, watching me come apart under the smallest attentions.

He's right. I'm already on fire.

Then his mouth meets mine again, careful and deliberate, and my fingers are curling into his shirt. I'm basking in the praise falling from his lips as if I've been waiting for this my whole life.

“I’m going to go slow,” he says against my ear. “I’m going to learn every inch of you.” A pause. His hand tightens slightly at my waist. “And when I’m done, you’ll know exactly who you belong to.”

His mouth meets mine, and we kiss. His hand finds the back of my neck, his tongue against mine, and I swallow the low sound of approval he makes in his throat, barely stifling one of my own that would embarrass me entirely.

“That's my girl,” he murmurs into my mouth. “That's right.”

I can't help it. I moan outright when his large hand comes to my breast, his thumb circling my nipple. I cry out louder when he bends his head and takes the peak between his lips, lapping and circling, slow and deliberate.

“Aren't you a beauty,” he whispers. “Tell me if you need me to slow down.”

“Declan, don't you dare slow down,” I tell him, my voice barely my own. “Please trust me when I tell you.” I gasp.

He smiles against my skin and reaches for the zipper on my jeans. I climb off his lap and stand in front of him.

I’ve spent a long time making peace with this body—the one that felt like it betrayed me, that wasn't supposed to survive but did anyway. And I won't flinch from it now. But there's one small moment, under his gaze, when I feel the old instinct to hide, to cross my arms over my elbows, to angle away, to make myself smaller, because years of hospital rooms and unknowns leave an invisible scar.

“Push them down,” he says softly. The only reason I push past my fears and obey is that I am craving his approval. I live for his praise.

And when I obey, he makes a sound of approval. “Good girl. Just like that. Lovely.”

I step out of my jeans, and they pool around my feet.

Standing here, still and nearly bare in front of Declan McCarthy, I feel a hundred different kinds of exposed.

“You're beautiful,” he says. His voice has gone rough. “Stunning. Christ, woman, if I had any self-control before, I definitely don't now.” He swallows, then licks his lips. He doesn't rush but gazes, slow and intent, like I'm something worth his time.

Whatever I was braced for, it wasn't this particular expression on this particular face. “You don't have to say that just to make me feel better.”

“I'm saying it because it's true.” His voice drops, steady and certain. “And if I hear something like that come out of your mouth again, you'll find yourself back over my knee before you've finished saying it. Now come here.”

My arousal pulses between us like a second heartbeat.

“Trust me,” he whispers.

I nod.

“Help me get these off.”

I start with the buttons on his shirt, his skin warm beneath my fingers, his scent making me dizzy. Then his hands find mine, and we make quick work of it together, the shirt sliding free. He’s in front of me—hard, powerful muscle, the flat planes of his stomach disappearing into the waistband of his trousers.

I reach down, my eyes anchored on his, and unfasten them. I stifle a whimper as he takes my hands and guides them into his trousers. The warm, thick weight of him against my palms shows me exactly how far gone he already is. Then he's stepping free of them.