Page 40 of Wicked Ruin

He gives me more than that. He holds perfectly still and lets me adjust, lets me breathe, lets me feel every inch of what I've been missing without knowing I was missing it.

Then my hips rise to meet him, and there's nothing careful about either of us after that. I groan, entirely without dignity, because I have never wanted anything or anyone this badly in my life. Because he fills me so completely, it borders on unbearable.

And I could cry.

He moves slowly at first, his forehead pressed to mine. It’s intimate and perfect, and I don’t ever want this moment to end. His breath is warm against my mouth, like he intends to memorize every second of this.

“Look at you,” he whispers. “You feel so perfect. That’s my girl.”

He thrusts again, and I stop trying to hold anything back. There's no point. He's taken every defense I had and laid it down somewhere on the floor behind us, and all that's left is this—the slide and press of him inside me, the unbearable friction, the way he fills me so completely that every exhale comes out broken.

I let him hear all of it. Every sound. Every helpless noise he pulls from me like he already knew they were there, just waiting.

His hand finds my hip and tightens, steadying me, anchoring me to him, and the pressure of it alone is its own kind of praise.

“That's it.” His voice is wrecked, barely above a breath. “Stay with me. Good girl. Just like that. You feel so good, love. You have no idea…”

I moan his name, and he groans in response, as if I've undone something in him and he can't help it either. The knowledge of that—that I do this to him, that I'm not alone in this—is what tips me over.

The second orgasm builds slower, deeper. When it breaks, it doesn't crash—it rolls, wave after wave, and I'm shaking with it, clutching at him. He works me through every second of it without letting up, without mercy, murmuring praise against my temple. “Just like that. Take it, Bridget. Look at you, so perfect, so mine.”

“Declan,” I finally manage, and it comes out wrecked, barely a word at all.

He follows me there. His face presses into my neck, his hand fisting in my hair at the nape, and the groan he makes when he comes apart is unguarded and real.

Just him. Just this. I'll carry that sound with me for the rest of my life.

Afterward, he pulls me into him, my back to his chest, his arm around me, and his chin at the top of my head. The room is dark and still, but peaceful.

That’s when it happens, when I least expect it. Something in my chest that’s been threatening to break cracks wide open. My nose tingles, and my throat tightens. My eyes fill and spill over, and I can’t stop it. I don’t really try. There’s a bittersweet release I can’t understand and don’t really want to.

He holds me tighter. “Hey,” he says softly against my hair. “I’ve got you.”

That’s all. Just that. I’ve got you.

But does he? He might want to, but I know this isn’t forever. I know this is goodbye.

I press my face into the pillow so he doesn’t see me completely undone. His arms tighten around me, and I close my eyes because, for one night, for this one borrowed night, I can let myself be held by the man I love.

I fall asleep like that, tears drying on my cheeks.

Chapter Nine

DECLAN

I've been awake for an hour, maybe longer. I stopped checking my phone sometime around four. The room is gray with early morning light, and the city below is hushed. Bridget's asleep on her stomach, with one arm thrown across my chest, her bright hair fanned across the pillow like poppies in an open field.

She’s so beautiful like this, at rest and naked, vulnerable and open. Fuck it, she’s beautiful no matter what she does.

I’m trying to hold it all together. I always hold it together now.

Maybe this is my penance.

I close my eyes and remember every moment of last night. We barely slept. I took her in the shower, and she delighted in every small thing—marveling at the piles of plush towels, giggling at the chrome bidet, teasing me by dumping shampoo into my hair and lathering it all over my body until I finally stilled her—her wrists above her head, pinned to the tile, my mouth on hers before I traveled the length of her body and worshipped her. When she was near panting and needy, I bent her over and took her there, the steaming water pounding on both of us and drowning out our moans.

We dried off and napped, naked, and when we woke up, I took her again, slow and sweet, savoring the feel of her skin against mine. We ordered room service and snacked, and I did wicked things to her with the whipped cream I ordered before she got sassy with me. Then I bent her over the foot of the bed and took my belt to her until she squealed and begged and came with a scream that made me feel ten fucking feet tall.

We languished in bed, then she sat on my face while she took me in her mouth, and I cursed hell and praised heaven. We came together and collapsed. The night went on like that—her body and mine, learning each other in the dark, giving and taking, falling apart, and starting over.