“Let yourself go with me,” he urges when he takes my hand in his, lacing his fingers with mine as I begin to tremble into a shattering explosion of colorless light.
Clinging my free arm around him, he never lets go of my hand. Holding him tightly against me, my body writhes and bows up into his as I ride out the wave of ecstasy, coming hard around his cock. When I look up at him, I see the grimace in his face as he continues to move inside of me and then pulls out.
“What are you doing?” I ask, knowing he didn’t come.
He lies on top of me, bracing himself on his elbows with his face over mine.
“Why?” I breathe out on an uneven whisper.
“Because that was for you.”
Don’t let yourself feel.
Don’t let yourself feel.
My cycle of words slowly dies inside of my tightening chest. The thickness of my throat makes it hard and painful to breathe, and I know he sees it when he gently squeezes my hand that he’s still holding and says, “Don’t hide. If you need to cry, it’s okay.”
Immediately, with his words, the liquid heat fills my eyes, blurring my vision of his face into a prismatic swirling of watercolors before they finally spill out and run down the sides of my face. He rolls us to our sides, never letting go of my hand, as I quietly weep into the warmth of his skin.
We stay in bed for most of the morning. Declan cooks us a late breakfast while I take a shower and get ready. The smell of eggs is in the air when I walk into the living area and over to Declan who’s standing over the stove.
“Smells good,” I say as I slide up next to him and watch as he folds the egg of the omelet over a mixture of tomatoes and spinach.
“You hungry?”
“Starved,” I answer before he leans down to give me a kiss filled with eagerness as his tongue invades my mouth. He doesn’t stop fucking my mouth with his until the scent of burning egg wafts through the air.
“Fuck,” he says, pulling the pan off the stove and onto the unlit burner, making me laugh as I move over and start opening and closing cabinets. “What are you looking for?”
“A mug.”
He walks over, opening the door to one of the cabinets and pulls down a mug for me, saying, “There’s coffee in the French press,” as he nods to the glass carafe on the counter.
“Thanks, but I prefer tea in the mornings.”
He smiles, and then gets the kettle on for me. While I wait for it to boil, I spot my purse lying on the foyer table, and when I pull my cell out, I have two missed calls from Bennett. When I look at the time, I count the hours and realize that it’s a little after eight in the evening for him. It’s not like me to miss his calls, but with this new turn of events, my mind has been elsewhere.
Knowing I have to call him and check in, I walk back over to the kitchen with my cell in my hand.
“I need to make a call. Would you mind if I stepped out?” I ask gently, careful not to rock the boat too much.
But he doesn’t give it a second thought when he responds, “Of course. My office is down that hall across the room,” as he points in the opposite direction of where his bedroom is.
“Thanks. I won’t be too long.”
Walking into his office, it’s nearly as large as his massive bedroom, with rich, wooden bookshelves that line the back wall and up to the ceiling. His desk sits in the middle of the room. A dignified piece of mahogany accented by a large, leather chair with antique brass nailhead trim. I don’t sit at his desk, perching instead on the tufted black leather Chesterfield sofa that sits over by the bookshelves. I take in the musk of rich leather and look around. Everything in this room is covered in Declan’s masculinity.
I quickly swipe the screen of my phone and call Bennett. He picks up, immediately saying, “Honey, I’ve been worried.”
“I’m so sorry. My phone was on silent and in my purse.”
“What have you been doing all morning?”
“Writing. I’ve been working on that article,” I lie. “Seems I’m not a natural. I’ve been cooped up in the office and lost track of time. I’m sorry I missed your call and made you worry.”
“I don’t want you to apologize. It’s fine. I just miss you, that’s all,” he says sweetly, not even questioning my deceit. Knowing how fooled I have both of these men makes me smile, and I play into the good feelings, returning the sweetness, “I miss you too. Tell me about your day.”
“I had to fire a couple men on the project. It’s been stressful.”
“What happened?”
“Deadlines weren’t being met by the contractor, oversights to code specifications, and other issues I’d rather not discuss right now,” he explains, the note of frustration and exhaustion evident in his voice.
“I wish I was there. I’m sorry you had such a rough day. Is there anything I can do on my end to help you with anything?”
“Just tell me how much you love me.”
“Bennett . . .” I say, leaving his name lingering between us.