“I love the way you say my name. Say it again.”
“Declan, we—”
“Shhh,” he murmurs, unclasping my bra from the front with a practiced flick. “Let’s just see what happens when you stop fighting. Do you remember what that felt like? Not fighting me?”
His head dips, his mouth closing over my breast, tongue swirling over my nipple, teeth grazing just enough to make me whimper. Every flick is calculated, every bite a punishment and a reward.
“Hmmm,Señora Agassi,” he whispers against my skin, the name vibrating through me.
“Declan, we need—”
“To give in,mia moglie bella.”
I’m in nothing but a thong now, and that disappears with one sweep of his hand.
I’m bare to him. Open.
He touches me, and there’s no hiding it—I’m soaked for him. Aching. Every stolen glance, every night I ended with my hand between my thighs, trying to silence the memory of him, is now crashing down on me.
Running down my thighs and towards him.
My husband.
He kisses me, tongue hungry and demanding, while his fingers stroke my clit in tight, devastating circles. I gasp into his mouth, hips rising to meet his touch.
“You’ve needed this,” he growls. “Admit it.”
And I do. Because for some reason I can’t lie to him.
“Yes,” I pant. “Fuck, yes.”
He slides a finger inside me and groans, deep like he’s found something he lost.
“Just like I remember. Just like my wife.”
He stills, gaze pinned to mine, unblinking. Not just looking. He’s searching.
“Has anyone touched you like this since our wedding night?”
Wedding night.The way he says it.
“No,” I whisper. And it’s the truth. I’ve been haunted by that night ever since I slipped out of his bed and tried to pretend I didn’t belong there. Beside him.
Declan drags his fingers out of me and I crave them but he swiftly lifts me like I weigh nothing. His hands are strong but shaking just a little. I can tell he’s barely holding himself together.
I wrap my arms around his neck, feel the rigid heat of him pressed against my stomach. He's hard—God, he’s hard—and I swear I feel it pulse when our bodies align. That hunger I’ve been running from is not just mine. It’s his too. Relentless and untamed.
He carries me across the kitchen, his mouth dragging hot kisses along my jaw, my neck, my shoulder. And then he lays me down—right on the cold marble of the kitchen island.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
This island has seen every version of our war. Arguments. Standoffs. Silence. And now?
Now it’ll see surrender.
His hands glide down my body like he owns it. And maybe he does.
“Spread your legs for me,” he commands, voice thick with hunger.
