“Don’t call me your God,” he rasps, his voice ragged with restraint. “Not whenI’mthe one on my knees foryou, wife.”
He presses his mouth harder against me, groaning as his tongue works me over. The sound rumbles through me, a growl that vibrates straight to my center, setting everything inside me ablaze.
“Come for me,Señora,” he commands. “Right here. Right now.”
And with his tongue lapping, his fingers thrusting, his name on my lips—I do.
My hands claw at the edge of the counter, hips bucking as I fuck his mouth. “Declan—oh my God—”
He holds me down, not letting me move. Not letting me get away from it. From him.
The orgasm hits before I can brace for it. It slams through me like a freight train, dragging his name out of me in a cry that would shame a woman with less pride.
But I have no pride left. Not when it comes to him.
He rises, eyes dark and wild, pulling open his belt with one swift jerk. His dick springs free—thick, proud, flushed—and I feel my core clench in pure anticipation.
“On your stomach,” he says.
I hesitate.
“Now,Señora Agassi.”
And I turn, just like that. Like I never stopped being his.
Chapter thirty-four
Hot, Bothered & Bitchy
Eslin
Ican’t believe I let them talk me into this. Me, a grown-ass woman, dressed up for a Halloween party like I don’t have real bills and a reputation to maintain. But here I am—Poetic Justice braids swinging, high-waisted jeans hugging all the right places, black crop top just shy of modest, and yes, I’m even chewing gum like Janet. With Bixa Beauty’s Nude Margaret Monroe Lip Whip on my lips, I know I look good.
The Supper Club is even more stunning than the whispers promised. I’ve heard stories of what goes down here, who slips in and out under the radar, what kind of secrets live between the shadows of velvet curtains, low-lit lounges and private suites. But I’ve never dared to step foot inside. Not because I couldn’t, but because I wasn’t sure I could walk out the same.
There’s something about this place. The sharp scent of money and musk. The way the light cuts across crystal glassware. The way the walls seem to hum with the kind of indulgence I’ve spent most of my life convincing myself I didn’t need.
But tonight the air feels different. Electric. Like something’s about to happen—something I didn’t see coming. The kind of night that doesn’t ask for permission. That doesn't wait for you to feel ready. The kind that pulls you in before you can remind yourself to stay away.
It’s the same hum I felt that night in Vegas with Grant. The night we didn’t sleep together, but still he somehow managed to ruin every other man for me without even touching me like that.
And still, for some reason, instead of turning and walking out, I step in. All the way.
“Girl, you arekillingthat Janet Jackson look!” Tatum calls out as she struts over, two drinks in hand. She passes one to me with a wink.
“Thank you! I see you went full Foxy Brown tonight?” I say, eyeing her up and down in her leather and gold.
“Original Pam Grier, baby,” she grins. “She’s my spirit animal.”
I laugh. “Why am I not even a little bit surprised?”
We take a beat to take it all in—the crowd, the music, the vibe. “You really did an amazing job with this,” I say, glancing around at the luxurious Halloween setup. “But what made you choosethisplace?”
Tatum smirks. “One of the owners owed me a favor, and I figured, why not go big? What other team is throwing a party like this? It’s sexy, it’s bold—”
“It’ssoyou,” I cut in, and we both crack up because even though we haven’t known each other long, I’ve got her number. Wild, creative, always down to stir the pot.
She takes a sip of her drink, eyes scanning the room. “You seen Marlow yet?”
