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“Every time you clench around me, you buck and I can’t do my job, Samira. Sit still or I will strap you down.”
I shocked sound escapes me. “You will not!”
I shiver at the dark chuckle leaving him. It’s filled with a threat, and I don’t think I want to be on the receiving end of it. My mouth snaps shut, and to my appeasement, he enters me again. Each thrust has his palm stroking my aching bundle of nerves until that coil spirals tighter and tighter.
I bite down on the inside of my lip as the waves of my climax reach their peak. “Fuck,” I cry with one final stroke of my clit until I’m sensitive and quivering against him.
Declan hums in satisfaction, straightens out my skirt, and then turns off the car. “Fuck is right,” he says through an exhale. “I don’t think forty-eight hours is long enough to satisfy this deep craving I have for you.”
Same.
Chapter Fourteen
“Whydoyoulivehere?” I ask, taking the stemless glass that Declan offers.
I sip the cool, white wine, my gaze on his arms as he rolls up the sleeves of the white dress shirt. Various colors of ink trace along his skin from his wrists and swirl up and into the shirt again. I hadn’t noticed the tattoos before today. Every time I’ve seen him, he’s been in the suits—practically covered from head to toe.
With his jacket tossed away, his tie gone, and the first button of his shirt undone, I can see them all. He’s covered in them. Vibrant colors of flowers and skulls, some black and white work. I set the drink on the counter and grab his arm to inspect the detail further.
“My place had a roof leak.” He rests his hands on the countertop of the island. “It should be fixed soon.”
A finger runs up his arm. “Is this up like all the way to your shoulder?”
“Mhm.” He pulls away to unbutton his shirt. Underneath is a thin, white tank top and I can see the ink lining his torso, to the start of his neck. Fuck, he is seriously covered. “Basically, my entire body except my hands, neck and face.”
“Wow,” I say, a bit breathless. “That’s—did it hurt?”
A bright sound of laughter escapes him, different from all the other times I’ve heard it. “Yes. It hurt.”
“Is your . . .” I clear my throat, then shake my head. No. I’m not about to ask if he has his ass cheeks or penis tattooed. That’s awkward. “Why?”
He pulls off his tank top and does a little spin so I can catch the rest of the art on his back. I gasp at the stunning mural there and approach to touch it. A horse is reared up on its hind legs, its dark hair blowing in the wind. My fingers run along the white and brown paint pattern on its stomach.
“Because without pain, sometimes I feel like I’m dying inside.”
My heart cracks at the admission. “For me, the pain makes me feel like I’m the one dying.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too,” I whisper, moving my touch toward a weeping girl sitting on a rock below the horse. It’s almost as if the horse is about to stomp down on her, and her teardrops are red. For blood? “Who is she?” I ask, stroking the blonde hair.
I’ve never seen such detail in a tattoo. It’s breathtaking. So fine tuned. I feel as though I’m staring at a painting in a museum. There’s emotion in the images.
“She represents the women who have taken their lives because their loved ones failed them.”
“Oh, Declan.” I wrap my hands around him, my cheek resting against his back. “I’m so sorry.” I want to ask who. Who does he feel like he failed? But I don’t know if I can without giving him my own. And I’m not about to tell him about Ian. Not at this moment, when we’re supposed to have nothing but each other until Sunday evening. Maybe I’ll tell him the truth later.
He clears his throat, then turns around so we’re facing each other. “Enough of the bullshit emotions. I brought you here to fuck you, not pour our hearts out.” He grabs my chin and forces my gaze to clash with his. “Unless that’s what you want.”
I don’t pull away from the icy blue depth of his eyes. They’re like an ocean full of hurt, and why hadn’t I noticed that before? Is it why I’d been drawn to him at the club? Here we are, two broken souls filled with heartache and the inability to walk through life without experiencing the gnawing feeling of destruction that seems to follow us.
“Anything,” he reminds me when I don’t respond. “I said I’d take anything. So, if you need more words, then fine. But I’d prefer none. No words. Just the sweet sound of your moans.”
I grin at him. “The latter. I want that. Take my clothes off, Mr. Murphy.”
He shakes his head, his soft grip on my chin turning into a firm hold. “Undo my belt.”
I inhale a shaky breath, then do as I’m told. My fingers fumble with the metal belt.
