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She had done an excellent job of blocking it from her mind. But being near Declan, in his arms, the scent of his cologne lingering against her, that wall she had put up around him started to crumble.
She tried to get back on track, consuming her mind instead with her next question. She had the means right in her hands to crack open at least one more of their biggest cases ever.
Declan was an international assassin; there wasn’t much he didn’t know. But she couldn’t think of anything else. Her mind had blanked. And now, other images filled her head.
They were just about to play the game where she was meant to maneuver a boiled egg up Declan’s pants, but she stood there staring at him.
Without another word, Declan took her hand. She had to walk twice as fast to keep up with him. As soon as they were alone, he pulled her into an alcove and pinned her against the wall.
“What’s your question, Peyton?” Declan asked softly.
She only had this one opportunity to get vital information out of him concerning the entire world. But she couldn’t see that far ahead. All that mattered was her.
“What does your tattoo say?” she whispered instead.
Declan picked up her hand and placed it over his chest. “This one,” he asked first before he lifted her hand again and placed it on his cock, “or this one?”.
A million sparks of electricity flew through her as he hardened under her palm.
She was so lost and confused. She didn’t know anything about anything anymore. Except that she had seen two letters of the tattoo on his cock and she needed to know what it said.
“Please, Declan,” she whimpered softly as he now pressed his hardness into her, his lips hovering over her mouth, stealing her breath and displacing her entire universe at his feet.
Chapter Eleven
Declan took her hand, hurrying her along again without saying a word, oblivious to their surroundings. After bundling her into her coat, he scooped her up and carried her from the main chalet to their cabin.
“Declan,” she softly said as he carried her into the bedroom and stood her against the St. Andrews cross.
“Please, just tell me,” she begged. She needed to see his tattoo. Because what she thought she saw left her in a state of unexplained frenzy. And changed everything about their dynamic.
If what she thought was in fact real, nothing in life had ever made sense, and nothing ever would.
But he remained silent as he removed her coat again, then dropped down to his haunches and removed her boots. His movements were intense and urgent, his aura dark and heavy, and she latched on to it as if her life depended on it.
“Don’t do this…” she whispered, brewing in her own state of confusion. He was and would always be a dangerous man who seemed fixated on her for reasons she still didn’t know.
Ignoring her, he peeled off her sweater and flung it aside. Her skirt and thigh-high knit socks followed the same suit.
She closed her eyes when he unclasped her bra and stripped off her panties, already wet. She stood completely naked before him, her weak protests lost in the ether between them.
There had been nothing slow or measured in the way he had stripped her. It was as if his next breath depended on getting her naked.
She opened her eyes and caught a glimpse of her panties sticking out of his jeans pocket.
Panting heavily out of fear and arousal simultaneously, she shattered apart when Declan raised her arms and clasped her wrists in a pair of metal cuffs, then threaded the rope that hung down from each side of the wooden structure into the loop of the cuffs, keeping her arms upright.
He spared her ankles from the cuffs but forced her to part her legs and keep them apart for him. And then he just stared at her with his hands in his jeans pockets.
“Declan,” she softly murmured, finding her voice and realizing what she looked like to him pinned to the St. Andrews Cross, her legs parted wide, her pussy spread for his view.
“Fuck.” His voice had thickened as he neared her and cupped her face. “Say my name again.” His thumb brushed over her bottom lip. She could see the darkness in his eyes, the hunger, and the violent desperation.
It disturbed her that she wasn’t afraid of him.
“Declan… this is wrong. You know that—”
“You’re mine,” he growled. “And I’m going to mark every inch of your body with my touch, Peyton.”
