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Bent over the couch, I can only see him in the reflection on dark windows. As his hand runs down my spine, I watch the face in the reflection, drinking in the possessiveness in his eyes.
The gesture is easy to read. I’m his.
He begins to pump in and out of me, slowly at first, and then faster. My low moans turn to high-pitched mewls as he goes.
“You like that?” he grunts between thrusts.
“Yes,” I whimper. “Yes, I like that.”
He delivers a stinging swat to my ass with his palm, and I moan at the echoing smack of his skin on mine. Every sound we make drifts around the room, all the way to the lofty ceiling, amplified.
“Mmm. My perfect, beautiful spitfire,” he says. He holds my hip with one hand, sinking his cock deep into me. At the same time, he gathers up each of my wrists in his free hand, pinning them to my back. “You’re so damn wet, you know that?”
“Have—been—for—hours,” I manage to gasp. And it’s true. Even while we were sitting at the dinner table, I kept shifting. He must have noticed.
“And who are you wet for, baby? Who gets you like this?”
“You! Just you.”
“Damn right,” he growls. “No one else gets me this hard. No one ever will. I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you.”
My cries reach a crescendo, and I’m unable to respond. He fucks me with abandon, and his release comes only a few seconds after mine—just long enough for him to make sure that I ride the wave for as long as possible. It’s intense and powerful, and once it’s over, I slither forward onto the couch as if every bone in my body has turned to liquid.
“You have me,” I tell him, caressing the light stubble on his jaw as he turns me over and then leans down to kiss me.
“Finally,” he murmurs in agreement, his lips grazing my ear. I shiver at the sound of his voice, so close that I can hear the post-orgasm hoarseness.
He presses his lips against my neck, then straightens and pulls me up off the couch.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says.
He leads me into his sprawling bedroom, stripping as we go and depositing his jacket and shirt on the bed. Then he takes me into the attached bathroom. It’s beautiful, with marble walls and a skylight over a tub large enough for four people.
He takes me to the shower, which is set into a nook in the corner.
The water pressure, like everything else in Declan’s home, is perfect. He sets the temperature, and I press myself close to him, savoring the sensation of his skin against mine.
Declan hands me a bar of soap, and as it lathers in my fingers, the shower begins to smell like spring—fresh lavender and sandalwood. The good stuff.
“You know,” he says, daubing shampoo onto his palm, “I have an event coming up in two weeks.”
“An event?” I say, a teasing note in my voice. “What do you mean, an ‘event?’”
“A party,” he admits, as if it’s a confession I’ve coaxed out of him. “For my grandmother. It’s her birthday.”
“Oh! That’s great.” He offers me the shampoo. I do a quick mental calculation—my hair has been messed up by boyfriend shampoo one too many times—but I figure that whatever hair care products Declan uses, they’re probably higher quality than mine. “Tell her I said happy birthday.”
“I’m inviting you to come with me, Spitfire,” he says patiently.
I fumble with the bottle. “Wait, really?”
“Of course.” He shrugs, turning to rinse his dark hair. “My grandmother is very important to me. I want you to be there.”
I feel heat in my cheeks, and I know I must be blushing. Declan really meant it when he said he wanted to do this for real. He’s serious.
I look up at him as the water cascades down his toned shoulders. This is really starting to feel real. This is everything I wanted.
I step forward, back into the warmth of Declan’s body, as he bends down to kiss me. It’s a deep kiss, and when I get the chance to come up for air, I smile.
