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The following day, I arrive early. I can’t help myself. It doesn’t matter if I’m going to work or going to play. I have to be early so I can scope out the situation.
The location surprises me. It’s a nice apartment building in a nice area of town. I halfway expected Declan to choose a hotel, or a seedy location where nobody would ever expect to see someone like him.
This seems almost normal. Like, so normal that it’s completely unexpected.
There’s no security at the front. No doorman. Just a panel with a directory and a button to buzz to get in.
I’m in and upstairs before I realize just how nice this place is—and what, exactly, it entails. Declan has rented—or purchased—an entire apartment for this. That’s how serious he is about tucking this little affair away from the rest of our lives. And yet this apartment is going to be a nicer place than the one I actually live in. I can tell by the quality of the hallway that leads to the address he gave me. The paint is fresh, and maintained. There aren’t any suspicious stains on the floor to skirt around. And I can’t hear what’s going on in any of the apartments I pass on my way down the hall. The insulation is good.
I can scream all I like without anyone being able to hear me, I realize, my mouth going dry.
I reach the door and stop, second-guessing myself. Trying to trust that this is actually something I want to do. I guess I’m feeling a little overwhelmed. Of course I want to be with Declan again, in some capacity. I have been a fool to ignore what we have together. But even the smallest details have been the most ridiculous. Like, what does one wear to a tryst with one’s boss? Something slutty? Something mature? Business casual?
I actually considered lingerie under a trench coat. To be fair, it was Reagan’s idea. But something about it felt sleazy. That doesn’t mean I don’t have nice lingerie on underneath my regular clothes, but right now, I’m just in jeans and a nice blouse.
And feeling underdressed and underprepared.
I can’t stay in this hallway forever. And it’s not like I haven’t already made the decision. I finally steel myself and knock on the door. Anxious, as usual. As with all things having to do with Declan. Butterflies big enough to beat bruises into the lining of my stomach.
The door opens.
Suddenly, I don’t know what I’ve been worried about. Not with the way Declan’s looking at me, smoldering. Gray eyes molten metal. We both want this.
He’s dressed more casually than I’ve ever seen him—a form-fitting, dark gray T-shirt that makes his eyes pop and what have to be jeans made just for his body. I don’t have much time to appreciate just how good he makes those clothes look before he pulls me inside the room, shutting and locking the door behind me.
I stare up at him, out of breath like I’ve just walked all the way across the city. There aren’t any words we can say to each other. Declan pushes me against the door, caging me with his arms, and kisses me with nearly bruising force, like he can cram an entire year of sheer want into a single moment.
He tastes faintly of mint, and something inside me twists in a weird way, imagining him standing in front of a mirror, over a sink, brushing his teeth for this. But I’ve made the same kinds of preparations, shaving, buffing and exfoliating, moisturizing and plucking.
Somehow, it’s even hotter that we’re both prepared for this. Last time, in San Francisco, it was a chance meeting. A hot, unforgettable meeting. But lucky.
This time, it’s different. More potent. Powerful. This time, Declan is well aware of what he can do to me. How, exactly, my body responds to his touch. Just how hard he can press and pull and stroke and squeeze.
And yet with that control is something… completely out of control. We’re having to breathe for each other, neither of us coming up for air as he maps out the entire inside of my mouth with his hot tongue. I’m hanging on to his biceps for dear life and somewhere, within the haze of my desire for him, my need for all of this, I notice his muscles are shaking.
Like he’s barely holding it together.
Like he needs this just as much as me and maybe even more.
It’s a thought I can’t dwell on. I don't have time to. He’s dragging me away from the door, slipping his hands under my blouse, then into the waistband of my jeans, then through my hair like he can’t quite get a handle on what he wants to do first.
It’s… hot. Extremely hot. And gratifying that I'm having this kind of effect on someone I've only been able to fantasize about over the past year.
I shudder as I make sudden contact with another wall—no, a window, I discover, as Declan flips me around and presses me against it, ravishing my neck with kisses and tiny bites that make me pant. It’s floor to ceiling glass, high up, and yet I wonder how many people are looking at me right now. Watching me come undone in something I have wanted for so, so long.
Declan wraps his arms around me, caressing and squeezing my breasts through my blouse, and when I arch into him, I feel just how much I’ve turned him on since I walked in the door. It’s not hard to imagine him pacing around the apartment, anticipating my arrival. Just like it wasn’t hard to think of him pleasuring himself in his office, thinking about the opportunity to fuck me when and where he wanted.
What do you do when you finally get everything you’ve hoped for?
I revel in the moment, tossing my head back, keening, at an utter loss of control over my sounds and movements. I still have all my clothes mostly on, and I’m already at the edge. That’s how much I’ve looked forward to this.
“Gonna fuck you until you can’t walk,” Declan says roughly, his teeth against my ear, and I shiver.
“Hello to you too,” I manage to say, and he laughs, dark and full of promise.
“You should’ve just come already naked,” he says, finally making a decision and lifting my blouse up over my head, letting it drop to the floor. “Would’ve saved me work and time.”
The glass is cold, and it raises goosebumps across the surface of my skin whenever I brush against it. Now that Declan has given himself direction, he’s pure efficiency—not even stumbling at the clasps of my bra. I have to remind myself that he’s probably done this loads of times—one of them with me, of course. And once my breasts are free from their fabric confines, his hands are there to support them. To heft their weight. To thumb over my sensitive and quickly hardening nipples.
