Page 58 of Feel Me

I assumed he’d eventually tell Curran about us, but . . .

I take in his somber features. Asking me to meet his family is a lot for him. Perhaps he doesn’t realize it’s a lot for me, too. My dad is my family. I have other relatives, sure, but they live outside of Pittsburgh and we’re not close. The last time I saw them was at a cousin’s wedding when I was very young.

My hand passes over my long skirt as I think about the last young man I brought home. It happened my senior year of college. Dad didn’t like him, and after he cheated on me with one of my sorority sisters, I didn’t like him either.

“What are you thinking?” he says when I don’t answer.

“That you’re sweet for inviting us,” I answer truthfully.

Thanksgiving with Declan and the entire O’Brien clan. I don’t dare ask what it means, not when I’m certain he may not be ready, and mostly because I know that I am.

I need him. I only wish he needed me, too.

“If Dad’s up to it, we’ll come. I wish I could give you a definite answer, but we’re taking things day by day.” I try to smile because despite all the doubts and uncertainties racing through my head, I am happy he asked. “Thank you for the invitation, and for thinking of us.”

He doesn’t seem happy. If anything, worry shrouds his face like a blanket. “What if your dad’s not up to it? What will you do that day?”

I don’t want to think about my father getting worse, but it’s unavoidable. “We can meet up afterward if you’re available. But if you can’t, don’t worry. I don’t want to take you away from your family.” It’s hard to keep my voice steady when I mention his family. Declan is lucky to have an army of loved ones who adore him. If Dad goes, I’ll be alone.

I blink back the tears that want to fall, but I don’t turn away soon enough. “Hey,” he says, cupping my face to wipe my eyes. “What’s wrong, beautiful?”

The way Declan regards me, his face so full of compassion and kindness, is more than I can take, triggering the misery I’ve been beating back all day.

I lean in and kiss him, wanting to feel something else besides sadness. But when I deepen my kiss and crawl on his lap he pulls back, holding me carefully. “You’re not okay, are you?” he asks.

No, but I want to be.

I reinforce that dam I’ve built so it doesn’t break and unleash everything I fear. “Today was tough day,” I admit. My hands slide over his hard chest, smoothing over his shoulders. “That’s not how I want it to end. I want to feel good. Will you help me?”

His stare warms. He knows what I need, and he doesn’t deny me.

He lifts me from his lap, slowly dragging my figure down his hard form as he straightens and pulls off my dress, his eyes never leaving mine.

His hands, so large and strong, carefully reach for my hearing aids, removing one at a time in that same leisurely manner he peeled off my dress. They’re devices, electronics, really. But the way he slips them from my body is as intimate as the way he unclasps my bra and frees me of my panties.

I reach for his belt buckle. He clasps my wrist, lifting my hands to kiss each one. “Let’s make this all about you,” he says. “I can’t give you much, but let me give you this.”

I’m not certain I know what he means, but what I think he means causes a tear to drip down my cheek. “Don’t,” he says, his hands gliding along my jaw. “Just let me make you feel good.”

His hands were gentle against my face, but his touch becomes more daring as they feel their way down my curves. The moment his fingers graze over my backside, this man who can be so gentle turns primordial.

Exactly what I need him to be.

His lips crash against mine, his mouth ravaging me as his hands travel to my breasts to explore, tease, tug. I whimper when he rolls both nipples before his tongue drags down my throat. I can’t hear him, not this far away from my ears. But I can feel his breath against my skin, whispering those dirty words he knows drive me wild.

My spine bows backward when his teeth fasten onto the tip of my breast. He holds tight to my waist with his arm while his other hand slips between my legs. I watch him work me, no longer shy like I used to be.

I’m still wearing the garter stockings and my heels, but that’s how he wants me. He spreads my legs and falls to his knees. My breath catches as he lifts my right foot and places it on the coffee table. I grunt when he buries his face between my legs, clasping his shoulders to keep from falling.

“Declan,” I gasp, his mouth pulling in my delicate skin, suckling hard and encouraging me to rock. “Declan.”

The force of my orgasm has me toppling over. He catches me, lowering me to the couch as he shoves down his pants. In one smooth motion he enters me, his face fixed on mine as he pumps his hips and he kneads my breasts. I kick out when he pushes deeper, my legs flailing and my nails digging into the fabric of the couch as my passion escalates out of control.

“Touch yourself for me,” he says, his gaze traveling briefly to watch. “Yeah. Just like that,” he says, his eyelids heavy with lust.

This kind of sex, so freeing and ardent, is more than I’ve experienced with another man. It awakens me, making me feel desired, as if only the two of us can make each other feel this good.

We both finish, his hips slowing as he curls forward. He swears as he watches me, tightening his jaw in agonizing bliss. I know he’s not done, but neither am I.

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