Page 39 of Declan

I lean against the doorframe, smirking.

“It means I know exactly how to make you come hard and scream my name, sweetheart.” I throw her a wink, watching that spark in her eyes flare before she can hurl her usual poison my way. Without another word, I leave, attempting to tug the door back into place, though it’s barely hanging from its frame after I nearly took it off.

Kian leans against the wall just outside, arms crossed, with that irritating smirk he wears far too well. “Need me to ring someone about the door, brother?”

I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah,” I say, taking a step toward him. “How much did you hear, mate?”

He laughs, low and slow. “Oh, you know… just the occasional moan, a whimper or two…” He chuckles, that smug look practically plastered on his face.

I roll my eyes, though I can’t help the corner of my mouth quirking up. “She wasn’t even that loud.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, still grinning. “But next time? Don’t break the fucking door so I can close it.”

I look in the mirror, my face still red from her riding it. Fuck…

The shower scalds down on me, steam curling thick in the air, but it does nothing to erase her scent from my skin. A smirk pulls at my lips, the taste of her still fresh, a reminder of exactly how I left her—trembling, breathless, a beautiful mess.

I pushed her right over the edge; although it seemed like a good idea, I’m the one with aching balls and a cock so hard it could break the stone.

Water streams over me, but I close my eyes and let the memory fill my head—the way she shuddered, the way her eyes rounded, helpless, as I wrung every shiver and whimper out of her. Knowing I can leave her like that—aching and dripping—is more satisfying than anything.

My hand drifts lower, heat and slick warmth building under my grip. My cock is hard as iron. I pump it almost punishingly, savouring the memory of her broken, choked breaths, her taste lingering on my tongue.

The way her hips buckled as she rode my face without even noticing, her hand pulling my hair and the other piercing my shoulders with her nails. My jaw tightens at the thought, and my hand quickens, desperate for some relief from the ache she’s left.

A grunt escapes my throat as the tension coils tighter. I lean into the cold tiles; everything has her scent. That woman brings out something primal in me.

This is just business but fuck if I don’t want to be balls deep inside her. I will be, but the thought of the complications, even making her come, will probably bring a shitstorm into my own home. But I can’t resist anymore.

I grip harder, my balls feeling like they’re about to explode. Her whimpers as her orgasm hits come to mind, and it’s enough to send me over the edge.

It takes me a few minutes to get myself back together. For some reason, I’m still on edge. My hand isn’t enough. I need to get this feeling out of me—fast.

Heading to the study, I see Connor smiling like a damn idiot. I’m guessing Kian can’t keep his mouth shut. I’ll remember that.

“Don’t, Connor,” I warn as he hands me a picture of some guy with a blond beard. “Who the fuck is this?”

“We finally have a lead on the warehouses.” He hands me my suit jacket. “Flynn has him at the docks. We need to get there fast, or we’ll miss all the fun,” Connor chuckles, already moving toward the door.

A smirk crosses my face. This is exactly what I need. “We can’t miss that.”

One of our men is already at the door. He nods and opens it. The silence is nerve-wracking if you don’t know this place—the grey

walls, the small windows, the office materials left behind before the Dark Wars. The place feels haunted.

We head down the hallway in silence. A steel door stands at the end. Connor knocks twice. A few seconds later, the door opens. Inside, there’s the sound of a whimpering man. My lips curl up. This is going to be fun.

This place is one of the office buildings owned by the Russians. We had enough of those, so we turned the basement into our little interrogation centre.

I step into the room, the sound of my boots barely a whisper against the seamless, charcoal-grey floor. The dim industrial lights hang low, casting a glow on the metallic surfaces; every inch of this room is designed for a single purpose—holding secrets as tightly as it traps sounds.

The concrete walls, sheathed in sterile steel panels, give it that clinical, surgical feel. This room doesn’t let anything escape not sight, not sound, not even the blood that gets spilt here.

I glance down, noting the barely visible line of the drainage system along the floor. Practical. Efficient. The details matter in a place like this. Blood, sweat, and tears—they’re all washed away, leaving no trace. That’s the point. Once someone enters this room, it’s as if the room itself erases them.

I shrug off my suit jacket and start rolling up my sleeves. The grim reaper skull tattoo on my arm catches our new captive’s attention. A dark red rain surrounds the reaper, drops that seem to taunt him.

I give him a cold smile. “I’ll be adding you to this soon enough. The only thing left to decide is how much pain you want before it’s over, mate.” My voice is steady, calm, and detached; I’ve done this more times than I can count over the last decade.

---