Page 34 of Faking the Rules

His bedroom continues the theme of understated comfort—a large bed with simple navy linens, more bookshelves, a desk in the corner with a laptop and scattered papers. But I notice these details only peripherally, my attention focused entirely on Declan as he lays me gently on the bed, his body covering mine with delicious weight.

His weight above me is exhilarating—solid and real in a way that makes my heart race with anticipation. His eyes hold mine, intent and searching, as if memorizing every detail of my face. The moment stretches between us, charged with everything unsaid, everything we've been circling for weeks.

"You are so beautiful,” he whispers, his voice raw with honesty.

My response dies in my throat as his lips find mine again, the kiss deeper now, more demanding. Gone is the careful restraint he's shown until this moment—replaced by a hunger that matches the ache building low in my abdomen. His hands slide beneath my shirt, palms warm against my skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

When he tugs at the hem, I lift my arms, allowing him to pull the fabric over my head in one fluid motion. The cool air prickles my skin, but I barely notice, lost in the intensity of his gaze as it travels over me.

"I've thought about this," he confesses, fingers tracing the lace edge of my bra with heartbreaking tenderness. "Dreamed about it. But nothing compares to the reality of you."

The vulnerability in his admission steals my breath. This isn't the cocky hockey star or the strategic partner in our arrangement. This is just Declan—raw, honest, seeing me with a clarity that terrifies and exhilarates me in equal measure.

He lowers his head, lips tracing a burning path from my collarbone down to the swell of my breasts. My back arches instinctively, seeking more contact, more pressure, more of everything he's making me feel. His hand slides beneath me, unclasping my bra with practiced ease that I can't bring myself to resent. Not when he's looking at me like I'm something precious, something to be cherished rather than simply consumed.

"Is this okay?" he asks, voice rough with desire but still careful, still mindful of my boundaries.

"Yes," I breathe, the single syllable carrying the weight of weeks of denial, of fear overcome, of walls carefully dismantled.

The garment joins my shirt on the floor, and I fight the instinct to cover myself, to hide from the naked hunger in his eyes. Vulnerability has never come easily to me—not since my mother walked away without a backward glance, not since James betrayed me in the most intimate way possible. But here, with Declan, the exposure feels like liberation rather than danger.

His mouth continues its exploration, lips and tongue and the gentlest scrape of teeth creating sensations that draw sounds from my throat I hardly recognize as my own. When he takes my nipple between his lips, pleasure spirals through me so intensely my fingers twist in the sheets, seeking anchor in a world suddenly reduced to sensation.

"Declan," I gasp, his name a plea for something I can't articulate.

He understands anyway, his hands moving to the button of my jeans, eyes seeking mine in silent question. I nod, lifting my hips to help as he slides the denim down my legs with agonizing slowness, his fingers trailing fire along every inch of newly revealed skin until I’m left in nothing but my underwear.

Something flares in his eyes—wonder, gratitude, and a hunger so acute it makes my breath catch. He lowers himself over me again, capturing my lips in a kiss that feels like claiming, like promise, like coming home after the longest journey.

His hands continue their exploration, tracing the curve of my waist, the flare of my hip, the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. When his fingers brush against the thin fabric still covering my center, I gasp against his mouth, hips lifting instinctively toward his touch.

"I want to taste you," he murmurs against my lips, the words sending a jolt of liquid heat straight to my core.

The request, delivered with such raw need, ignites something primal within me. Words fail, so I simply nod, spreading my legs slightly in invitation.

His smile turns predatory as he begins moving down my body, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along my sternum, across my ribs, over the sensitive skin of my stomach. Each point of contact feels like a brand, marking me as his in ways that transcend the physical.

When he reaches the elastic of my underwear, his eyes lift to mine once more—checking, always checking that I'm with him, that I want this as much as he does. The care he shows, even in the depths of his own desire, makes my chest ache with an emotion I'm still too frightened to name.

He hooks his fingers under the fabric, dragging it slowly down my legs until I'm completely bare before him, vulnerablein a way I've never allowed myself to be since James's betrayal. But where I expect to feel fear, I find only anticipation, only certainty that whatever happens next will shatter and remake me in ways I've been too afraid to imagine.

Declan settles between my thighs, his broad shoulders creating space, his breath warm against my most sensitive flesh. The first touch of his tongue against me pulls a sound from deep in my chest—half gasp, half moan, wholly surrender.

He explores with deliberate patience, learning what makes my breath catch, what draws those helpless sounds from my throat, what makes my fingers tangle in his hair seeking both anchor and encouragement. All the while, his eyes remain locked on mine, watching as pleasure transforms my features, as writhe and moan beneath his dedicated attention.

It's the most intimate thing I've ever experienced—not just physically, but emotionally. The way he reads my body, responds to my unspoken needs, adjusts pressure and rhythm with intuitive precision. This isn't performance or calculation—this is connection in its purest form, communication beyond words.

When he slides one finger inside me, then another, curling upward to hit a spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids, I know I won't last much longer. The dual sensation of his fingers and mouth pushes me rapidly toward a peak that looms like a precipice, terrifying and irresistible.

"Declan," I gasp, my voice breaking on his name. "I'm close, I—"

“Come for me," he murmurs against me, the vibration of his voice adding another layer to the building pleasure. "Come for me, I want to taste you.”

It's his words as much as his touch that send me hurtling over the edge—the tenderness in them, the certainty, the promise of safety even in my most vulnerable moment. My back arches, his name tearing from my throat as wave after wave ofpleasure crashes through me, obliterating thought, obliterating fear, obliterating everything except the sensation and the man creating it.

He works me through it, gradually slowing his movements as the aftershocks ripple through me, as my body relaxes back into the mattress, boneless and sated in a way I've never experienced before.

When he moves back up my body, his expression holds something I never expected to see directed at me—triumph, yes, but also reverence, as if witnessing my pleasure is a gift he treasures above his own gratification.

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