Page 35 of Faking the Rules

"You're incredible," he breathes, pressing his forehead against mine.

I reach for him, needing to feel his weight above me, needing the grounding reality of his body against mine. His arousal is evident, pressing hard against my thigh, but there's no impatience in his touch, no demand for reciprocation. Only tenderness, only care, only the steady assurance that this—whatever this is becoming—happens on terms we set together.

"I want you," I whisper against his lips, suddenly certain beyond doubt or fear. "All of you, Declan. Not just parts."

His eyes search mine, seeking confirmation that I'm sure, that this isn't just the haze of pleasure speaking. What he finds must satisfy him, because he nods, reaching toward the nightstand, retrieving what we need without breaking eye contact, as if afraid I might disappear if he looks away even for a moment.

He shucks off his pants and boxer briefs and then settles back between my thighs, something shifts in the air between us—anticipation giving way to inevitability, performance to authenticity. This is real. He is real.Weare real.

But for once, change doesn't terrify me. For once, I'm not analyzing, not calculating, not maintaining careful emotional distance. I'm simply present, simply feeling, simply being.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs as he slides his cock inside of me. I gasp and hold his shoulders, not used to the fullness, how big he is. He stretched me around him, and I whimper in pleasure. "You’re so fucking tight, Ellie." He slides a finger down over my lips. “So fucking good.”

He starts to fuck me, harder, hitting a rhythm, finally letting this be about his own pleasure. When he comes inside of me, another orgasm rips through me, and I come undone underneath him.

After, he wraps me in his arms, my head on his chest listening to the gradual slowing of his heartbeat.

"You okay?" Declan asks softly, his fingers tracing patterns on my bare shoulder.

"More than okay," I assure him, pressing a kiss to his chest. "That was..."

"Yeah," he agrees when I trail off, unable to find adequate words. "It was."

We lie in comfortable silence for a while, basking in the afterglow of connection, of barriers breached and truths acknowledged. This is real, I think with wonder. This is actually real.

"Stay," Declan murmurs, his arms tightening slightly around me. "Stay the night."

"I'll stay," I agree, settling more comfortably against him.

His soft kiss against my hair feels like benediction, like promise. We drift toward sleep wrapped in each other, the lines between performance and reality, between caution and courage, permanently redrawn.

And As Declan's breathing deepens beside me, his arms secure around my waist, I surrender to the simple, terrifyingtruth: I'm falling in love with him. Have been falling since long before I was willing to admit it. And whatever comes next—whether joy or heartbreak or some complex mixture of both—I'm done pretending otherwise.

To myself, or to him.

Chapter 7

Iwake to unfamiliar shadows dancing across an unfamiliar ceiling, my body deliciously sore in ways that instantly bring memories flooding back—Declan's hands exploring with reverent intensity, his lips tracing paths of fire across my skin, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress as we moved together in perfect, devastating synchronicity.

A flush of heat spreads through me at the memory, warming places that had been cold for so long I'd forgotten warmth was possible. I turn my head to find him watching me, propped on one elbow, eyes soft with something that makes my chest ache.

"Morning," he says, voice roughened by sleep, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Sleep okay?"

"Great," I admit, the truth easier in this hushed space between night and morning, when reality feels slightly suspended. "You?"

His smile widens, transforming his face with boyish delight that makes him look younger, more vulnerable than the confident hockey star the world sees. "Same," he says, fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from my face. The casual intimacy of the gesture steals my breath. "Though I'm notconvinced I wasn't dreaming. Might need some confirmation that last night actually happened."

Before I can respond. The kiss is languid, unhurried, lacking the desperate edge of last night's passion but no less devastating for its gentleness. My body responds instantly, nerve endings firing like sparklers in July, heat pooling low in my abdomen.

"Convinced?" I murmur against his mouth when we finally part.

"Getting there," he teases, his hand sliding beneath the sheet to trace patterns on my bare hip. "Might need more evidence."

What follows is a slow, deliberate exploration If last night was revelation, this morning is confirmation, a testament to something that has nothing to do with arrangements or performances and everything to do with the simple, devastating truth of two people choosing each other in the clear light of day.

After, wrapped again in the warmth of his arms, my head tucked perfectly beneath his chin, the reality of it all begins to hit me.

"What are you thinking about?" Declan asks, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my shoulder. "You've got that look."

---