Page 21 of Faking the Rules

No more words are needed. Declan leans forward, his hand sliding into my hair as his lips find mine with deliberatetenderness. This kiss is nothing like the performance outside—it's slower, deeper, a conversation rather than a declaration.

I respond instantly, my body making decisions my mind hasn't fully processed. My hands find his shoulders, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath thin cotton. He tastes faintly of wine from dinner and something distinctly him, a flavor I realize I've been craving since our first kiss.

The kiss deepens, transforms, as Declan's arms wrap around me, drawing me closer until I'm practically in his lap. A small sound escapes me—half sigh, half moan—and I feel his response, the subtle tightening of his hold, the quickening of his breath.

When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, the world feels fundamentally altered. The pretense has been stripped away, leaving only raw truth between us.

"That wasn't fake," I whisper against his lips.

"No," he agrees, his forehead resting against mine. "Nothing about this feels fake anymore, Ellie."

The admission sends a wave of relief through me, followed immediately by fear. This wasn't the plan. Wasn't what we agreed to. And yet, it feels more right than anything has in months.

Declan must see the conflict in my eyes. "We can slow down," he says, his thumb tracing my lower lip in a gesture that contradicts his words. "Figure this out when we're not both emotionally raw from tonight."

He's right. Tonight has been a rollercoaster—the tension with his parents, the confrontation with James, the boundaries of our arrangement shifting beneath our feet. We should wait, think, talk about what this means.

But my body has other ideas. I lean forward, reclaiming his lips in a kiss that communicates more clearly than words what I want, what I need. His response is immediate, arms tightening around me as he returns the kiss with equal fervor.

Somehow we shift, lying down on my narrow bed, bodies aligned from chest to thigh. The weight of him pressing me into the mattress should feel confining, but instead feels like an anchor in a stormy sea. His hands remain respectful, though—one tangled in my hair, the other at my waist, not venturing further despite the obvious heat building between us.

"Ellie," he murmurs against my neck, where his lips have traveled in a burning path. "We should stop."

"Why?" I challenge, my fingers exploring the firm planes of his back beneath his t-shirt. The texture of his skin, smooth over hard muscle, ignites something primal in me—a hunger I've denied for so long that its sudden liberation feels almost violent in its intensity.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes finding mine in the dim light of my bedroom. The blue is almost entirely consumed by black now, pupils dilated with a desire that mirrors the ache spreading through my core.

"Because once we cross this line," he says, voice rough with restraint, "everything changes. And I need you to be sure."

The tenderness beneath his desire undoes me completely. How is it that this man—whom I once dismissed as nothing but surface and performance—can see through to my deepest fears? The terror of vulnerability, of giving myself to someone who might discard me just as James did, just as my mother did.

"I've never been more sure of anything," I whisper, reaching up to trace the sharp line of his jaw. "I want this. I want you, Declan."

Something breaks in his expression—control giving way to raw need. His mouth crashes back to mine, the kiss transforming from questioning to demanding in an instant. His tongue slides against mine, tasting of wine and desire and promises I'm suddenly desperate to believe.

My hands find the hem of his shirt, tugging upward with an urgency that surprises us both. He helps me, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull the fabric over his head before returning to me as if separation is physically painful. I get a glimpse of his bare torso, all muscles and hard planes, his six pack flexing as he moves. His body is magnificent, as if it’s been cut from stone, and the first press of his bare chest against mine—even through the thin cotton of my t-shirt—pulls a sound from deep in my throat that I hardly recognize as my own.

"I need to see you," he breathes against my lips. "Please, Ellie."

The vulnerability in his request, shatters any remaining hesitation. I nod, words failing as he slowly, reverently, begins to pull my shirt off. He moves the fabric slowly, revealing my skin inch by inch, which he immediately christens with his lips, creating a path of fire up my sternum.

When he finally has my shirt completely off, his breath catches audibly. "God, you're beautiful," he murmurs, eyes tracking over me with an intensity that should make me self-conscious but instead makes me feel powerful, desired in a way I've never experienced.

I reach behind me to unhook my bra, the rational part of my brain silenced by the need coursing through my veins like molten gold. The garment falls away, and Declan's expression transforms into something almost worshipful.

"I've dreamed about this," he confesses, his hands hovering just above my skin, as if waiting for permission. "About you. Every night since that day in Harmon's class when you eviscerated my Hemingway interpretation and I realized I'd do anything to make you look at me like that again."

The admission steals my breath—not just the longing it reveals, but the timeframe. He's wanted me since before our arrangement, before the pretense, before everything that'sdeveloped between us. It wasn't convenience or opportunity or strategy that drew him to me. It was me. Just me.

"Touch me," I whisper, the command barely audible above the pounding of my heart.

His hands finally, finally make contact—palms warm and slightly callused as they cup my breasts. His thumbs brush across my nipples, and my back arches involuntarily, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of everything he's making me feel.

Declan lowers his head, replacing one hand with his mouth, and the wet heat of his tongue against my sensitive skin sends electricity arcing through my body. I gasp his name, fingers tangling in his hair to anchor myself as sensation threatens to overwhelm me.

His free hand traces down my ribcage, across my stomach, coming to rest at the waistband of my panties. Again, he pauses, eyes seeking mine in silent question.

"Yes," I breathe, lifting my hips in invitation. "Please, Declan."

---