Page 22 of Faking the Rules

The need in my voice seems to break something loose in him. He sits back on his heels, just looking at me as if committing every curve, every freckle, every imperfection to memory.

"You're staring," I whisper, vulnerability creeping in despite the desire pulsing through me.

"I can't help it," he says simply. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Before I can respond to this devastating honesty, he's kissing me again—deeper, hungrier, one hand sliding beneath the elastic of my underwear to find the slick heat at my center. The first touch of his fingers against my most sensitive flesh pulls a moan from deep in my chest.

"Fuck, Ellie," he mutters against my mouth. "You're so wet. So perfect."

His fingers explore with maddening precision, finding spots that make my breath hitch, my hips buck, my mind spiral into incoherence. All the while, his eyes hold mine, watching as pleasure transforms my features, as I come undone beneath his touch.

When he slides one finger inside my pussy, then another, my eyes flutter closed, overwhelmed by sensation.

"Look at me," he commands softly. "I want to see you. All of you."

I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze as his thumb circles my clit in rhythmic pressure that has me climbing rapidly toward release. There's something transcendent in this connection—more intimate than the physical act itself, this sharing of vulnerability, of unguarded reaction.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice tight with his own restraint. "Let go for me, Ellie. I've got you."

The combination of his words, his touch, and the intensity of his gaze sends me hurtling over the edge. My body tenses, then shatters, waves of pleasure radiating outward as his name tears from my throat. He works me through it, gradually slowing his movements as the aftershocks ripple through me.

As I drift back to awareness, I become conscious of his arousal pressed hard against my thigh, of the tension in his body as he holds himself carefully in check. In this moment, I want nothing more than to give him the same release he's given me, to watch him come undone the way I just have.

I place my palm against his chest, gently pushing him back until he's lying on my narrow bed. His eyes follow me, darkened with desire but also questioning, as I shift to straddle his thighs. The hard length of his cock strains against his pants, and I run my palm over it deliberately, savoring the sharp intake of breath this elicits.

"Let me," I murmur, reaching for his belt. "I want to make you feel good."

"Ellie," he breathes my name like a prayer, his hands coming to rest at my waist. "You don't have—"

"I want to," I interrupt, meeting his gaze directly. "I want to see you. All of you." I echo his earlier words, and the recognition flickers in his eyes, followed by something like surrender.

His head falls back against the pillow as I unbuckle his belt with newfound confidence, then tackle the button and zipper. He lifts his hips to help me as I tug his pants down his muscled thighs, leaving him in just black boxer briefs that do little to conceal his arousal.

I take a moment to simply look at him—the broad expanse of his chest with its light dusting of dark hair, the defined ridges of his abdomen, the powerful thighs that speak of countless hours on the ice.

When I hook my fingers in the waistband of his boxers, his breath catches audibly. His eyes never leave mine as I pull the fabric down, freeing him completely. The sight of his cock—hard, thick, straining, undeniably affected by me—sends another surge of heat through my core.

"Jesus," I breathe. “You could have warned me.”

I wrap my fingers around him, feeling the velvet-smooth skin over rigid hardness, the pulse of blood beneath my touch. His eyes flutter closed, a groan escaping from deep in his chest.

"Look at me," I command, just as he did earlier. "I want to see you, Declan."

His eyes snap open, locking with mine as I begin to move my hand, exploring what makes his breath hitch, what draws those delicious sounds from his throat. I vary pressure and speed, learning his body with the same dedication I apply to academic pursuits.

When I lower my head to take him into my mouth, his hands fist in the sheets, his body going rigid with the effort of maintaining control. The taste of him—clean skin with that indefinable essence that is uniquely Declan—is intoxicating. I explore his dick with my lips and tongue, watching his face transform with pleasure, storing away each reaction for future reference.

"Ellie," he groans, one hand moving to tangle gently in my hair. "God, that feels—I can't—"

The broken sentences, the inability to form coherent thoughts—it's a power I never expected to have over someone like him, and it's intoxicating. I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, reveling in the way his hips buck slightly before he forces himself to be still, always careful not to hurt me even in the depths of his pleasure.

"I'm close," he warns, tugging gently at my hair. "Ellie, I'm going to—"

I hold his gaze as I continue the rhythm with my hand and my mouth, sucking his cock, taking him as deep as I can.

The last turn of my wrist seems to break the last of his restraint. His body tenses, head pressing back into the pillow as his release hits him in powerful waves. I watch, transfixed, as pleasure transforms his features, as vulnerability and ecstasy render him completely open, completely unguarded.

There's something sacred in this moment—this gifting of complete trust, of control surrendered. I understand now why he wanted to see my face as I came apart beneath his touch. It's a kind of nakedness beyond the physical, a sharing of something most people keep hidden behind careful masks and practiced performances.

---