Page 23 of Faking the Rules

When the last aftershocks have subsided, I grab tissues from my nightstand to clean us both, then crawl up to lie beside him.His arm immediately wraps around me, pulling me against his side as if he can't bear any distance between us.

For long moments, we lie in silence, hearts gradually slowing, breathing synchronizing in the quiet darkness of my room. I trace idle patterns on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath my palm.

"That was..." he begins, then shakes his head, apparently lost for words.

"Yeah," I agree, understanding completely. "It was."

He presses a kiss to my temple—that signature gesture that's become so familiar, so precious—before adjusting our positions so I'm tucked perfectly against his side, my head on his chest, his arm secure around my waist.

As sleep begins to claim us both, I feel something shift and settle inside me—a piece long out of place finally clicking into alignment. For the first time since James's betrayal, perhaps for the first time ever, I'm not analyzing, not second-guessing, not maintaining careful emotional distance.

I'm simply being.

Chapter 5

Morning arrives with disorienting brightness, sunlight streaming through blinds I forgot to close. I blink against the glare, momentarily confused by the warm weight pressed against my back, the arm draped over my waist.

Then memory floods back—James appearing at my dorm, Declan staying over, the kisses that turned into so much more, crossing the carefully drawn lines of our arrangement. Declan is still here, still in my bed, his breathing deep and even against my neck.

Carefully, not wanting to wake him, I shift to face him. In sleep, Declan looks younger, the careful control he maintains in waking hours softened into vulnerability. A lock of dark hair falls across his forehead, his impossibly long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. I resist the urge to trace the strong line of his jaw, the slight cleft in his chin.

His eyes flutter open, focusing on me with momentary confusion that quickly transforms into a slow, warm smile. "Morning," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

"Morning," I reply, suddenly self-conscious about bedhead and all the unglamorous realities of waking up beside someone.

But Declan doesn't seem to notice or care. His hand finds mine beneath the covers, fingers intertwining with casual intimacy. "Sleep okay?"

"Better than I have in months," I admit, the honesty surprising me.

His smile widens, transforming his face with boyish delight. "Me too."

We lie there for a moment, studying each other in the morning light, the air between us charged with unasked questions and unspoken confessions.

"So," he finally says. "That happened."

"It did."

"Regrets?"

The directness of his question catches me off guard, but I appreciate it. No games, no pretense. "No," I say after a moment's consideration. "You?"

"Not a single one." His thumb traces circles on my palm, the simple touch sending shivers up my arm. "Should we talk about it?” he asks, though his eyes drop to my lips in a way that suggests talking isn't foremost on his mind.

He's right. We should define boundaries, discuss what last night means for our arrangement. But right now, in the golden morning light, with his body warm against mine and his eyes still soft with sleep, talking seems overrated.

"Later," I murmur, leaning in to press my lips against his.

His lips meet mine with a hunger that matches my own, everything else forgotten in the heated exchange. My body responds instantly, nerve endings firing like sparks as his hand slides rest against the bare skin of my waist. His touch is tentative, exploring, asking permission with each inch gained.

"Ellie," he murmurs against my mouth, my name a question and a prayer.

I answer by deepening the kiss, my fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer. The line we crossed last night is miles behind us now, the pretense of our arrangement falling away like autumn leaves in a storm. This is real—the hammering of my heart, the electricity where our skin meets, the bone-deep certainty that I want this man in ways I never planned.

His palm slides higher, skimming my ribcage, stopping just short of my breast. Even now, he's giving me control, letting me set the pace, the boundaries. The realization makes something twist in my chest—a tangled knot of desire and fear and something dangerously close to falling.

My phone buzzes from the bedside table, breaking the moment. I reach for it reluctantly, expecting Mia with a thousand questions about my evening.

Instead, I find a text from a number I don't recognize:You two look cozy. Guess Declan found his perfect good-girl cover story. Enjoy it while it lasts.

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