Page 42 of Faking the Rules

"Without you, you mean." The hurt in his voice is raw, unfiltered. "Because that's what this is about, isn't it? You're not a distraction, Ellie. You're the opposite—you center me, ground me, remind me why any of this matters."

His words strike at the heart of my insecurity—the fear that I'm not enough, not necessary, ultimately replaceable in his life. To hear him articulate the exact opposite of my deepest fear is both exhilarating and terrifying.

"I'm scared," I confess, the truth finally breaking through the rational arguments, the careful considerations. "I'm scaredof how important this is becoming, how much it would hurt if it ended. I'm scared that your father might be right—that this is temporary, an 'infatuation' that will pass when the novelty wears off."

Understanding dawns in his eyes, anger giving way to something softer, more patient. "So this isn't about the game at all," he says quietly. "It's about you protecting yourself. Using my father's concerns as an excuse to create distance."

The accuracy of his assessment silences me. He sees through my rationalizations to the truth beneath—my fear of vulnerability, of dependency, of potential abandonment.

"Ellie," he says, taking my hands in his, his touch warm and steady. "I can promise you this moment, this feeling, this truth: I am falling in love with you.Havefallen in love with you. And pushing me away won't protect either of us from that reality."

The words I've been both longing for and dreading land like stones in still water, sending ripples through my carefully constructed defenses. He loves me. Or is falling in love with me. The distinction seems insignificant in the face of the naked emotion in his eyes.

"I don't know how to do this," I admit, voice barely above a whisper. "How to be vulnerable, how to trust, how to believe this isn't going to end in heartbreak."

"Neither do I," he says with a small, sad smile. "I just know that the alternative—not trying, not risking, not experiencing this fully—seems worse than whatever pain might come later."

The sincerity in his voice, the vulnerability in his eyes—they dismantle the last of my resistance. Whatever fears I harbor, whatever doubts linger, the truth remains undeniable: I am in love with Declan Wolfe. And pushing him away now, under the guise of helping him focus, would be an act of self-protection rather than love.

"Okay," I say softly, squeezing his hands. "No pause. No distance. I'm here, Declan. For all of it."

The relief that washes over his features makes my chest ache. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." I offer a small smile. "Besides, I already bought a new scarf in team colors for tomorrow. Be a shame to waste it."

He laughs, the sound releasing the tension that has built between us. "Can't have that." His expression turns serious again, his hand lifting to cup my cheek. "Thank you for being honest with me. About my father, about your fears. That means more than you know."

"I promised you honesty," I remind him. "Even when it's hard."

Something shifts in his expression—a tension releasing, a weight lifting. He pulls me to him, his lips finding mine in a kiss that feels like gratitude, like promise, like coming home after the longest journey.

His hands frame my face, thumbs tracing the curve of my cheekbones with such tender reverence that tears prick behind my eyelids. The campus hockey star, the man with a reputation for casual hookups and meaningless encounters, touches me like I'm something precious—something to be cherished rather than consumed.

"I want you," he murmurs against my lips, the words vibrating through me like a physical touch. "All of you, Ellie. Not just your body. Everything you are."

His confession strips me bare in ways that have nothing to do with clothing. I've spent months—years—building walls to protect myself from this exact vulnerability. From the possibility of being seen, being known, being left again. Yet here I am, walls crumbling beneath the steady gaze of a man I once dismissed as nothing more than performance and privilege.

"I'm scared," I whisper, the truth escaping before I can contain it.

Declan's eyes soften, understanding darkening their oceanic depths. "I know. But I got you.”

His words loosen something tight within my chest. His lips find mine again, but the kiss has transformed from questioning to claiming. There's an urgency now, a need that makes my blood rush hot and fast beneath my skin.

"Let me take care of you," he says, the words roughened by desire but gentle in their intent. "Let me show you what this could be. What we could be."

I nod, beyond words, beyond thought. My body has already made its decision, arching toward him like a flower seeking sunlight after longest winter.

His hands move with deliberate purpose, unbuttoning my shirt with torturous slowness. Each newly exposed inch of skin receives its own attention—fingertips followed by lips, teeth grazing sensitive spots that draw sounds from my throat I barely recognize as my own. He removes my shirt and bar slowly.

"So beautiful," he murmurs against my collarbone, the reverence in his voice making me believe it. His eyes track over me with such hunger, such raw appreciation, that self-consciousness transforms into a heady sort of power. I did this—reduced the untouchable Declan Wolfe to speechless wonder.

"I want you," I breathe, reaching for him.

He captures my wrists in one large hand, pressing them gently back against the pillow above my head. "Not yet," he says, voice dropping to that register that makes my insides liquify. "Tonight is about you. About showing you what you do to me. What you mean to me."

The control in his movement sends an unexpected thrill through me. Not domination, not force, but confident possession—a wordless promise that he knows exactly how toplease me, how to take me apart and put me back together stronger than before.

His free hand traces patterns down my torso, until finally he releases my wrists to focus on removing the denim barrier between us, sliding the fabric down my legs with agonizing patience. His palms trace back up my calves, my thighs, stopping just short of where I ache for his touch.

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