Page 43 of Faking the Rules

"You have too many clothes on," I complain, reaching for his shirt.

His smile is pure sin—confident, knowing, promising pleasures I've only begun to imagine. "Patience, greedy girl.”

He lowers his head, trailing kisses up my inner thigh, and rational thought dissolves like sugar in rain. His breath is warm against the thin cotton of my underwear, a teasing promise that has me writhing beneath him, desperate for more direct contact.

"Declan," I gasp, his name a plea and a prayer both. "Please."

"Tell me what you want," he commands, fingers hooking into the waistband of my panties. "I need to hear you say it."

The request should embarrass me—I've never been one for explicit verbalization in intimate moments—but there's something liberating in his demand. In this safe space he's created between us, I find the courage to voice desires I've barely acknowledged to myself.

"I want your mouth on me," I whisper, heat flooding my cheeks but determination overriding embarrassment. "I want you to taste me."

“Where?”

“My pussy.”

The groan that escapes him sounds as though it's been torn from somewhere primal, somewhere beyond conscious control. "Fuck, Ellie," he breathes, eyes darkening to midnight. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"

He slides my underwear down my legs with new urgency, discarding the scrap of fabric with uncharacteristic carelessness. For a moment, he simply looks at me—completely bare, completely vulnerable beneath his still-clothed body. The power imbalance should make me uncomfortable. Instead, it's intoxicating, this sense of being the sole focus of his formidable attention.

When his mouth finally makes contact with me, the pleasure is so intense it borders on pain. My back arches off the bed, a cry tearing from my throat before I can contain it. His large hands grip my hips, holding me steady as he explores with devastating precision.

"You taste like everything I've ever wanted," he murmurs against me, the vibration of his words adding another dimension to the sensation. "Everything I never knew I needed."

I'm lost, adrift in a sea of pleasure more intense than anything I've experienced before. This isn't about technique, though God knows he has plenty—it's about connection, about the emotional significance that transforms physical sensation into transcendent experience.

My release builds with frightening speed, coiling tighter and tighter until I'm gasping his name, fingers tangled in his hair, hovering on the precipice of something I can't name but desperately need.

"Let go," he commands, voice rough with his own desire. "I want to watch you come apart for me."

The combination of his words and one final, perfect stroke of his tongue sends me hurtling over the edge. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me, my vision blurring, my body arching as something fundamental shifts and rearranges inside me. In this moment of absolute vulnerability, of complete surrender, I feel more myself than I have in years—more authentic, more present, more alive.

As I drift back to awareness, I find Declan watching me with an expression that makes my chest ache—wonder mixed with satisfaction, desire tempered by tenderness. He kisses his way back up my body, finally capturing my lips in a kiss that lets me taste myself on his tongue. The intimacy of it ignites a fresh surge of desire.

"Now," I whisper against his mouth, hands tugging impatiently at his shirt. "I need you now."

He sits back on his heels, pulling his shirt over his head in one fluid motion that showcases the lean muscle of his torso—evidence of years of athletic discipline transformed into visual poetry. I reach for his belt, but he catches my hands, bringing them to his lips to kiss each palm in turn.

I reach up to trace the sharp line of his jaw, marveling at the contrast between his physical strength and emotional gentleness.

Something shifts in his expression—restraint giving way to hunger, control to need. He stands to shed his remaining clothes, and I drink in the sight of him—powerful, aroused, magnificent in his complete nakedness before me.

When he covers my body with his own, the first press of skin against skin pulls sounds from us both—relief and anticipation mingling in the narrow space between our lips. He settles between my thighs, the hard length of him pressing against me but not yet entering.

"Condom," he murmurs, reaching toward his discarded jeans.

I watch as he retrieves a condom from his wallet, struck by the care he takes even in the depths of obvious desire. When he rolls it on, his hands are steady despite the tension evident in every line of his body.

Then he's positioned at my entrance, his eyes locked with mine in a connection that transcends the physical. "Stay with me," he whispers. "I want to see you."

The first press of him inside me steals my breath—a stretching fullness that walks the exquisite line between pleasure and pain. He moves with careful restraint, giving me time to adjust, his focus absolute in a way that makes me feel like the center of his universe.

When he's fully seated, we both pause, adjusting to this new intimacy, this irrevocable crossing of boundaries. His forehead rests against mine, our breathing synchronized in the stillness.

"Okay?" he asks, voice strained with the effort of control.

"More than okay," I whisper, shifting my hips in invitation. "Move, Declan. Please."

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