Page 27 of Declan

He opens one eye, peeking down at me, and I see the humor and heat in his gaze as he grins and replies, “Oh, there’s most definitely a lot of things you could do, but now is not the time.”

I frown again, then sigh and relax back into him since he’s obviously not going to release me. “I could get you some Tylenol or something.”

He laughs again, his arms squeezing me as his head comes up. He presses his cheek against mine and whispers into my ear, “There’s no drug that can soothe what pains me, darlin’.”

That’s when I feel it. He pushes his hips up, and his hard cock pokes me in the back. I freeze, embarrassed by my own naiveté but also slightly intrigued.

He’s not the least bit embarrassed, his eyes meeting mine steadily as he presses into me again, a low moan vibrating in his chest. Then he does it again, this time in small pulses, and his eyes close halfway as he groans softly, his arms tightening around me. My insides clench in response, a feeling I find to be utterly confusing and exhilarating.

Then, I remember where I am and who I’m with, and I squash the feeling and mutter, “And what exactly do you think you’re gonna do with that?”

He sighs and laughs, shaking his head as he whispers, “Nothing, doll face. I’m just gonna sit here and hump you like a fucking teenager until you tell me to stop.”

I try not to laugh but fail, his ability to diffuse the situation so smooth it’s hilarious. To hear rumors about Declan Hughes, you would think he’s nothing more than a shady predator of a man. Not to say he would literally force himself on anyone, but his ability to talk anyone into anything is legendary. And I’m not even referring to sexual acts.

And it’s not even that I’m worried that he might attempt to force himself on me. I’m more worried my treacherous body will go haywire, and I’ll beg him to take me.

I say nothing as I push against his chest, scooting down so I can put my feet on the floor to sit beside him. He doesn’t even attempt to hide the bulge in the front of his slacks—quite the opposite, actually. He remains sprawled haphazardly on the seat, slouched down, his leg spread with both hands palms up on the seat beside him. His eyes are closed, and he has this dreamy smile on his face that changes everything about him.

There’s no denying Declan Hughes is a fine specimen of a man on a bad day. Strong jawline, always with some varying degree of beard growth. Delectably plump lips that beg to be nibbled on and which most women daydream about having on their person. Artfully styled hair that likely costs a fortune while leaving an appearance like he just rolled out of bed and ran his fingers through it. And that fucking body. He has only ever been photographed shirtless a few times, but it’s a well-known fact that not only does he take care of his physical form, but he also treats his muscles as a canvas for an array of tattoos that all have a story.

I wrinkle my nose, disconcerted by how much I like to look at him when he’s unaware. He looks so relaxed that it annoys me even more, so I reach my hand out and poke him. “What are you doing?”

He smiles rather smugly, then replies, “Just lying here, letting you look at me.”

“I wasn’t looking at you,” I scoff as I reach out and poke him even harder. He flinches, and then laughs, and watching his normally serious face bloom into one of mirth has my words catching in my throat along with my breath.

This isn’t good.

As if he senses my unease, he sobers and sits up, leaning forward so his forearms are braced on the top of his thighs. He looks over at me, and I swallow the giant lump in my throat at the warmth in his eyes. Then, he says, “You can speak freely with me, Issa. If you want something, tell me. If you don’t want something, tell me. If you think I’m being the biggest fucking prick you’ve ever met in your life, tell me. I may not always like what you have to say, but I’ll hear you, and I’ll always do whatever I can to make sure you’re taken care of.”

I tilt my head and narrow my eyes as I say, “Define taken care of.”

He waggles his brows at me, and my narrowed eyes turn into a full glare that has him laughing again. Then he says, “That means whatever you want it to mean, darlin’. You want Chinese food at 1 AM? I’m your guy. You want a bath drawn for you at three o’clock in the afternoon? I’m your guy. You want me to lock you in my basement for a full twenty-four hours of mind-blowing orgasms? I am most definitely your guy.”

My mouth drops open in feigned outrage, and I poke him again. “Declan! Stop that!”

“Just being honest,” he says seriously. “I doubt you could find one thing that I wouldn’t do for you.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Sure,” he answers without hesitation. “I don’t care how immoral, taboo, or illegal it may be. I’m your guy.”

He’s serious. I can tell from the look on his face that he means every word that is coming out of his mouth right now, and I’m sure I must have a completely puzzled look because his smug smile becomes bigger as he takes me for speechless.

Since I can’t let him off the hook so easily, I retort, “How about you drop me at LAX and then go about your business?”

The smile falls from his face, and he squints at me. “Nice try.”

I give him a smug look of my own and respond, “Well, you did sayanything.”

He leans over toward me, one of his hands moving to grip the back of my neck firmly, forcing me to meet his gaze as he whispers, “Let me be clear about one thing,wife. Push or pull, kick or scream, I will never leave you.”

“And if I leave you?”

“I’ll just follow you.”

“Declan,” I scoff.

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