Page 39 of Declan

I step in closer, my jaw tight, fists clenched at my sides. “You never fucking listen to me,” I growl, heat rising in my chest. “I told you I wanted to make sure it was safe before you went anywhere. Yet there you were smiling, dancing, like it was just another night out.”

Her breaths grow quicker, matching mine beat for beat, and then she steps toward me.

"What was I supposed to do, Declan?" she snaps. "Tell Wesley that you didn’t want me to go? That I should stay home because you said so?”

Her voice trembles, but not from fear. From fire. From the same frustration that’s been eating me alive. Her anger, her passion. It wrecks me. It undoes every thread of discipline I’ve tried to stitch into place over the years.

And then I break.

Before I can stop myself, I press her back against the wall, grabbing her wrists and pinning them above her head. My body cages hers in, chest heaving, heart thundering.

And then my lips crash into hers.

There’s no hesitation. No soft lead-in or question of permission.

Just need.

Raw and brutal and years in the making.

Her lips part beneath mine instantly, and when our tongues meet, it’s like the fucking world disappears.

The room vanishes. Time stops.

My nerves, my breath, my goddamn heart, all of it, pauses in that single moment.

Her taste consumes me. Sweet and sinful and addicting. Her body melts against mine, and I feel everything I’ve tried to deny for so long burn its way to the surface.

But then reality comes crashing back in.

Like a slap to the face.

Like cold water on skin that was just on fire.

I tear my mouth from hers, breathing hard, my forehead dropping against hers for a second before I pull back entirely. My hands let go of her wrists like they burned me.

“Fuck,” I mutter, backing away from her, dragging a hand down my face. “This was a mistake.”

She looks up at me, lips kiss-swollen, chest rising and falling like mine, and I hate the way I’ve put that look in her eyes, part confusion, part heartbreak.

I step back again, needing space, needing air. The guilt hits fast and mercilessly. It always does.

“I shouldn’t have—” My voice catches. “I told myself I wouldn’t do that. That I couldn’t. And I just…”

I shake my head, turning away from her completely.

Because if I look at her one more second, I’ll forget why I ever stopped.

And I can’t afford that.

Not with her.

I turn my back on her, dragging a hand through my hair like that’s gonna help me get a grip. My heart’s still pounding. My lips still feel her on them. My body’s screaming for more, but my conscience is louder now.

Wesley.

His name cuts through the haze of lust and rage like a blade.

I shouldn’t have touched her. I knew better. But watching her in that club, watching every man’s eyes track her like she was something they had the right to want and fuck, I lost it.

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