Page 80 of Promise of Destruction
“Please,” I gasp, when he pulls me deeper into him, forcing my legs further apart.
“So now isn’t a good time for this?” He fingers the waistband of my leggings, the pad of his thumb brushing against my skin.
It feels good, but all I say is “no”. It comes out like a moan, though… a breathy and drawn out “nooo”. It’s so soft I’m not sure he even heard it, but his eyes flick to mine, his hands retreats.
I move to stand when his lips crash down on mine.
Everything about it is unexpected—the force, the tenderness, the abruptness, the lack of hesitation. He tastes like mint, which makes me remember that I haven’t brushed my teeth because I’ve been asleep and my mouth felt funny, so my breath is probably horrendous.
For all the horror I feel at the idea he’s tasting my morning breath, he doesn’t seem repulsed. In fact, he kisses me harder when I start to pull away, dragging me back into him. His lips press over mine, unrelenting, almost violent. It kindles a weird feeling in me, something I can’t give a name to… something dangerously like desire.
It ends just as abruptly as it began; I don’t even get a chance to look at him before he stands, forcing me off his lap.
“Go.” He says, pointing to the room at the back of the jet. “Before I change my mind and keep you here.”
It’s oddly humiliating, like he’s just sent me away for disappointing him.
Uncomfortable heat washes over me as I brush past him, intentionally knocking into him on my way past. I expect a hand to drag me back to him, to knock me to the ground in retaliation, but he just laughs.
I barely bother to lock the door, flicking it half-heartedly at the same time as I yank my pants down in such a rush that I’m peeing in the dark.
I don’t know if it’s the darkness, the unsettling quiet, or the fact that I really had to go, but it’s the longest pee of my life before I jump up and hit the light.
I should have left it off.
The reflection in the mirror isn’t flattering. My hair has been flattened on one side of my head from sleeping on it, the usually-faint lines on my forehead look like they’ve been carved into my skin, and my complexion is ruddy at best.
I glance around the small bathroom, looking for anything to help me freshen up. There’s not much, but a small cabinet holds a few toiletries, which I assume were put there for guests and don’t feel bad using. Thankfully it’s all still packaged, so I brush my teeth, rinse with the mouthwash, drag one of the skin wipesover my face, and rake my fingers against my scalp, tousling my hair gently.
It won’t make me look better, but I reach around and unhook my bra too, relief washing over me as the band pulls away. Not sure I can hide it from Declan, but I’m not walking back out there with it in my hand, so I tuck it in the drawer and make a mental note to come back right before we get off the plane.
By the time I leave the bathroom, I feel a lot better than before I stepped in there.
I want to hide a bit longer, not wanting to face Declan with the humiliation he left me with by pushing me away so abruptly, but I have no idea how much time is left in our flight and I can’t hide from him forever.
I don’t expect him to be standing there the minute I open the door, his large body blocking the exit of the bedroom I didn’t even look at in passing. I swallow, rolling my shoulders, and clear my throat, searching for something to say—anything. But no words come so I turn my eyes down and make my way toward the door on the chance that he’ll move out of the way to let me pass.
Of course, he doesn’t. I go as far as I can without running into him, and Declan goes the rest of the way, closing the space between us with a single step that leaves barely a breath of air between us.
“You never answered me.” He says, speaking again like we’ve just stopped chatting a second for someone to take our order. It seems Declan has a one-track mind and he assumes I’m not thinking a million things all at once.
“What?” I blink. “You didn’t ask me anything.”
You dumped me off of you like I’d spilled something on you, I think.
“I said that you downplayed your obsession with me.” He presents my phone again, flashing it toward me so that I can seethe screen is covered with photos of him. He’s looking at my stuff on the cloud—the stuff I used when I was working on my article.
I saved several photos, not sure which one I was going to use until I’d submitted it. I’d also had about twenty tabs open to various bits of information regarding him—a reddit post, his LinkedIn profile, different google results.
I’m glad my last phone broke, so at least he hasn’t seen all ofthat. It’s just the entire file I’ve labeled with his name.
I groan loudly. The humiliation I thought was bad moments earlier doubles, twisting in my stomach. “That was for my article.”
“Sure,” he nods, “the article.”
“Declan,” I shake my head, trying to toss off the apology on my tongue. He doesn’t deserve it, but he didn’t deserve the article either.
I was frustrated, tired, and angry after having all of my concerns dismissed despite all of the rumors about him. Rumors were very different from evidence, everyone said. So, I found my own—or rather, I made something out of nothing.
