Page 83 of Promise of Destruction
He reaches above my head, grabs my shirt and wipes his hands on it, streaking the fabric with my own need. He pushes off of me, throwing the balled-up shirt so it falls in my lap as I push myself to sitting.
If I thought I’ve been embarrassed even once since I met Declan, I was wrong. I wassowrong.
This humiliation is so much worse than anything.
This punishment, I hate.
fifty-three
Soren
Iwanttohidefrom him the rest of the way to wherever we’re going, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of letting him know that his rejection hurts this much.
It’s bad enough that I can’t hide the arousal I don’t want to feel for him.
Thankfully, when I finally step out of the room and make my way back to our seat, he’s absorbed in something on his computer. He’s set it up on the table in front of him, leaning into it so that he can look closely at whatever is on the screen.
Declan doesn’t even look up when I take my seat. In fact, he doesn’t look up until the silky flight attendant, Elize, places a hand on his shoulder.
He jumps, slamming his laptop shut in one swift motion, and turns to look angrily at the woman who just interrupted whatever he was doing. I sort of wonder if he was looking at porn, given the way he overreacted at her intrusion, but he doesn’t look embarrassed, just pissed.
“We’re about to land.” She tells him, smiling. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
He’s running out of time to fuck her, if that’s on the agenda. I suppose it isn’t, because he sighs a frustrated sound and leans back in his chair.
“No, thank you.”
He’s tense—every bit as tense and frustrated as me. He needs the release just as badly as I do. The only difference is, he has someone willing to give it to him and he’s turning it down.
Elize shuffles off without asking me if I need anything, which is just as well since I don’t want to be bothered anyway.
Declan closes his eyes, rubs his fingers into his temples.
For all my research, I don’t actually know much about him.
In all of the pictures I saw of him, smirking like the quintessential millionaire playboy, I never saw this side of him. I don’t know exactly what it is—tired? Drained?
I don’t like it, whatever it is. Something about his quiet is unsettling, making my stomach twist itself in knots despite the fact that I’m not the problem. I know that as well as I know my name. If I was the problem, he wouldn’t hesitate to let me know.
No, whatever is bothering him is something more substantial than a grieving widow trying to drag his reputation through the mud.
“I can give you something better to stare at.” He finally breaks his silence, though I don’t know how he knows I’ve been watching him since he hasn’t opened his eyes in a few moments. I almost thought he was asleep.
My cheeks warm at the innuendo, but when I don’t answer, he turns to face me, one eye popping open to look critically at me. “What?”
It’s what I was going to ask him, but I press my lips together instead, mulling over my own answer.
“It’s just… you look tired.”
“Jet lag.” He says, closing his eyes again. There’s an air of finality in his tone, like he doesn’t want anything else to come from the conversation.
I know when someone tells me I look tired, it usually means they’re trying to tell me I look like crap—bags under the eyes, dark circles, uneven skin tone. I doubt Declan cares what I think about how he looks, especially because despite his weary expression, he is still very much gorgeous.
It’s unfair that someone so cruel could look so good after a sleepless night. In fact, when was the last time he slept anyway?
I open my mouth out of habit, no clue what I’m actually going to say, when I feel the sudden loss of gravity like a blanket being pulled off my shoulders in the cold.
For one heart-pounding moment, I think we’re falling—I’d swear we were falling.
