Page 113 of Beyond the Lines
My second orgasm builds faster than the first, a tidal wave gathering force. Declan’s thrusts grow more urgent, less controlled, and I know he’s close too. His fingers continue their relentless circles on my clit, pushing me higher and higher, and with my head buried in the mattress I reach around to grip his legs.
“Look at me,” he says suddenly, his voice raw. “I need to see you.”
His hand leaves my waist to gently turn my face toward him. It’s awkward, this half-twist, but when our eyes meet, something electric passes between us. I’m sure my face is a mess, but still he kisses me—messy, desperate, and perfect—and I’m lost.
I gasp against his lips. “I’m?—”
“Me too,” he groans, his hips snapping against mine. “Fuck, Lea. Together.”
The orgasm hits me like a lightning strike—sudden, searing, and overwhelming. I cry out as my body convulses around him. Through it all, Declan’s eyes stay locked on mine, intimate in a way I’ve never experienced before. His pupils are blown wide, his expression one of pure ecstasy as he comes with a shuddering groan, emptying himself.
We collapse together onto the bed, a tangle of sweaty limbs and rapid heartbeats. For several minutes, neither of us speaks, too busy trying to remember how to breathe. Declan’s arms encircle me from behind, pulling me against his chest ina spoon. His lips press gentle kisses to my shoulder, my neck, or anywhere he can reach.
Eventually our breathing steadies, our heartbeats slow. I’m half-dozing, in that gooey post-sex moment of total bliss. But this time, it’s different. That morning in his apartment, my mind had been hammering me with ‘what ifs’ and shouting at me to run. But now, I’m perfectly content to stay wrapped in Declan’s arms forever.
“Are you OK?” he murmurs against my hair after a while.
“Mmm,” I respond eloquently. “Very OK.”
His soft laugh vibrates against my back. “Good.”
A comfortable silence settles over us. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my arm, and I feel more relaxed than I have in months. Maybe since those first few golden weeks in Europe, before I met Chris, when it was just me and my sketchbook and endless possibility.
But something nags at the edge of my consciousness, a question that needs asking. It builds slowly, rising like the tide until it’s impossible to ignore. Because, while I decided to make the leap with Declan, and I know whatIwant, I need to know he still wants it?—”
“So…” I start, trying to sound casual. “Are we really doing this?”
“Doing what?” His hand stills on my arm. “We just did it.”
I turn in his arms, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Notthat, you idiot.This.” I gesture between us, suddenly feeling awkward. “You and me. A… relationship.”
The word hangs in the air, loaded with implication. I hold my breath, watching his face. He’s quiet for a moment, and for a split second the negative voice in my brain screams that it told me so, that this was a mistake. But then, slowly, a smile spreads across his face.
“I’d like that,” he says.
Something warm blooms in my chest. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The word is final.
Strong.
Reliable.
“What about Mike?” he says.
“I don’t think we should tell him,” I cut him off. “Not right now, anyway.”
As I say it, Em’s words ring in my ears. Mike should be happy if I’m happy, and if he’s not, then that’s too bad. But if he doesn’t know, then it won’t matter anyway, right? And Declan and I can work together to tell him when the time is right.
“We’ll tell him when you’re ready.” I feel him smile against my skin as he kisses my body. “So, does this mean I’m forgiven for being a dick about your art?”
I laugh, snuggling into him more, if that’s even possible. “That depends. Are you going to keep being a dick about my art?”
“Never. Your art is amazing.You’reamazing.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “And what about lying about playing hockey?—”
“I guess hockey players aren’t so bad,” I say. “I mean, Lincdoeshave adelectablepair of legs?—”
