Page 47 of Worth the Risk
When I respond, parting my lips under his, he makes a soft sound of approval that sends heat pooling low in my stomach.
“Maya.” My name comes out rough when we break apart, and there’s something in his voice—not just desire, but an urgency that makes me wonder if he’s thinking about Monday too. About how this might be our last night before everything changes.
“No more talking,” I whisper. “Just show me.”
Declan’s response is to deepen our kiss, his hands sliding down to my waist and then lower, pulling me closer until I’m practically in his lap. I can feel the solid warmth of his chest against mine, can catch the scent of his cologne mixed with wine and something that’s purely him.
When he trails kisses down my neck, finding the sensitive spot where my pulse flutters, I arch against him, wanting more contact, more pressure, more everything.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs against my throat. “Do you know how hard it’s been to maintain professional boundaries when all I wanted was to touch you like this?”
“Show me how hard it’s been,” I breathe, and I feel him smile against my skin.
“With pleasure.”
He lifts me easily, carrying me toward what I assume is his bedroom, and I’m struck by how natural this feels despite the surreal setting. Not rushed or desperate, but inevitable.
Declan’s bedroom continues the house’s warm, comfortable aesthetic—a king-sized bed with soft linens, windows that overlook the garden, art that feels personal rather than decorative. It’s a room designed for rest and intimacy, not for impressing visitors, but the quality of everything reminds me again of the gulf between our worlds.
He sets me down beside the bed and steps back slightly, his gaze traveling over my face with something that looks like wonder mixed with something I can’t quite identify.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“I just want to remember this moment. The way you look right now, the way the moonlight catches your hair, the fact that you’re here with me.” There’s an intensity in his voice that suggests he’s memorizing more than just this moment—as if he’s preparing for the possibility that there might not be many more.
“I’m here,” I confirm, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
“Maya.” He catches my hands, stilling my movements, and for a second, I see something like regret flash across his features. “We don’t have to rush this. We have all night.”
All night.As if that’s all we have.
“I don’t want to rush it,” I whisper.
In response, he releases my hands and allows me to continue unbuttoning his shirt. When I push the fabric off his shoulders, revealing the broad chest and defined muscles I’ve been imagining, I take a moment to simply appreciate the view.
“Your turn,” he says softly, his hands moving to the zipper at the back of my dress.
The reveal feels familiar now, but no less electric. When my dress pools at my feet and Declan’s gaze travels over my body, I remember how he looked at me in my small apartment—but this time, there’s an added intimacy of knowing exactly how his hands will feel on my skin.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, drawing me back into his arms. “Absolutely perfect.”
The feeling of skin against skin is electric. Every point of contact sends warmth shooting through my nervous system, and when Declan’s hands begin to explore—tracing the curve of my waist,the line of my spine, the sensitive skin at my hip—I realize I’ve never felt so completely present in my own body.
I sigh into his touch, my body responding with a hunger that’s been building for weeks. His hands are gentle but confident, mapping my curves with reverent attention that makes me feel both cherished and desired. When he unclasps my bra, letting it join my dress on the floor, I don’t feel exposed—I feel seen.
“You’re so beautiful,” he growls, his voice low and rough, like gravel dragged over silk as he lowers me onto the bed. His breath is hot against my skin, and I shiver as his lips find my nipple, sucking it into his mouth with a slow, deliberate pull that makes my back archd. His tongue flicks over the sensitive peak, teasing it into a hard little bud, and I can’t help but moan, the sound clawing its way out of my throat. His hand is on my other breast, fingers pinching and rolling the nipple with just the right amount of pressure, sending jolts of electricity straight to my core.
My body is on fire, every nerve ending alive with want. I gasp as he moves lower, trailing kisses down my stomach and lower still until he settles between my thighs, parting my legs with gentle hands. My pulse hammers in my throat as he looks up at me, eyes dark with hunger, seeking permission. I nod, unable to find words, and then his mouth is on me, hot and insistent.
“Oh God,” I breathe, my fingers tangling in his hair, anchoring myself to him as pleasure spirals through me. His tongue is relentless, circling and flicking with devastating precision. My hips rise off the bed, seeking more of this exquisite torture.
Through half-closed eyes, I watch him watching me, and there’s something in his gaze—a fierce concentration, a need to memorize every response, every gasp. As if he’s catalogingwhat makes me fall apart. When he slides one finger inside me, then two, curling them forward while his tongue continues its assault, the pressure building inside me threatens to shatter me completely.
“Declan,” I gasp, teetering on the edge of something monumental. My thighs begin to tremble as he increases his pace, his fingers working in perfect rhythm with his mouth. “I’m going to?—”
“Let go,” he murmurs against me, the vibration of his voice sending new sensations rippling through my body. “I want to watch you come apart.”
When the wave finally breaks, it’s unlike anything I’ve experienced before—not just physical release but something that feels like surrender. I cry out his name as pleasure pulses through me, my body arching and tensing, then melting into the luxurious sheets beneath me.
