Declan felt the shift in her — the way her voice dipped, the way she pressed into him like she finally knew exactly what she was doing to him — and it sent heat crawling up the back of his neck, slow and deliberate.

Her words, her mouth, the way she kissed down his jaw like she owned the route — hell, he was undone.

A low, helpless sound left him when her lips hit that spot beneath his ear. His fingers dug into her thigh, slow and appreciative, like he needed the anchor.

When she lifted her head, when she gave him that look — that soft, wicked little challenge — something warm and unsteady pulled tight inside his chest.

He let out a breathy laugh, the kind that sounded like he’d been hit in the ribs with affection.

“Lord help me,” he muttered, his accent thick and warm from sleep and want, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

His hand slid up her spine, rough palm tracing every curve, every quiet shiver she tried to hide. He sat up just enough to bring her even closer, their foreheads brushing, his breath warm against her lips.

And the boyish grin that flashed across his face was all trouble and devotion at once.

“You think I just get generous when you’re on top of me?” he murmured, voice low as honey. “Sweetheart, I’m wrapped ‘round your damn finger no matter where you are.”

His thumb stroked slow circles at the inside of her thigh — the tender part, the one that made her breath catch every time — and he watched her eyes soften at the touch.

“That little roll of your hips?” he said with a soft, disbelieving laugh, “bout knocked the sense outta me. And I didn’t have much to begin with.”

He shifted beneath her, fitting her even closer into him, his other hand sliding into her hair — slow, gentle, cradling the back of her head like he wanted to kiss her breathless and hold her steady all at once.

“You ask if I’m sure…” he whispered, his lips brushing hers, “…darlin’, I’m sure about you down to the bone.”

He kissed her — deeper, hotter, lips sliding against hers with a need he never hid from her. His tongue brushed hers, slow and coaxing, and the sound he made vibrated right against her mouth.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far — just far enough to talk, far enough to look at her like she was sunlight breaking through fog.

“You want anything from me?” he murmured. “You don’t gotta wonder. You say the word, and it’s yours.”

His hand drifted from her thigh, up her hip, over her waist — slow enough to make her feel every inch of it — until he was cupping her face, thumb stroking her cheek like she was something he cherished.

He kissed her again — slow, deep, full of that tender Southern reverence he didn’t give to anyone but her.

When he broke the kiss this time, he breathed her in, letting his forehead rest against hers.

“So go on, Hattie,” he said softly, voice thick with want and devotion.
“That pretty little brain thinkin’ up all these things…”

His lips brushed her jaw.

“…tell me what you want.”

His hand slid down her back, smoothing over the curve of her waist.

“Or,” he added with a low, playful murmur as he pressed another kiss to her throat,
“I can just keep guessin’ till I get it right.”

She’d never stood a chance. Not with him looking at her like that. Not with his voice dropping low and warm and hers like it did. Not with his hands on her skin, steady and reverent like she was something holy and fragile and entirely unforgettable.

She swallowed hard when his thumb traced that spot on her thigh again, pulse skipping under his touch. She didn’t move away.

Didn’t want to.

Instead, she leaned in — slow, sweet, unhurried — and kissed the corner of his mouth like she was claiming it.

“Guessin’ might take too long,” she whispered, her lips brushing his as she spoke.

Her hand slid down his chest, fingers dragging lightly over every inch of warm, sleepy skin. She didn’t rush — not even close — but the look in her eyes turned sure, flickering with something just a little wicked as she slid her fingers beneath the hem of his shirt.

"Besides," she added softly, "if you’re wrapped around my finger, might as well make it worth your while.”

Her voice was gentle, her words teasing — but her hands were deliberate.

She pushed the fabric up slowly, letting her palms map the lines of his stomach, the warmth of his skin under her hands. When he shifted to help her, she took full advantage, sliding the shirt up and over his head, letting it drop behind them without a glance.

And then she just… looked at him.

All of him — bare-chested, tousled from sleep, gaze molten and fixed entirely on her like she was the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

Her palm pressed lightly to his chest, right over his heart. She could feel it beating. Hard. Fast. Because of her.

And something about that — about knowing — sent a surge of heat through her low and slow.

Her thumb brushed along his collarbone before she leaned down, placing a kiss just there. Then another. Her lips moved across his chest, slow and soft and deliberate, until she felt him exhale hard through his nose — like maybe she was knocking the sense out of him now.

“You sure about me down to the bone, huh?” she murmured against his skin, teeth grazing lightly just above his heart.

She felt his fingers curl tighter against her waist in response.

“Good,” she said, lifting her head to look him in the eye, her hand sliding back into his hair. “Because I’m not lettin’ you take your sweet mouth and soft hands anywhere but here.”

She kissed him again, this time a little messier. A little deeper. A little more hers.

And when she finally pulled back, her breath hitched, but her eyes didn’t waver.

“I want you kissin’ me exactly like that,” she whispered, voice low, “while your hand’s a little lower.”

She dragged his hand down her waist with both of hers, placing it exactly where she wanted it.

Then, with a soft smile and a tilt of her head, she added sweetly:

“Still want me to tell you what I want, or you feelin’ lucky enough to guess?”

Declan let out a low, rough sound that vibrated deep in his chest—half-laugh, half-growl. The sight of her, bold and beautiful and demanding exactly what she wanted, snapped the last thread of his restraint.

"Darlin’," he murmured, his voice a dark rumble against her lips, "I don’t need to guess. I know exactly what you need."

He didn’t wait for an answer. He took her mouth in a searing, possessive kiss that swallowed her gasp, his tongue sweeping inside to taste her, claiming the breath from her lungs. It wasn't gentle; it was a promise.

His hands went to work, no longer idle. He made short work of her clothes, his fingers deft and desperate as he peeled the fabric away from her skin, needing nothing between them but heat and air. When the last barrier fell away, he broke the kiss just long enough to look at her—naked, flushed, and entirely his.

"Beautiful," he breathed, the word reverent, before he dropped to his knees in front of her.

He didn’t give her time to think. He pressed hot, wet kisses down the column of her throat, over the slope of her shoulder, before burying his face in the soft curve of her breasts. He lavished attention there, his tongue swirling over the sensitive peaks, making her arch into him. Then, with a sudden, wicked shift, he scraped his teeth lightly over her nipple—just enough to make her cry out, a sharp spike of pleasure that had his name leaving her lips on a ragged exhale.

"That’s it," he growled against her skin, satisfied by the way she trembled. "Feel that?"

While his mouth kept her distracted, teasing and tasting, his hand slid down her stomach, bold and unhesitating. He slipped his fingers between her legs, finding the wet heat that was waiting for him. He groaned at the slick warmth, his thumb finding her clit and circling firmly, applying a pressure that was rhythmic and maddeningly precise.

He worked her there, rubbing and teasing until her hips started to buck, seeking more friction, her breath coming in short, sharp pants. He waited until she was right on the edge, breathless and desperate, before he suddenly pulled his hand away.

Before she could protest, his hands were on her hips, his grip firm and authoritative. He spun her around with an easy strength, guiding her movements until she was facing away from him.

His hand smoothed over the curve of her lower back, a heavy, grounding weight, his voice dropping to that command tone that brooked no argument.

"Up," he ordered softly, his breath hot against her spine. "Get on your knees for me, sweetheart."

Hattie gasped, a small, involuntary sound that caught in her throat. The sudden withdrawal of his hand was a moment of dizzying, frustrating emptiness, immediately replaced by the heavy, demanding weight of his hands on her hips. His grip was firm, unyielding, a clear signal that the time for softness was over.
​It was a shock, but the kind of shock that sent a searing, hungry heat straight to her core.

​The command, quiet but absolute, was all it took. Her mind went delightfully blank. Every scrap of independent thought fled, leaving only a delicious, primal urge to obey, to surrender to the authority in his voice. This was exactly what she craved: the absolute certainty of him taking charge, guiding her, telling her precisely what to do and how to do it.

​She loved the feeling of being steered by his power. She loved the way his touch was no longer asking, but demanding.

​With a shiver running down her spine—part fear, part exhilarating need—Hattie pressed her palms into the cool sheet. Her muscles trembled with both exhaustion and a surge of new energy as she immediately complied. She shifted her weight, rolling onto her knees without a word of protest, her breath catching as she found herself in the position he commanded, her naked back and rear perfectly presented to him.

​Her head dipped slightly, chin tucked, an instinctive position of yielding. The air felt charged with unspoken expectation, and she could feel the heat radiating from him behind her, a thick, palpable presence. She waited, every nerve ending strung taut, her body quivering in anticipation of his next touch, his next command.

​“Yes,” she whispered, the single word hoarse and breathy, a pledge of obedience against the pillow. “Please.”

The sight of her like that—knees spread, back arched, head bowed in total surrender—made the blood rush south in Declan so fast it nearly made him dizzy. He was hard, painfully so, but he wasn’t done with her yet. He wanted to be bursting, wanted to be absolutely undeniable before he claimed her.

He stepped in close, his thighs brushing against the soles of her feet, looming over her.
“Good girl,” he praised, his voice rougher now, stripped of its usual polish.

He reached down, his large hand cupping her from behind, sliding effortlessly between her thighs. He could feel the heat radiating off her, the slick evidence of how much she wanted him. He didn’t rush to enter her, not yet. Instead, his thumb found the swollen pearl of her clit, teasing it with a firm, rhythmic pressure that made her hips rock back against him.

At the same time, his middle finger pressed against her entrance—pushing in just a fraction, testing the give, then withdrawing, only to press again. Just the tip. Just enough to remind her of the stretch she was waiting for.

“So wet for me,” he murmured, the words vibrating against her lower back as he leaned over her.

Then, he dropped his head.

He buried his face between her legs from behind, inhaling her scent before he latched on. His tongue was relentless, broad and flat as he licked up her length, tasting her sweetness. He sucked hard, groaning into her skin, before pushing his tongue deep inside her, fucking her with his mouth while his nose pressed firmly against her sensitive flesh.

He didn't hold back. He pressed his face aggressively into her slick heat, smothering himself in her juices, drinking her down like he was starving and she was the only meal for miles. He moved his head with a hunger that bordered on feral, making sure every inch of her felt his mouth.

When he finally pulled back, he was breathless, his face damp with her. He dragged the back of his hand down his mouth and chin, wiping the evidence of his feast away, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded.

His hands came up to cup her ass, squeezing the soft flesh firmly, fingers digging in just enough to leave a mark. He leaned down close to her ear, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sent a shiver straight down her spine.

“You ready for me, baby?” he asked, his breath hot against her neck. He paused, his thumbs stroking the curve of her bottom. “Tell me now... you want it raw, or do I need a rubber?”

Hattie’s breath hitched, a small, involuntary sound that was swallowed by the plush duvet beneath her. The world had narrowed to the press of his hand, the rhythmic strike of his thumb against her clit, and the insistent, teasing nudge of his finger at her entrance. She was a taut wire, vibrating with a desperate, building need. Every calculated, agonizing fraction of an inch he pushed in before withdrawing was a fresh wave of exquisite torture, a promise of the full, encompassing pressure she was begging for.

​His voice, a low rumble against her lower back, felt like a current running through her skin. “So wet for me,” he’d murmured, and the truth of it made her cheeks flush. She was wet. Soaked, in fact. Her hips bucked subtly, instinctively seeking the friction he was so expertly providing.

​Then, his head dropped.

​The sensation was overwhelming. The heat, the wetness, the raw, aggressive claim of his mouth on her most sensitive flesh stole the air from her lungs. She gasped, her fingers digging into the silk sheets, her knuckles white. He wasn’t gentle; he was ravenous. His tongue was a broad, flat weapon, relentless and deep, driving into her with a shocking intensity that made her entire body tremble. He was fucking her with his mouth, a feast she hadn’t known she was starving for.

​She felt him press his nose into her, drinking her in, and the sheer, unbridled savagery of his hunger shattered her control. Her back arched higher, her head falling back as a thick, guttural sound tore from her throat. She was slick, exposed, and consumed. It was too much, yet not nearly enough.

​When he finally pulled back, the sudden loss of pressure and heat was jarring. She felt the cool air hit her damp skin and shivered, her mind swimming in the aftershocks of his assault.

​His hands gripped her ass, the firm squeeze grounding her, pulling her back from the edge of oblivion. Her skin instantly registered the heat of his breath against her neck as he leaned close.

​“You ready for me, baby?”

​The question was a soft, gravelly demand. His pause was deliberate, his thumbs stroking the curve of her bottom as he waited.

​“Tell me now... you want it raw, or do I need a rubber?”

​Hattie slowly lifted her head, her muscles protesting the effort, and twisted her body just enough to look at him over her shoulder. Her hair was a dishevelled curtain, her eyes dark and heavy-lidded. Her lips were swollen, and the only coherent thought in her mind was a desperate, overriding craving for the weight of him, the solid, unadulterated reality of him sinking deep inside her.

​“I don’t want anything between us, Declan,” she breathed, her voice a low, raspy whisper that sounded foreign even to her own ears. Her gaze locked with his, dark and unwavering. “I want to feel you completely.”

"Music to my ears, darlin’," Declan growled, the sound low and dangerous.

He didn’t hesitate. He moved in tight behind her, his hips snapping forward just enough so the heavy, hardened length of him slapped against her soft butt cheek. It was a wet, heavy sound—flesh against flesh—a crude and possessive reminder of exactly what she’d asked for.

"God, look at you," he muttered, his voice thick with lust.

He watched, mesmerized, as her juices gathered and dripped from her entrance, slicking her inner thighs. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, proof of how badly she needed him. With his right hand, he wrapped his fingers around his own aching shaft, stroking himself slowly, the head of his cock glistening as he prepared to claim her.

His left hand slid beneath her, palm cupping her heat, his thumb finding her throbbing clit once more. He brushed over it firmly, not gentle, not asking, just keeping her right on the edge of madness while he watched her tremble. He was throbbing so hard it hurt, his veins straining against his skin, desperate to be inside her.

"So wet... so ready to take it all," he whispered.
Suddenly, he released her clit and grabbed a handful of her ass, his fingers digging deep into the yielding flesh. He squeezed hard, possessing her, before pulling his hand back and bringing it down in a sharp, stinging slap against her cheek.

Thwack.

The sound cracked through the room, the impact leaving a blooming red handprint on her pale skin.

"Brace yourself, Hattie," he commanded, lining himself up with her dripping entrance. "Because I’m not stopping until I’m buried deep."

He didn’t give her another second to overthink it. His large hands clamped down on her waist, his grip like iron, fingers digging into her soft skin to anchor her exactly where he wanted her.

“Stay right there,” he breathed.

He lined himself up perfectly with her slick heat and pushed forward. He didn’t rush this part. He entered her slowly, agonizingly so, letting the broad head of his cock stretch her open, inch by inch. He watched with dark, heavy-lidded satisfaction as her body yielded to him, swallowing him whole. The sensation of her hot, wet velvet clamping down on him was almost too much, wringing a guttural groan from his chest.

He kept pushing, relentless and steady, until his hips slammed against her buttocks with a heavy, wet thud, burying himself to the hilt.

“God Almighty,” he rasped, his forehead resting momentarily against her back as he squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed by the sheer heat of her. “You fit me like you were made for this.”

He held himself there for a long moment, filling her completely, letting her feel the full weight and width of him deep inside. He could feel her internal muscles fluttering around him, gripping him tight, and it nearly undid him.

“Feel that?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against her spine. “No barriers. Just you and me. Every inch.”

He pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, until just the tip remained inside, before snapping his hips forward and driving back in deep and hard. Her breath hitched, and he smirked, his hands tightening on her hips to keep her from moving away from the force of it.

“Take it, Hattie,” he commanded softly, establishing a heavy, punishing rhythm that made her body rock with every thrust. “You wanted it raw? You take every bit of it.”

Hattie’s breath hitched, not in pain, but in that sharp, electrifying shock of pleasure that bordered on panic. The moment Declan’s hardened length slapped against her ass, a low, demanding moan vibrated in her chest, a primal sound she barely recognized as her own. That was the Declan she craved in the dark—the one who took instead of asked.

​His observation—"God, look at you"—was a rough caress, an approval that made her juices flow faster, a shameless river of need. When his thumb found her clit, firm and unforgiving, her knees threatened to buckle. She was already right there, on the very edge of the world, trembling violently, a low, continuous whimper escaping her lips. She wanted to beg him, but the words were stuck, strangled by the escalating heat.

​"So wet... so ready to take it all," he whispered, and a rush of dark pride flared in her chest. Yes, she was. She was utterly undone for him.

​But then, the pressure of his thumb vanished. Her breath caught, anticipating the relief of his entrance, only to be replaced by the sharp, possessive pain of his fingers digging into her ass. She barely registered the squeeze before the air cracked.

​Thwack.

​The sting was immediate, hot, and humiliatingly arousing. Her body arched involuntarily into the pain, and a loud, gasping cry of surprise and delight tore from her throat. It was a clear command, a brutal breaking of the sweet, soft boundary they lived in. It wasn't malice; it was dominance, and it unlocked a new, darker wave of hunger deep inside her gut.

​"Brace yourself, Hattie," he commanded. She didn't have to be told twice. Her hands instinctively clamped onto the bed sheets, knuckles white, preparing for the claim she knew was coming.

​His grip on her waist was iron, crushing her soft skin, anchoring her. The sensation was less about holding her still and more about possessing her. Stay right there. Like she could move if she wanted to.

​When the broad head of him pushed into her, a deep, full-bodied sigh of relief and agonizing surrender escaped her. It was slow, torturous. Each millimeter he invaded felt like a beautiful, necessary tearing. She didn't fight the stretch; she welcomed the feeling of being taken, filled up, owned. The heat of him was staggering, and her internal muscles, tight from anticipation, clamped down instantly, trying to hold him there forever.

​The heavy, wet thud of his hips slamming home was the finish line, a shockwave that rattled through her very core. She groaned, leaning her forehead against the bed sheets, her whole body shaking violently.
​“You fit me like you were made for this.”

​The sheer possessiveness in his low rasp, the total certainty of his claim, sent tears pricking the back of her eyes—not of sadness, but of overwhelming, raw feeling. She was made for him, for this. He was buried deep, utterly filling the aching emptiness she hadn't known she carried until this moment. She could feel every straining vein, every glorious inch.

​“Feel that? No barriers. Just you and me. Every inch.”

​When he pulled out, the sudden, hollow feeling was agonizing, a low, despairing whine leaving her throat. She tensed, instinctively trying to follow him, to keep him buried safe inside.
​But he drove back in. Deep. Hard. Punishingly so. Her breath hitched on a desperate, broken sob, and the command that followed was the final seal on her surrender.

​“Take it, Hattie. You wanted it raw? You take every bit of it.”

​His rhythm was heavy, brutal, and perfect. He was driving her against the bed, making her body rock back and forth. The raw friction was exquisite, the sting on her ass cheek a constant reminder of the darkness they were playing in. Every thrust was a challenge, a demand. She pushed back, desperate to meet his force with her own needy rhythm, her hips bucking clumsily, trying to keep up with the punishing pace he’d set.

​She couldn’t form words. All that was left was a series of broken, guttural noises—moans, gasps, and the continuous, low-pitched sound of a woman being thoroughly and absolutely taken.

​"Oh, God, Declan," she finally choked out, trying to say his name, but it came out as a broken plea, a whispered word of worship as he drove into her, harder than before. "Don't... don't you dare stop. Give it to me. More."

​Declan felt the heat of her words, the absolute, raw surrender in her voice, and it was a match to the gasoline already burning in his veins. The way her muscles spasmed around him, the frantic movement of her hips—she wasn't just taking it, she was demanding it.

​She was losing control now, the pressure coiling tighter and sharper with every piston-like stroke. The world had narrowed to the sound of skin slapping, the depth of his thrusts, and the building, glorious ache between her legs. Her hips began to move faster, jerky and frantic, completely disconnected from her conscious mind. She dug her fingers into the soft sheets, tearing at the fabric in a desperate attempt to ground herself, but the force of his cock drove her higher, pushing her past the point of return. The climax was gathering, a dark, pulsing supernova of sensation right where he filled her.

​He slammed into her again and again, establishing a rhythm that was designed to break her down, not just physically, but until every polite, sweet thought in her head was replaced by pure, desperate lust.

Just as her hips bucked back to meet him, begging for that next bone-rattling impact... nothing.

Declan stopped dead.

He froze mid-motion, leaving her hanging on the precipice of a thrust that never came. The sudden stillness was jarring, louder than the slap of skin had been a moment before. He held himself deep inside her, filling her completely, but he refused to move an inch.

Before she could even process the confusion, his hand tangled into the hair at the nape of her neck, his fingers twisting into the strands firmly. With a sharp, controlled jerk, he yanked her backward, pulling her torso up until her back collided hard against his sweating chest.

He held her there, her head tipped back against his shoulder, exposing her throat, his grip on her hair keeping her captive while his other arm banded like a steel bar across her chest, pinning her against him.

"Now, hold on a minute," he murmured directly into her ear, his voice dangerously low and dripping with a dark, amused warning.

He kept his hips perfectly still, ignoring the way her internal muscles clamped around him, pleading for movement.

"I know I didn't just hear you tryin' to give me an order, Hattie."
He tightened his grip on her hair just enough to elicit a gasp, tilting her head back further so he could nip sharply at the sensitive cord of her neck.

"You don't get to tell me when to stop," he whispered, his hot breath ghosting over her skin. "And you sure as hell don't get to tell me to keep goin'. You forgot who's in charge here, darlin'?"

He ground his hips forward—just a fraction, a slow, rolling movement that dragged against her most sensitive spots without giving her the release of a full thrust. It was pure, calculated teasing.

"I decide when you get more," he growled. "And right now? You're gonna wait until I say you're ready."

Hattie’s breath hitched, frozen in her throat. Her body, coiled tight for the next collision, seized entirely when the expected thrust failed to materialize. The silence, thick and sudden, screamed louder than any noise. He was still impossibly deep, a heavy, throbbing anchor filling her to her core, yet motionless. The total, agonizing stillness left her suspended, a raw nerve vibrating at the absolute peak of sensation.

​Before she could process the cruel cessation of movement, her scalp tightened sharply. The pain was possessive, not malicious, and it was enough to wrench a small, surprised cry from her lips as her head was yanked back. Her spine cracked against his hard, sweat-slicked chest, leaving her utterly exposed, her throat arched and vulnerable, a perfect offering.

​His arm locked across her chest, a steel band of containment, pinning her tight to his strength. She was fully enclosed now, trapped between his relentless hardness inside her and the iron wall of his chest and arms surrounding her. It was complete, inescapable dominion, and a wave of dizzying, exhilarating surrender washed over her. This was what she craved: the absolute removal of choice.

​His voice, a low, dangerous rumble right against her ear, sent shivers chasing down her spine. The amusement in his tone was a cruel, perfect note.

​"Now, hold on a minute," he murmured, the words dripping with warning.

​Her internal muscles clenched around his massive length, a frantic, silent plea for him to resume his rhythm, but he held firm, immovable.

​"I know I didn't just hear you tryin' to give me an order, Hattie."

​The subtle, deliberate tightening of his grip on her hair was enough to make her gasp again. He tilted her head back further, exposing the soft, sensitive skin of her neck just before his teeth nipped sharply, a precise, consuming mark.

​"You don't get to tell me when to stop," he whispered, his hot breath electrifying her skin. "And you sure as hell don't get to tell me to keep goin'. You forgot who's in charge here, darlin'?"

​His hips moved then, but only a fraction—a slow, grinding roll that stretched and pressed against her most sensitive core. It was devastatingly slow, drawing out the pleasure until it was almost unbearable pain, denying her the full, hard stroke she was desperate for. Every millimeter of movement reinforced his control. She felt the immediate, thrilling terror of being totally at his mercy.

​"I decide when you get more," he growled. "And right now? You're gonna wait until I say you're ready."
​A helpless whimper escaped her, a sound of pure, subjugated need. She didn't fight the hand in her hair; she leaned into the tension, a willing captive. The wait was excruciating, the fullness of him inside her combined with the sharp pull on her scalp and the merciless teasing of his hips was overwhelming. She felt herself tremble uncontrollably against his chest.

​She loved that he was in charge. She loved that he hadn't let her command him. Her only job now was to obey, to endure the exquisite torture he was laying upon her, and to wait for the reward only he could deliver. She shifted slightly, an unconscious movement to grind her heat against him, to beg for the release she couldn't ask for.

​Her breath came in ragged, shallow pants against his shoulder. The sting on her ass cheek, the ache of his depth, the sharp pull on her hair—it was all perfect, a dark symphony of submission. Her internal walls tightened fiercely, a silent declaration that she was his, and she would wait.