She couldn’t breathe.

Not from the heat.
Not from the pressure.
But from the way he said it.

That might be the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.

God.

Her pulse skittered like he’d hooked a thread straight to her heart and tugged — slow and sweet and so sure of her it made her dizzy.

She swallowed the bite, slow and obedient, lips still tingling from his fingers.
But her eyes didn’t leave his.
Not even for a second.

“You really mean that?” she whispered, voice soft as the space between them. “Feeding me’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you?”

Her tone was light. Barely teasing.
But the question underneath was real.

Because he’d had a day.
And she knew him — knew that guilt and grief and tenderness all swam close together in that big, stubborn heart of his.
And if there was even the slightest part of him thinking he wasn’t enough, or that today had taken something from him she couldn’t give back?

She needed him to feel it.
Right here.
Right now.

She shifted in his lap — just enough to press herself closer, chest to chest, nose brushing his.
Her fingers slid up his neck, threading gently into the hair at his nape.

“Because if that’s true,” she murmured, still sweet, still playful, still hers, “you better hold me a long minute before I go fallin’ all the way in love with you.”

A beat.

“Oops,” she added, lips ghosting against his, “too late.”

She smiled then — soft and smug and just the tiniest bit bratty.
Because yes, she wanted him.
Yes, she was gonna let him feed her.
Yes, dessert was gonna get messy.

But more than that?

She wanted him to know he wasn’t alone.

That she saw everything — the flirty charm and the steady hands and the man who held her like he never wanted to let go — and she chose him.
Over and over.

Even when his hands were shaking.
Even when his heart was heavy.
Even when he needed to hold her more than he needed to touch her.

She touched her forehead to his.
Whispered it without words.
Then kissed the corner of his mouth — the same spot he’d kissed hers — slow and warm and full of every bit of love she had.

“Hold me,” she whispered, curling into him without hesitation. “Then I’ll take another bite.”

A pause.
A breath.
Then, lighter, like she couldn’t help herself—

“…and then I want you to feed me dessert with your fingers and that filthy mouth.”

She smiled against his skin.
Soft. Wicked.
His.

“Fair warning.”

The air left his lungs.

Not all at once, but in a slow, staggering rush, like she’d just reached into his chest and squeezed the damn thing herself.

Too late.

The words hung there, shimmering in the quiet of the kitchen, heavier and sweeter than the bite of pie he’d just fed her. She was looking at him with those eyes—clear and knowing and seeing right through the cracks in his armor he’d been trying so hard to plaster over all day.

She saw the shake in his hands. She saw the guilt eating at his gut.

And she wasn’t running. She wasn’t looking away.

She was telling him she was already gone for him.

He let out a rough, shaky breath, the fork clattering softly as he set it down on the plate. He didn’t care about the food. Not right now.

"Come here," he rasped, the command barely more than a whisper.
He didn’t wait for her to move. He wrapped his arms around her—one distinct, heavy band across her lower back, the other hand coming up to cup the back of her head, tangling deep in her hair—and he buried his face in the crook of her neck.

He held her.

Just like she asked.
Maybe tighter than she asked.
He held her like she was the only thing anchoring him to the floor, like if he let go, he might just float away or shatter completely. He breathed her in—soap and sugar and her—and felt the tension that had been riding his shoulders for twelve hours start to bleed out, replaced by a fierce, overwhelming warmth.

She loved him.
God, she loved him.

He stayed there for a long minute, just breathing, his heart hammering a heavy rhythm against hers. When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested against hers, his eyes dark, blown wide, and searching her face.

"You don't play fair, you know that?" he murmured, his voice thick, thumb brushing the cheek he’d just kissed. "Wrecking a man when his defenses are down."

He searched her eyes, finding that spark of bratty defiance he adored.

"And you're right," he admitted, his voice dropping an octave, rough with honesty. "I meant it. Feeding you... taking care of you... holding you like this? Best damn thing. Easy."

He let that sink in, his gaze dropping to her lips, then back up to her eyes, darker now. A slow, lopsided grin—the one that usually spelled trouble—tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"As for the rest of those demands..."

He reached blindly for the fork again, skewering another piece of the pie without breaking eye contact.

"You take this bite," he said, bringing the fork to her lips, his voice low, vibrating with a promise that was equal parts tender and absolutely wicked. "And then I’m gonna show you exactly what this filthy mouth can do."

He waited, the fork hovering, his eyes daring her, promising her.
"Open up, darlin'."

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t smirk.
Didn’t sass.
Didn’t push back with a bratty remark or even a cheeky glance.

Because that look in his eyes—molten and dark and devastating—told her this wasn’t a game anymore.
Not really.

He’d held her.
He’d breathed her in like she was oxygen.
He’d let himself settle against her and finally, finally let the weight of the day slip from his shoulders.

And now?

Now he was hungry.

Not just for the pie.
Not just for her.
But for this.
For the quiet surrender she offered without question.
For the sweetness and heat in the space between them.
For the way her body softened when he told her what to do.

So when he raised the fork again, voice low and reverent and filthy all at once—

> "Open up, darlin'."



—she didn’t hesitate.

Her gaze stayed locked on his.
Lashes heavy, lips parted just enough to make the air between them hum.

She gave him a sultry little look—soft, obedient, reverent in its own quiet way—and opened her mouth for him, slow and deliberate.

The fork slid past her lips like a promise.
Sweet.
Sticky.
Warm from the pie and from him.

She made a quiet sound—not exaggerated, not theatrical—just a soft, involuntary hum that curled low in her throat and sent heat straight to his eyes.

Then she closed her lips around the bite.

Let him watch her chew.

Let him watch her swallow.

Let him feel how much she loved letting him take care of her.

Her fingers slipped lightly over his thigh beneath the blanket, not demanding, not pushing—just anchoring herself there.
Just reminding him she was his.

When the fork left her lips, she didn’t move back.
She leaned in—just barely—and let her mouth hover near his, breath brushing his skin like something between a prayer and a provocation.

“Still think I’m the one wreckin’ you?” she whispered, voice like melted honey.

She didn’t kiss him.
Didn’t press.

Just stayed close enough to let him feel the invitation in her breath.

She wanted him to choose it.
To take the next bite of her.
To ruin her like he was aching to.

And she’d take it.
All of it.
Whatever he needed to give.

Because the second he dared her with that pie?

She knew—

She was the only dessert he really wanted.

And she’d let him devour her.
Every slow, sweet, sinful bite.

The silver fork hit the ceramic plate with a sharp, dismissive clatter that echoed in the sudden quiet of the kitchen.

He didn’t look at where it landed. He couldn’t have dragged his gaze away from her face if the house had collapsed around them right then and there.

He just sat there for a heartbeat, his chest heaving with a breath he couldn’t quite catch, the air in his lungs feeling too thin, too hot. The taste of her closeness was already drugging him, but that soft hum she’d made? That innocent, obedient little vibration in her throat as she took the bite he offered?

It snapped the last frantic thread of his restraint.

The exhaustion that had been weighing on his bones all day—the grief, the stress, the noise—evaporated. It was incinerated by the sudden, roaring heat that flooded his veins. He didn’t feel tired anymore. He felt starving.

His hand—the one that had been holding the fork—didn't stay idle. It moved to her waist, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of her shirt, gripping the warm curve of her hip bone. He pulled her flush against him, hard, erasing the last millimeter of space until the rigid line of his desire pressed undeniably against her softness.

"Wrecking me?"

He repeated the words, his voice a low, jagged ruin of a sound that seemed to scrape its way up his throat.

He leaned in, his nose brushing hers, inhaling the scent of vanilla and blackberries and Hattie. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, burning with a raw, terrifying need that he was done trying to hide.

"Baby, look at me," he rasped, his thumb moving up to swipe a tiny smear of filling from the corner of her mouth. He held her gaze as he brought his thumb to his own lips, licking the sweetness away without blinking. "I’m a pile of rubble."

He didn’t give her time to smile about it. He didn’t give her time to breathe.
His hand slid up her spine, burying itself deep in the hair at the nape of her neck to tilt her head back, exposing her throat, and he crashed his mouth down on hers.

It wasn’t a sweet kiss. It wasn’t gentle.

It was messy and desperate and tasted like sugar and fruit and need.

He kissed her like he wanted to devour her whole, his tongue sweeping into her mouth to claim the taste of the pie she’d just eaten, to claim her. He groaned into her mouth, the sound vibrating through both of their chests, a surrender and a conquest all at once. He needed to be closer. He needed to be deeper.

"You want dessert?" he growled against her wet, swollen lips, nipping at her bottom lip before soothing it with a heavy, wet sweep of his tongue. "I’m gonna give you dessert."

He shifted, muscles bunching as he stood up, lifting her easily in his arms. He didn't break the kiss, his grip tightening like iron on her thighs as he wrapped her legs around his waist, needing her weight to ground him, needing to feel her clinging to him.

"Hold on tight, Hattie."

He moved blindly. He didn't check the hallway. He didn't care if he bumped a shoulder against the doorframe. All his focus was narrowed down to the woman wrapped around him—the dig of her heels into the small of his back, the heat of her core pressed against his stomach, the way her fingers were still tangled in his hair.

God, she was heavy in the best way. Solid. Real. A weight that grounded him when he felt like he was spinning out.

He carried her like she was a prize he’d stolen, his steps heavy and fast, eating up the distance to the bedroom. Every step sent a jolt of friction through him, a reminder of exactly where she was touching him, exactly how close she was.

"You have no idea," he muttered into the curve of her neck, his voice rough, scraping against her skin. "No idea what you do to me."

He didn't bother with the lights. The moonlight spilling in from the window was enough. It washed over the unmade bed, the sanctuary he’d been craving since he walked through the front door.

He didn't gently lay her down. He couldn't. He followed her down, his body covering hers, pressing her into the mattress until the springs creaked in protest. He braced himself on his forearms, trapping her, looming over her, his chest heaving as he stared down at her.

He looked at her hair fanned out on his pillow. He looked at her flushed cheeks. He looked at that mouth that had dared him, challenged him, saved him.

He reached down, his hand trembling slightly—not from weakness, but from the sheer effort of holding back—and traced the line of her jaw.

"You said you wanted my fingers," he reminded her, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper, dark and serious. He let his hand drift lower, trailing down her throat, over her collarbone, heading south with agonizing slowness. "And you wanted my mouth."

He smirked then—a dark, hungry thing that held zero apology.

"Well, you got 'em, Hattie. Don't you dare close your eyes."

Hattie’s eyes were wide, dark, and unwavering, mirroring the savage intensity in his. The moonlight illuminated the desperate lines of his face—the high, rigid cheekbones, the sweat-dampened hair clinging to his temples—and she felt a fierce, protective love coil in her chest, immediately followed by the hot, demanding thrum of her own need. He was a man drowning in the exhaustion of saving lives, and she was his anchor, the one person he allowed to see him broken and build him back up, often through this necessary, brutal intimacy.

He was heavy on her, a glorious, solid weight, and the friction of his rough uniform pants against her cotton sleep pants was a torment she welcomed. His thumb, still trembling, continued its descent, bypassing her shirt entirely. It slipped effortlessly under the hem of the fabric, warm against the curve of her bare stomach, then dove lower, finding the soft, yielding skin just above the elastic waistband of her pants.

He wasn't touching her there, not yet, but the proximity of his large, calloused hand—the hand that had pulled people from burning wreckage—made her hips twitch instinctively beneath him. The air was getting too thick, too charged to be only oxygen.

She knew what she was doing. She knew the line had been drawn, and she had already put a toe over it. Now, she planned to jump.

She pushed her hand further down his chest, past the straining cotton of his T-shirt, until her fingers found the unforgiving brass of his belt buckle. With slow, brazen defiance, she curled her fingers around the leather, not to unbuckle him, but to use it as leverage. She dragged her hips up, grinding her soft core against the rigid, undeniable proof of his desire pressed against her thigh, adding fuel to the roaring fire between them.

She felt the tremor run through him, a stark reaction to her sudden, explicit movement, and she leaned into the moment, her breath catching in her throat as she waited for the consequence.

“I won’t close them,” she managed, the words a husky, breathless promise. She shifted her grip on his belt, pulling him down an infinitesimal inch, closing the space that had begun to feel like a chasm. “I won’t miss a thing. I want to see every bit of what you’re going to do to me.”

The groan that ripped from his chest was jagged, a raw, guttural sound of surrender mixed with something darker, something starving that had been clawing at the back of his throat since he walked through the door. Her hips moving against him—that deliberate, maddening drag of soft cotton against the coarse, fire-resistant weave of his uniform—obliterated the fatigue weighing on his bones. It didn’t matter that his muscles were screaming from hours of hauling hose and debris, or that the mental weight of the shift still clung to him like soot; all that existed right now was the blinding heat of her, the softness of her stomach under his hand, and the way she looked at him like he was the only thing keeping the world from burning down.

Her challenge hit him like a physical blow to the sternum. She wasn't hiding from the wreck of him; she was inviting it in, demanding to witness the breakdown.

"You want to see?" he rasped, his voice wrecked, barely recognizable even to his own ears as the adrenaline spiked, flooding his veins with a fresh, heavy heat.

He didn't pull back. Instead, he crushed the remaining distance between them, letting his full, crushing weight settle into the cradle of her thighs. The hand that had been teasing the edge of her waistband flattened completely against her skin, slipping further beneath the fabric. His fingers splayed wide to possess the curve of her hip, the rough, calloused pads of his fingertips digging into her soft, yielding flesh, desperate to anchor himself to her reality. He needed the friction, the tactile proof that she was here, that she was his.

"Then don't look away," he commanded, the words hot and wet against her mouth, his breath mingling with hers. His eyes locked onto hers with a terrifying, predatory intensity, searching for any sign of fear and finding only that same mirroring need. "Don't you dare look away, Hattie."

He dipped his head, his lips brushing hers—a tease, a threat, a promise of the storm to come—before he moved with sudden, possessive urgency. He drove his hips down, the hard ridge of him pressing through the layers of clothing, answering her brazen defiance with a slow, heavy roll of his own. It was a movement that left no question about the state of him, a grinding pressure that forced a gasp from her lips—a sound he drank down like it was the oxygen he’d been missing all night.

He didn’t give her a moment to recover, didn't give her a second to rethink the promise she’d just made. He took her mouth in a kiss that was less a greeting and more a collision—a starving, searing claim that tasted of salt and desperation. He kissed her hard, his tongue sweeping into the warmth of her mouth with a rhythmic, commanding stroke that mimicked what he wanted to do with the rest of his body, demanding she meet him at this fever pitch.
Beneath the hem of her shirt, his hand was a rough, invading heat. He didn’t stop at her hip this time. With a focus that narrowed the world down to the square inch of skin beneath his fingertips, he slid his hand lower, his palm scraping deliciously against her stomach before slipping past the elastic waistband of her sleep pants. The contrast was staggering—the abrasive, scarred texture of his working hand against the satin-soft, vulnerable skin of her lower belly.

He felt her stomach muscles contract sharply under his touch, a reflex that sent a jolt of satisfaction straight to his groin. He watched her eyes, his own burning with a dark, heavy fire, ensuring she held his gaze. He wanted to see the exact moment the sensation hit her. He pushed his fingers deeper, cupping her through the thin cotton of her panties, the heel of his hand pressing firmly against the sensitive mound, grounding her, claiming her.

"Good," he growled against her lips, the vibration of his voice humming through her chest as he kept up the heavy, rhythmic grind of his hips against hers, the friction of his uniform trousers acting as a coarse, maddening abrasive against her sensitive skin. "Keep them open. Watch me take what’s mine."

The fabric of her shirt was suddenly an offense, a barrier he couldn't tolerate for another second. He needed skin—miles of it, uninterrupted and glowing in the pale wash of moonlight.

With a low, impatient noise in the back of his throat, he reluctantly withdrew his hand from the warmth of her waistband, only to immediately snag the hem of her t-shirt. He didn't ask; he just pulled, dragging the soft cotton up and over her head in one fluid, demanding motion. He tossed it blindly aside, not caring where it landed, his gaze instantly dropping to devour what he had uncovered.
The sight of her, pale and soft and breathing hard for him, made his head spin. He braced himself on his forearms on either side of her head, caging her in, the muscles in his shoulders bunching tight as he held himself there, hovering just inches above her. The air between them was electric, crackling with the heat radiating off his overheated body.

"Beautiful," he breathed, the word rough, stripped of any poetic pretense and left raw.

He lowered himself slowly, deliberately, letting his chest brush against her bare breasts—the coarse, flame-retardant material of his station shirt rasping against her sensitive nipples. He saw her flinch, a sharp intake of breath, and he smiled grimly, a predator’s satisfaction curling his lip. He wanted that friction. He wanted her to feel the grit of his world so he could wash it away in hers.

He pressed his forehead against hers, his eyes burning into hers, refusing to let her blink, refusing to let the connection sever. He shifted his knee, nudging her legs further apart until she was wide open for him, settling his weight heavily between her thighs again.

"You're watching?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. He reached down, his hand finding the waistband of her pants again, but this time, he didn't stop at the edge. He hooked his thumbs into the elastic and the silk of her panties beneath, his knuckles brushing her hipbones. "Because I'm not going to stop. I'm going to take you apart, Hattie, and I need you to be right here while I do it."

Hattie's vision swam, everything blurring around the edges until only his face—the dark, demanding eyes and the grim, beautiful set of his jaw—remained in sharp focus. The pressure of his weight, the glorious invasion of his hand, and the heavy, possessive grind of his hips were stripping away every layer of control she possessed. He was taking her apart, piece by piece, exactly as he’d promised, and the exquisite violation made a small, choked sound claw its way up her throat.

When his chest, rough with the station shirt material, scraped against her newly exposed, sensitive nipples, a fresh wave of need ripped through her. It was a friction that should have been unpleasant, but it was just another reminder of the world he was carrying, a world she alone had the power to make him forget.

I'm going to take you apart.

The words, dark and heavy with intent, were the breaking point. She was supposed to lie still, eyes open, and simply absorb his pleasure, his control, his discipline. But the core of her, the small, demanding creature he had cultivated, couldn't bear the thought of passive surrender when her own body was thrumming with such a desperate, chaotic need.

Her hands, which had been resting demurely on his shoulders, suddenly shot upward. They wrapped around the back of his neck, her fingers twisting into the short, damp hair at the nape. It wasn't a gentle caress; it was a tight, possessive grip that hauled his head down the final inch, smashing his mouth against hers in a reckless, seizing kiss that felt like she was stealing the air right out of his lungs.

She was kissing him back with a fury that contradicted her soft appearance, her tongue pushing hard against his, demanding space, demanding dominance, challenging the very foundation of his command. She knew what she was doing. She knew the consequences of initiating contact like this, of taking instead of receiving. It meant a harder hand, a fiercer punishment, and her core clenched in anticipation.

Beneath the rough, deliberate pressure of his thumbs hooked into her waistbands, she twisted her hips again, a brazen, hungry arch of her body aimed squarely at the friction point between them.

"Then start," she gasped against his mouth, the words thick and nearly incoherent, a direct, bratty order thrown into the face of his control. She didn't let him pull back; she followed his mouth, clinging to him, her fingers digging deeper into his scalp, silently daring him to hold himself back for another second. Punish me, Declan. I've been bad.

Her defiance snapped the last thin tether of his restraint. He didn't pull away from her kiss; he devoured it, meeting her fury with a dark, crushing dominance that tasted of iron and smoke. But when she tried to take the lead, when she dared to issue an order to him while he was in this state, the shift in his demeanor was instantaneous and terrifyingly absolute.

He broke the kiss with a ragged, savage sound, tearing his mouth from hers only to bury his face in the crook of her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of muscle there—a warning, sharp and immediate. His hand shot up, abandoning her waist to encircle both of her slender wrists in one large, unforgiving grip. He wrenched her hands from his hair, stopping her tactile rebellion, and forced them up over her head, pinning them deep into the pillow with effortless strength.

He held her there, stretched out and utterly vulnerable, his forearm pressing down just enough to remind her that while she might have spirit, he had the power.

"Careful, Hattie," he warned, his voice a low, dangerous rumble against her throat, the vibration humming through her bones. "You don't give the orders here."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dilated, two dark pools of intent swallowing the moonlight. He saw the bratty challenge still lingering in her gaze, the desperate, silent plea for him to take over, and it fueled a fire in his blood that burned hotter than any blaze he’d fought that day.

"You want me to start?" he growled, the question rhetorical.

With his free hand—the one not pinning her to the mattress—he didn't gently slide her pants down. He hooked his fingers violently into the waistband of her panties and sleep pants together and yanked. He dragged the cotton and lace down her legs in one ruthless, fluid motion, the fabric hissing against her skin, not stopping until the garments were kicked free and she was completely bare to him.

He settled back between her knees, his heavy, denim-clad thighs forcing her legs wider, maximizing her exposure to the cool air and his burning gaze.

"There," he breathed, his chest heaving as his eyes raked over her naked form with starving possessiveness, lingering on the flush rising on her skin. "Now you’re ready to listen."

The sight of her, stripped bare and sprawled open beneath him, hit him with the force of a backdraft. She was a vision of pale, trembling softness against the dark, tangled sheets, a stark, blinding contrast to the grit and ash that coated his own skin. He held her wrists pinned above her head, his grip unyielding, feeling the frantic flutter of her pulse against his palm—a betrayal of the bravado she’d just thrown in his face.

"You're in a hurry to lose control, Hattie?" he murmured, the question dark and mocking. He didn't wait for an answer.

He shifted his weight, settling deeper into the cradle of her hips. The heavy, fire-resistant fabric of his station pants was abrasive against the tender, sensitive skin of her inner thighs, a rough reminder of the barrier that still existed between them. He wanted her to feel that texture—the scratch of the uniform, the heat of the man beneath it, the armor he hadn't yet shed.

Slowly, agonizingly, he trailed his free hand up the inside of her leg. His palm was rough, the skin thickened by years of hauling hose and gripping tools, and he dragged it deliberately over her softness, savouring the way her muscles jumped and quivered under his touch. He watched her face, his eyes narrowing as he traced the path of her arousal, drinking in the way her breath hitched, the way her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow staccato.

When his fingers finally reached the apex of her thighs, he didn't dive in. He cupped her heat, his large hand covering her completely, possessing her. The slickness he found there made his jaw clench, a physical ache radiating through him at the proof of how ready she was for him.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating growl that left no room for argument. He pressed the heel of his hand firmly against her sensitive nub, a heavy, static pressure meant to ground her, to hold her on the edge. "I want to see you realize that you’re not the one setting the pace tonight. You’re just here to take it."

​Hattie didn't try to pull her hands free. The sudden, swift action of him pinning her wrists—the easy, brutal strength of it—had shocked the air from her lungs, but it didn't extinguish the fire. Instead, it focused it, twisting the wild, bratty energy into something sharper, more yielding. She felt the frantic drum of her pulse trapped beneath his palm, and the sound of his low, dangerous warning, "You don't give the orders here," was a dark lullaby that settled the chaos inside her. She felt completely, thrillingly his.

​His ruthless removal of her clothes, the violent drag of cotton and silk down her legs, was exactly the kind of unapologetic dominance her demanding side craved. She felt the cool air hit her, and the shame she should have felt was obliterated by a blinding rush of powerlessness and desire. She was exposed, splayed, and waiting, a naked contradiction to the woman who organized the supply closet at the fire station.

​She fixed her gaze on him, obeying the low command in his voice, refusing to look anywhere else but into those dark, predatory eyes. When he settled his heavy body between her thighs, forcing her legs open, the rough texture of his uniform—the grit of his world—against her tender inner skin was an intensely physical reminder of their deep, shared understanding: he brought the necessary chaos and control here, and she brought the sanctuary found only in her surrender.

​The agonizingly slow trail of his rough hand up her thigh, every inch a calculated torment, made her body jump and bow beneath his weight. She gasped, a broken, involuntary sound as his palm finally cupped her heat, the heavy, possessive contact causing her core to flood with a desperate, responsive slickness. The proof of her arousal against his hand was a delicious humiliation, a complete betrayal of her recent defiance.

​When his voice dropped into that low, vibrating growl, demanding she realize that she’s not the one setting the pace, her eyes glazed over with a deep, liquid surrender. She let her head fall back against the pillow, exposing the taut line of her throat—another silent, eloquent form of submission.

​She gave a small, reverent moan, her hips involuntarily pushing up into the heavy, grounded pressure of his hand, begging for more than the static press he was allowing. She couldn't speak, but her body spoke for her, melting into the mattress, every nerve ending screaming his name.

​I know, Declan. Take it. Take all of it.

The surrender in her body—the desperate arch of her hips, the sweet, broken moan, and the baring of her throat—changed the atmosphere in the room instantly. The sharp, jagged edge of his dominance didn't disappear, but it shifted, melting into something heavier, deeper, and infinitely more focused. She wasn't fighting him; she was offering herself up as a sacrifice to his needs, and that kind of gift demanded a different kind of touch. It demanded worship.

He watched her eyes glaze over, saw the absolute trust in that liquid surrender, and a low rumble of approval vibrated in his chest.

"I know," he whispered, the sound losing its harsh grit and becoming a dark, velvet promise. "I know you want it all."

Slowly, deliberately, he loosened his grip on her wrists. He didn't pull away; instead, he slid his hands down her forearms, his thumbs tracing the delicate, frantic pulse points on the inside of her wrists, soothing the skin he had just pinned so ruthlessly. He brought her hands down, interlacing his rough, scarred fingers with her slender ones, pinning them gently against the pillow above her head—not to trap her, but to hold her while he unraveled her.

He lowered his upper body until his chest was flush against hers, the abrasive uniform still a barrier, but his movements were controlled now, careful not to crush her. He buried his face in the curve of the neck she had exposed for him, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to her pulse point, tasting her skin.

"And you’re going to get it," he murmured against her throat, his breath hot and damp. "You’re going to get everything you want, Hattie."

He lifted his head, his dark eyes locking onto hers, burning with a steady, intense flame. "But we are not rushing. Not tonight. The world outside is fast and loud and brutal, but in here..." He shook his head slowly. "In here, we take our time."

Below, his hand shifted. He stopped the static pressure and began to move. Using the slickness she had provided, he slid his thumb over her sensitive flesh in a slow, maddening circle. It wasn't the rough, punishing touch of a moment ago; it was precise, focused, and agonizingly gentle. He knew exactly where to touch her, exactly how much pressure to apply to make her breath hitch and her toes curl.

"I’m going to savor every inch of you," he vowed, his voice thick with emotion. He kept the pace agonizingly slow, denying her the frantic release she was begging for, forcing her to feel every second of the buildup. He stroked the length of her, his calloused palm contrasting beautifully with her wet heat, treating her body like a temple he was privileged to pray at. "Deep and slow. That’s how we’re doing this. Until you can’t remember anything but my hands on you."

He moved with a devastating, heavy grace, sinking into her until he was completely sheathed in her warmth. It was a tight, perfect fit that made the air hiss through his teeth, a sensation so intense it bordered on pain, but the kind that grounded him, tethering him to the earth when he felt like he’d been floating in smoke all day.

He withdrew slowly, agonizingly, letting the friction drag along every nerve ending, before pushing back in—a deep, steady glide that claimed all of her. He wasn't pounding into her; he was pouring himself into her, a slow, relentless tide that refused to be rushed.

"Stay with me," he whispered, the command soft but unyielding.

He released one of her hands to bring his palm to her face. His fingers, rough and scarred, were incredibly gentle as they traced the line of her jaw, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone to catch a stray tear of intensity. He tilted her head back slightly, forcing her to meet his gaze, needing to see the exact moment the pleasure crested in her eyes. He needed to witness her unraveling.

His other hand drifted down the column of her throat, over the frantic pulse at the base of her neck, and settled over her breast. He cupped the soft weight of it, his dark hand a stark contrast against her pale skin. He squeezed gently, molding her flesh, his thumb brushing over the hardened peak with a reverence that made his own breath hitch.

"Feel that?" he murmured, timing his words with the slow, deep thrust of his hips, grinding securely against her before pulling back again. "I’m touching you everywhere. I’m inside you, I’m holding you... there is no part of you that isn't mine right now."

He kept the rhythm hypnotic, a heavy, rolling motion that hit the deepest part of her with every stroke. When he felt her hips try to stutter into a faster rhythm, he simply pressed his weight down, stilling her, forcing her to endure the slow burn.

"No," he soothed, his hand tightening slightly on her breast to anchor her. "Don't rush to the end. We stay right here. We burn right here."