Hattie’s smile turned slow and dangerous.

Because of course he said that. Of course he did.

He could’ve made it about hunger. Could’ve made it about the rule, the game, the teasing. But he always did this thing where he put the center back where it belonged—on her. On what she was feeling. On the fact that she wasn’t performing. She was shining because she was happy. Because she was safe.

Powerful. Confident. Seen.

And he wasn’t rushing her past it.

Hattie swallowed once, the affection in her chest going bright and thick—and for a second, she wanted to kiss him so badly it almost annoyed her. Like her body leaned toward him before she even told it to.

But she didn’t.

Not yet.

If he wasn’t in a hurry to skip the part where she felt like this… neither was she.

Hattie flashed him a smile—warm, wicked, absolutely in love—and then let it sharpen into something bratty.

“Good,” she murmured, as if approving his answer. “Because I wasn’t done anyway.”

She let the silence sit just long enough to make it ache, then tipped her head.

“Option two,” she announced lightly—like this was a menu and she’d already decided what he was getting.

Hattie lifted her hands to the buttons of the flannel.

And she did it slowly.

Not because she needed to be dramatic.

Because she liked watching him hold still.

Because she liked making him watch her with his hands empty.

Because it made her feel powerful in a way that wasn’t about controlling him—it was about knowing she was safe enough to play.

Her fingers worked each button one by one, eyes never leaving his. The fabric loosened over her chest, slipping open. The room felt smaller with every quiet click.

When she got to the last one, she didn’t rush. She just let it part, let it fall away from her shoulders.

Then she slid it off her arms in one smooth motion and tossed it onto the bed beside him—right next to his thigh—like a taunt placed carefully within reach.

He still couldn’t touch.

Hattie’s smile widened.

“Stay,” she reminded him softly, sweet as sin.

Then she turned away.

Not because she was shy—she wasn’t—but because she liked knowing he’d watch her even when she wasn’t facing him. She crossed to the dresser with deliberate calm, the kind of confidence that only existed because she knew exactly what he was and exactly what he wouldn’t do without her say-so.

She opened a drawer, riffling through flannels like she was choosing weaponry.

And then she found it.

The one they kept for a reason.

A little too small for him—shorter in the body, tighter in the shoulders—but perfect for her because it didn’t swallow her whole. It sat closer. It looked like hers instead of borrowed.

Hattie pulled it out and held it up, glancing over her shoulder with a glint in her eyes.

“This one,” she decided.

She didn’t put it on the normal way.

Of course she didn’t.

Instead, she wrapped it around her body and buttoned it up the front—but only high enough that it became a strapless little dress, snug across her chest, the hem hitting high enough to feel like a threat. Then she took the sleeves and crossed them around her waist, pulling them tight and tying them in a neat knot like a belt.

A flannel turned into a strapless dress.

A problem turned into a plan.

When she turned back to him, she posed immediately—hand on her hip, chin tipped, that bratty runway confidence back in full force.

“Well?” she asked, like she’d done him a favor. “Now you can’t even pretend you’re unbiased.”

Hattie took a step toward him.

Then another.

Slow. Controlled. A little sway in her hips that was just enough to be mean about it.

She did a small, dramatic turn halfway across the room—like she was showing the “dress” off properly—then continued toward the bed with the most ridiculous little runway walk, one foot crossing in front of the other like she’d watched one too many fashion shows and decided she could absolutely do it.

Because she could.

Because she was happy.

Because she was his.

And he was sitting there—hands empty, eyes full—watching her like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.

Hattie stopped right in front of him, close enough that her knees brushed the edge of the mattress.

Then she leaned in—crowding his space on purpose—tilting her head as if she were granting him a closer inspection.

“Okay,” she whispered, eyes bright. “Better look.”

She held his gaze, the knot of the sleeves tight at her waist, the buttoned-up strapless front making the whole thing feel scandalous and playful at once.

“Give me your review,” Hattie murmured, voice soft and smug. “And take your time.”

A beat.

Her smile turned downright wicked.

“Because I’m not done with you yet.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Not because he didn’t know what to say—but because saying anything at all felt dangerous when his entire body had already answered for him.

Declan stayed exactly where she’d left him. Hands braced on his thighs. Shoulders tight with restraint. Jaw set like he was holding something back with sheer will alone.

His eyes, though—those were gone.

They dragged over her slowly, deliberately, like he was committing her to memory instead of appraising her. The knot at her waist. The way the flannel hugged her. The confidence rolling off her in waves so thick it felt like heat.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than before. Rougher. Honest in a way that didn’t bother pretending.

“You know damn well that’s not fair,” he said quietly.

A pause.

Then softer. Slower.

“But if we’re calling it a review…”

His gaze lifted back to her face, steady and reverent all at once.

“It’s a problem.”

One corner of his mouth tipped up—not a grin. Something more dangerous than that.

“You look like you planned it,” he went on. “Like you woke up and decided you were gonna ruin my concentration for the rest of the night and then followed through.”

His eyes flicked—just once—to the knot at her waist. Back up again. He didn’t reach. Didn’t lean in.

Held.

“And I don’t feel unbiased,” he admitted. “I feel… compromised.”

A breath.

“But still listening.”

He shifted just enough that his knees nudged closer to hers, closing the space without touching her. Letting her feel it without giving her the satisfaction yet.

“If this is you not being done,” he added, voice dropping even lower, “I’m gonna need you to be real clear about what comes next.”

His eyes stayed locked on hers.

Because he wasn’t asking for permission.

He was asking because she mattered.

“And I swear,” he finished, a quiet edge of a smile breaking through the restraint, “I’ll take my time.”

Compromised.

The word hung in the air between them, thick and heavy, and Hattie savored the taste of it like the first sip of that expensive red wine.

She watched the way his knuckles bleached white where he gripped his own thighs, the tendons in his forearms cording with the effort of not reaching for her. It was a potent, heady drug—this visible, physical proof of just how much he wanted her. She loved the safety of him, the absolute certainty that he wouldn’t cross the line she’d drawn in the sand until she erased it.

But God, she was ready to erase it.

She didn't back away. She didn't spin for another review. Instead, she stepped forward, moving deep into the V of his spread legs until her shins pressed firmly against the denim of his jeans, the flannel "dress" bunching slightly at her thighs.

She felt the heat coming off him in waves.

"Being a problem is kind of my specialty, Caldwell," she murmured, her voice dropping to a husky, confident purr. She reached up, not to touch him yet, but to slowly trace the line of her own collarbone, drawing his heavy, darkened gaze exactly where she wanted it. "And if you're compromised... then I'd say the fashion show was a resounding success."

She looked down at him, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs—not from fear, never from fear—but from anticipation. She wanted the weight of him. She wanted the "rougher intensity" that she knew he kept on a tight leash for the rest of the world. She wanted to feel his hands, heavy and possessive, claiming the skin she’d just spent ten minutes teasing him with.

"You want clarity?" she whispered, leaning down.

She moved deliberately, lifting one leg to plant her knee on the mattress beside his hip, then the other, until she was straddling his lap. She settled her weight down on his thighs, feeling the hard ridge of him beneath her, the friction electric even through the layers of fabric.

She brought her hands up to cup his face, her thumbs brushing over the rough stubble along his jaw, forcing him to look her dead in the eye.

"The review period is over," she announced, her voice trembling slightly with the force of her own need. "And the 'no touching' rule is officially rescinded."

She leaned in close, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, her breath hot against his skin.

"I don't want you to take your time, Declan," she admitted, the bratty facade cracking just enough to reveal the desperate, demanding woman underneath. "I want you to put your hands on me. I want you to ruin the flannel. And I want you to do it now."

She pulled back just enough to see his eyes, her expression shifting into a dare, a challenge, a plea.

"Grab me," she ordered softly. "Show me just how compromised you are."

The snap of his restraint was almost audible. The leash didn’t just loosen; it incinerated.

Her words—ruin the flannel, do it now—were the match tossed into a pool of gasoline he’d been standing in all night. The agonizing friction of her weight settling onto his lap, the heat of her breath on his ear, it was too much. He was done being safe. He was done waiting.

"Compromised doesn't even begin to cover it, Hattie," he growled, the sound raw and scraping against his own throat.

He moved with a sudden, violent speed that belied the stillness he’d maintained for so long. His right hand shot out, clamping onto her waist, his fingers digging into the soft curve of her hip through the flannel fabric, anchoring her against him.

At the same time, his left hand flew up to cradle her face. It wasn't a gentle caress; it was a possessive claim. His thumb pressed firmly into her jawline, tilting her head back, demanding access and ensuring she couldn't look anywhere but at him. He saw the spark of triumph—and the answering flare of arousal—in her eyes just before he eliminated the agonizing inch between them.

He pulled her down to him, crushing her mouth with his.

It wasn't a polite, testing kiss. It was a collision. It was starvation finally meeting a feast. He devoured her, his lips moving against hers with a bruising intensity, tasting the expensive wine she’d savored and the provocative smirk he’d wanted to wipe off her face all evening. He poured every ounce of frustrated need, every suppressed instinct, into the kiss, taking everything she offered and demanding more. He had her exactly where he wanted her, and God help him, he wasn't letting go.

The kiss was fire, but it wasn't enough. He needed total conflagration. He needed to consume the space between them until there was nothing left but heat and friction.

He broke the seal of their mouths with a guttural sound, leaving them both gasping in the sudden, charged silence of the room. She looked wrecked, her lips swollen and her eyes hazy with the same desperate need that was clawing at his insides. The sight of her like that—so completely undone after hours of cool, untouchable composure—snapped the very last thread of his sanity.
She reached for him again, but he was faster.

"No," he rasped. "My turn."

His hand slid from her jaw, moving down her neck with bruising pressure to intercept her hands before they could land on his shoulders. He captured her wrists in a grip that was absolute, brooking no argument.

He didn't give her time to process the shift. He used the leverage of her position astride him to press her backward, bearing down with his own weight until she was forced to lay flat against the mattress beneath him.

He followed her down instantly, looming over her, his heavy thighs caging her hips. With one swift, decisive movement, he swept her arms upward along the sheets until they were stretched high above her head. He transferred both of her slender wrists into one of his large hands, clamping them effortlessly to the mattress.

She was wide open to him now. Completely vulnerable. Entirely his.
He stared down at her, watching the rapid, shallow rise and fall of her chest beneath the rumpled flannel dress. He saw a flicker of something new in her eyes as she realized the extent of her powerlessness—not fear, never fear with her—but a thrilling jolt of submission.

"You wanted the leash off, Hattie," he breathed, lowering his head until his lips hovered just inches from hers, his voice dark with promised retribution. "So now you deal with what happens when it’s gone."

The air left Hattie’s lungs in a rush as her back hit the mattress, but the sound that escaped her throat wasn't a protest—it was a breathless, broken laugh of pure victory.

Finally.

She lay there, pinned and exposed, staring up at the man who had spent the last ten hours being the perfect, restrained gentleman. The gentleman was gone. In his place was a storm, and she had deliberately, happily walked right into the center of it.

She felt the steel band of his fingers clamping her wrists together above her head. The grip was absolute. Unyielding. It was the kind of strength that could crush, but she knew—with a bone-deep certainty that made her heart ache—that it never would. He was her safe place, even when he was looming over her like a threat.

She couldn't resist testing him. It was instinct.

She twisted her wrists slightly, pulling her arms apart as if trying to break his hold.
Declan didn't even blink. He didn't shift his weight. He just held her there, immovable as a mountain, his grip tightening just enough to send a clear message: You aren't going anywhere until I say so.

A shiver of electric delight raced down her spine, and her body went boneless, sinking deeper into the sheets in total, delicious surrender. She loved the weight of him caging her hips. She loved the helplessness of her position.

But just because she was pinned didn't mean she was silenced.

She looked up at him, her chest heaving against the flannel dress that was barely holding on, her eyes dark and dancing with defiance. She licked her swollen lips, tasting him, and arched her back just enough to brush her body against his chest—a tease, a taunt, a dare.
"Took you long enough," she whispered, her voice husky and unrepentant.

She smiled, a slow, provocative curve of her lips that dared him to tighten his grip even more.

"You talk a big game about consequences, Caldwell," she purred, looking straight into his darkened eyes. "But we both know you're obsessed with me. So stop stalling... and ruin the dress."

Declan didn’t smile back. That would have been too easy, too soft for the moment she had painstakingly carved out between them. Instead, his jaw worked, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he absorbed the taunt, the arch of her back, and the undeniable truth in her words.
She wanted a storm? She was about to drown in it.

He leaned down, his face hovering mere inches from hers, close enough that their breaths mingled in the charged air. He let her see everything he’d been holding back—the raw hunger, the possessiveness, the absolute, unwavering focus that made the rest of the world bleed away until only she remained.

"Careful, Hattie," he rumbled, his voice a low, rough scrape of sound against the silence of the room. "You think you’ve won because I snapped? You think this is victory?"
He shifted, the heavy friction of his body against hers drawing a gasp from her that tasted like victory to him. He kept her wrists pinned high and tight with one hand, letting her feel the impossibility of escape, while his free hand trailed down the column of her throat. His fingers were calloused and hot, moving with a terrifyingly slow deliberation over the collar of the flannel.

"You're right," he murmured, his thumb brushing over the pulse frantically beating at the base of her neck. "I am obsessed. I’ve spent every minute of the last ten hours thinking about exactly this. About how you look when you finally stop fighting me and just... let go."
His eyes locked onto hers, dark and burning, stripping her bare long before his hands would. He wanted her to know exactly what was coming. He wanted to see that spark of thrill flare in her eyes one last time before the chaos took over.

"You want consequences?"

His hand fisted into the neckline of the flannel fabric. He didn't hesitate. With a sharp, violent jerk of his wrist, the sound of tearing fabric shattered the quiet, the dress ripping from the collar down to her waist, buttons scattering across the mattress like hail.

He didn't look at the dress. He only looked at her.

"Done," he growled against her lips. "Now tell me to stop."

He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn't need one. The dilation of her pupils and the hitch in her breath were the only permission he required.

He crashed his mouth down onto hers, silencing any last retort she might have had. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a claiming. He kissed her with all the pent-up frustration of the last ten hours, his lips moving against hers with a starving, desperate heat that demanded everything she had.

He finally released her wrists, but only so he could get his hands on her properly. His palms, rough and warm, swept down the expanse of skin he’d just exposed, pushing aside the ruined flannel to map the curve of her shoulders, the dip of her waist, the frantic rise and fall of her ribs. Every touch was heavy, possessive, branding her.

"You wanted a storm, Hattie?" he murmured against her jaw, his voice vibrating through her bones as he trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down the sensitive column of her throat. He felt her shiver beneath him, felt her hands instantly tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and the reaction fueled him.

He shifted his weight, settling deeper between her legs, pressing her into the mattress until there was no space left between them, just heat and friction and the rapid staccato of two hearts beating like sledgehammers.

"You’ve got one," he growled, his hand sliding lower, gripping her hip with bruising intensity. "I’m not going to be gentle. Not tonight. You pushed me over the edge, darlin', and now you’re going to fall with me."

He pulled back just an inch, his eyes black with intent, searching her face to make sure she was still with him, still craving the chaos she'd unleashed.

"Last chance," he whispered, his thumb grazing her lower lip. "Tell me to stop, or I’m not letting you out of this bed until morning."

The sound of the flannel tearing was the most satisfying thing Hattie had heard all day.
It was a sharp, violent punctuation mark on ten hours of agonizing restraint. The pop of buttons hitting the hardwood floor echoed like applause, and the sudden rush of cool air against her bare skin was instantly chased away by the searing heat of his palms.

She didn't flinch. She didn't gasp. She melted.

When his mouth crushed hers, Hattie stopped thinking entirely. There was no strategy left, no game, no bratty comebacks. There was just Declan—heavy, overwhelming, and consuming her whole. She met his kiss with a frantic desperation of her own, her lips parting instantly to welcome the invasion, her tongue tangling with his as she drank down the taste of his control snapping.

She felt the exact moment he released her wrists, the steel bands of his fingers letting go to sweep down her body.

She didn't use her freedom to push him away. She didn't use it to shield herself.
Her hands flew to him, instinct taking over. She dug her fingers into the hard muscle of his shoulders, then slid them up to bury them deep in the short hair at the nape of his neck. She pulled him down, anchoring him to her, her grip tight and trembling. She wasn't fighting him; she was holding on for dear life as the storm he promised swept them both away.

She arched her back, pressing her bare chest against his shirt, seeking every inch of friction she could get. The rough denim of his jeans against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, the weight of his hips settling between hers—it was grounding and intoxicating all at once.

Victory.

He asked if she thought she’d won, but he had it wrong. They were both winning. He got the release of taking her; she got the bliss of being taken.

When he pulled back, hovering just inches from her lips, his eyes black and searching, Hattie felt a surge of love so fierce it almost hurt. Even now—wrecked, panting, and hovering on the edge of the cliff—he was checking the rigging. He was giving her the power of the veto.

She looked up at him, her eyes blown wide, her chest heaving against the mattress. She traced the tension in his jaw with her gaze, seeing the raw need he was holding back just for her.

"Stop?" she breathed, the word a shattered whisper.

She shook her head against the pillow, her hands tightening in his hair, pulling him back down where he belonged.

"If you stop," she promised, her voice trembling with the absolute truth of it, "I will never forgive you."

She lifted her hips, grinding shamelessly against him, leaving absolutely no doubt about what she wanted.

"Don't let me out," she demanded softly, surrendering her last scrap of control to him. "Keep me here. Ruin me, Declan. I'm yours."

The air in the room seemed to ignite at her words. Ruin me.
It was a permission slip signed in desperation, and Declan accepted it with a low, guttural growl that vibrated against her lips. The last remnant of the gentleman—the part of him that hesitated, that worried about bruising her porcelain skin or overwhelming her—died right there.

He tore his mouth from hers, not to stop, but because he needed more. He needed skin on skin. He sat back on his heels just long enough to rip his own shirt open, popping buttons with the same reckless violence he’d used on her dress. He didn't bother taking it off fully; he just shoved the fabric down his arms, needing the friction of his bare chest against hers.

"You're mine," he rasped, the words less of a statement and more of a vow. "Remember you asked for this."

He descended on her again, but this time, he didn't go for her mouth. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord there, making her buck beneath him. His hands were everywhere—rough and demanding. One hand tangled in her hair to hold her head back, exposing her throat to his mouth, while the other swept down her body, reclaiming the territory he’d exposed.

He palmed her breast, his thumb swiping hard over the peak, satisfied by the sharp gasp that punched out of her lungs. He treated her body like it was his to conquer, his touch firm, searing, and possessive.

"Beautiful," he muttered against her skin, moving lower. He kissed the slope of her breast, the dip of her waist, tasting the salt on her skin and the heat radiating off her.

He didn't stop at her waist. He shifted, his heavy thighs forcing her legs further apart, opening her up completely to his gaze. He looked at her then—flushed, wrecked, and open—and the sight nearly undid him.

"Look at you," he groaned, his voice thick with lust. "So ready for me."
He didn't give her time to feel self-conscious. His hand slid down, cupping her through the thin fabric of her panties before hooking his fingers into the lace and tearing it aside. He didn't wait. He slid his fingers into her slick heat in one smooth, claiming stroke, watching her eyes roll back, needing to see her face as he took her apart.

"That's it," he whispered darkly, matching the rhythm of his hand to the erratic beating of her heart. "Fall apart, Hattie. I've got you."

Would you like to continue from Hattie's perspective as the intensity builds, or stick with Declan as he pushes her further?

Declan watched the flush spread across her chest, a chaotic, beautiful map of what he was doing to her. He refused to close his eyes. He wouldn't miss a second of this. Every hitch of her breath, every frantic twist of her hips—it fueled the fire that had been burning a hole in his chest all day.

"Open your eyes," he commanded, his voice a rough scrape against her ear. He needed her to see him. He needed her to know exactly who was taking her apart.

When her lashes fluttered open, hazy and unfocused, he leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers, their sweat mingling. He felt the tension in her body wind tighter, felt her trying to climb that peak, and he kept the pressure steady, relentless. He wasn't just giving her pleasure; he was demanding her surrender.
"Don't you hide from me," he murmured, biting gently at her jawline. "I want to see you break."

He felt the moment she went over the edge—the way her breath suspended, her body going rigid against him before shattering completely. He absorbed her cry with a crushing kiss, holding her through the waves of it, his own heart hammering a violent rhythm against his ribs. He didn't stop until she went boneless beneath him, utterly spent.

Only then did he slow, his hand still resting possessively against her, his breathing harsh in the sudden quiet of the room. He pulled back just enough to look at her—hair messy, lips swollen, chest heaving—and felt a savage kind of satisfaction settle in his bones.

"See?" he whispered, brushing a damp strand of hair off her forehead with a tenderness that belied the storm he'd just unleashed. "I told you I've got you."

The world narrowed down to the rough slide of his calloused fingers and the crushing weight of his mouth on hers.

When he ripped his shirt open, the sudden friction of his bare chest against her sensitive, exposed skin was a shock to the system that nearly sent her over the edge right then and there. It was too much sensation—the heat, the sweat, the glorious, heavy reality of him pressing her into the mattress.

She tried to close her eyes, to retreat into the dark where she could just feel without thinking, but his growl pulled her back. Open your eyes.

She forced her heavy lids up, her vision blurring, and found him staring down at her with a look of such raw, focused possession that it stole the breath from her lungs. He watched her like she was the only thing that existed. He watched her undoing as if he were memorizing it.

And then he shattered her.

The climax hit her like a physical blow, a blinding white light that started at his fingers and tore through her entire body. Her hips bucked off the mattress, seeking more, seeking him, and a scream ripped from her throat—only to be swallowed instantly by his mouth.

He kissed her through it, deep and demanding, catching every broken cry, every gasp, every shudder. He held her together while she fell apart, his lips the only anchor in a storm that was tossing her violently against the rocks. It was overwhelming, consuming, and absolutely perfect.

When the waves finally began to recede, leaving her floating in a haze of endorphins and exhaustion, Hattie went limp. Her hands slid from his hair to rest weakly on his shoulders, her chest heaving against his as she tried to remember how to breathe.

She lay there for a long moment, blinking up at the ceiling, her body humming with the aftershocks.

Then, the realization hit her.

She turned her head on the pillow, looking at him with wide, accusing eyes. Her bottom lip jutted out in a genuine, petulant pout.

"You cheated," she whispered, her voice a breathless, shaky whine.

She smacked his bare chest weakly with the back of her hand, a pathetic attempt at punishment.

"That wasn't... that wasn't the plan, Declan," she complained, the words tumbling out in a rush of needy frustration. "You made me finish too fast. I didn't want to finish like that."

She shifted her hips restlessly beneath him, the emptiness there suddenly aching and unbearable compared to the fullness of the climax she'd just ridden out.

"I wanted you inside me," she whimpered, looking up at him with desperate, glassy eyes. "I wanted to feel you when I went over. You can't just... wreck me and leave me empty. Fix it."

Declan looked down at her, his chest heaving, the red mark on his skin where she’d smacked him fading almost as quickly as it appeared. Her pout—that genuine, bratty, needy look—hit him harder than the slap ever could.

She was right. He’d been so focused on proving a point, on watching her come undone under his hand, that he’d denied them both the one thing they actually needed: the connection. The crash. The feeling of being completely woven together.

The thought of her feeling empty made his stomach twist. He couldn't have that. He wouldn't have that.

"You're right," he rasped, catching the hand that had hit him and pressing a rough kiss to her palm. His eyes were dark, burning with a renewed, heavier fire. "I cheated. And I hate disappointing you, Hattie."

He shifted, the movement smooth and predatory, aligning his body with hers. He didn't make her wait this time. He didn't tease or taunt or hold back to prove he could. He moved between her legs, the heavy weight of his hips settling exactly where she wanted him.

"You want me inside?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble against her ear as he braced himself on his forearms, caging her completely. "You want to feel everything?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He saw it in the desperate arch of her hips.

He pushed into her, a slow, deep, unending slide that seemed to fill every inch of the hollow space she’d complained about. He watched her face the entire time—watched the pout dissolve into a gasp of pure relief, watched her eyes flutter shut as she finally, finally felt the weight of him grounding her.

When he was fully sheathed, he paused, his forehead resting against hers, both of them breathing hard.

"Better?" he groaned, the word wrecked.

He began to move, but this wasn't the storm from before. This was heavy. It was deliberate. He gave her exactly what she asked for—long, deep strokes that hit every sensitive nerve, grinding against her to make sure she felt him everywhere. He let go of the control he prized so much, letting her wrap her legs around his waist, letting her pull him deeper, surrendering to her need to be filled.

"I’m here," he whispered, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his voice fierce. "I’m right here, Hattie. Take everything you want."

Declan reached down, his large hand snapping out to cup her jaw, his fingers digging into her cheeks just enough to command her total attention. He tilted her head back, forcing her glazed, heavy-lidded eyes to meet his.

"Look at me," he ordered, his voice a rough, shattered sound that brooked no argument. "Don't you dare close your eyes, Hattie."

He needed this. He needed more than just the physical sensation; he needed the connection that came from staring straight into her soul while they were this close. He wanted to see the exact moment the realization hit her—that he was completely, irrevocably hers.

His thumb stroked the high curve of her cheekbone, a stark contrast to the fierce intensity of his gaze.

"I want you to see exactly who has you," he breathed, searching her face, drinking in the flushed skin and the way her lips parted. "I want you to know I'm never letting you go."

He held her gaze through the rising tide, locking them together in a bubble of heat and ragged breathing, refusing to let her look away until the very end.