THIRTEEN
“Are you mad? Gibbs? You can’t be serious, McShane.”
“I am wholly and completely serious. O’Meley’s hit to Gibbs knocked him out and he missed the next match. Besides, we’re talking the sheer violence of the hit. That one was God awful.”
“But John Hopoate’s shoulder charge to Keith Galloway cost him his career.”
It’s the same argument we’ve been having since we left the restaurant. In between our main course, then salad, then soup, which Declan insisted be served in that order, we started talking shop. He’s a Wallabies fan. I’m a diehard All Blacks devotee. And then we started in on the worst hits in rugby. Clearly, this man is insane.
We walk down the sidewalk heading to my building and he shakes his head, mumbles under his breath, catching my eye here and there as though he’s waiting for me to laugh, to admit to joking about my opinion. A quick flash of Tucker’s much more aggressive admonishments at me over my ideas slip into my mind, but then Declan grabs my hand and the memory vanishes.
“Well, I’ll have to convince you otherwise at some point, McShane.” He pulls my hand to his chest and I forget all about his insane devotion to Australia or his opinion on that admittedly bad hit. I can only focus on how tight his grip is, how my hand disappears under his.
We enter my building and I rest against my door not sure if I should invite him in, not certain if I want him to leave. He’s already had his goodnight kiss. I can’t decide if I want another. “Do I have to go in and have you knock or is here fine to end the night?”
“Not necessary since we got the snog out of the way.” He smiles. “Unless you planned on greeting me with a kiss, of course.”
“I wasn’t.”
He brings back the smirk I’ve grown used to. “Thanks for tonight.” I can’t help but feel a bit disappointed. Despite myself and my efforts to keep Declan at arm’s length, I don’t want this night to end. He’s made me laugh, made me blush, made me uncomfortable. I’ve loved every second of it. He’s made me willing to ignore the swarm currently thundering in my stomach.
“Are you—in a hurry to leave?” I say, not sure why I say that aloud. I like how his smile returns, how his eyes are light, excited, as though he’s very pleased that I don’t want him to leave.
“I don’t have anywhere to be but here, McShane.” He glances over my head, into the kitchen through the door window. “I could polish off some of those biscuits for you.”
“Is that just an excuse to get into my apartment?”
“Of course it is.”
Just before his mouth connects with mine, I push on his chest, level a firm stare at him. “I’m not sleeping with you, Declan. No casualness.”
His shoulders lower and I can’t tell if he’s disappointed by my refusal or annoyed that I think that’s all he wants. His finger runs along my forehead. “I’m not interested in casualness, love.”
“Since when?”
He wets his lips and a dimple on his right cheek dents with his smile. “Invite me in.” He rubs my bottom lip. I had no idea what that little move would do to me, to him when I initiated it that night on the street all those weeks ago. I inhale, and his scent turns the swarm into pandemonium. “Just for a bit. I really want…” his mouth lingers so close to my lips that I feel his breath hot against my skin, “another biscuit.”
He smells my hair when I turn to unlock the door and I feel his gaze on me as I put down my keys and bag and snatch a couple of cookies for him off of my kitchen counter. “I have beer or wine or water. I’m afraid my selection is sparse.”
“I’m fine.” Declan’s fingers brush my wrist when he takes the cookies and I stare at his nose, his cheeks, anywhere but in his eyes. My mind is warring with a thousand different scenarios, hundreds of reasons why him in my home is a very bad, a very enticing idea. He seems far too relaxed, far too comfortable here. There is no tension in his shoulders as he walks around my place, taking in the movies next to my entertainment center. He simply nibbles on a cookie as he walks to the mantel, glances at the pictures there.
Unable to figure out what I should be doing, I settle on the sofa, my back straight, shoulders rigid. Declan comes to the large bookshelf next to the hallway entrance and pulls out a few of my books to scan the titles, nodding now and then with approval. When he spots a picture of my mother and me next to my collection of first editions, he stops and edges forward to squint at image.
“This your mum?” He moves his chin to the picture.
“Yeah. From a couple of summers ago.”
“You look like her.” He continues to stare and I notice the small pull of his lips, how he smiles at us in black and white, laughing for the camera. It was at the beach in Orlando, one of our girl’s weekend trips she insisted we take at least twice a year.
“Except the hair.” I draw his attention back to me. “Her hair was much darker.”
Declan nods, finishes the last of the cookie and brushes his hands clean. “She was beautiful, McShane. I see where you get it from.” He sits next to me on the sofa, but not too closely. Again, he seems too relaxed, back slouched against the sofa, hands dangling off the sides. “Your face,” he says. “It’s hers.”
It’s not like I haven’t heard that before. My whole life people have commented on how much I favor my mother. Joe gave me his coloring, but the sharp cheekbones and somewhat pointed chin comes from my mother. It’s the highest compliment anyone can pay me. I’ve always thought my mother was beautiful. Me? Not so much.
“Well, thanks.” I say, uncomfortable with the way Declan ogles me. There is a large space between us and I’m overcome by a sudden burst of uneasiness. Maybe it’s the way he stares. Maybe it’s how he runs his fingertips over the back of the sofa, soft, slow touches that could mimic how he’d like to touch me.
“You don’t like being complimented, do you?”
A nervous, stupid laugh leaves my mouth. I try to cover it with a small cough. “I’m not really used to compliments.” Suddenly, I find my fingernails very interesting. This is ridiculous. We’ve had fun tonight. But everything we did was done in public, surrounded by lots of people. Plenty of witnesses. Declan here, sitting next to me makes me uneasy, reminds me of the last time he was here, of the night we drunkenly groped each other and our long conversation the next morning.
“Well,” he says, inching closer to me, “you shouldn’t be fussed. Nothing wrong with you being called beautiful.” I can feel his legs next to mine, his fingers running through the ends of my hair. “Your mother was beautiful. You are beautiful. I’m just stating fact, aren’t I?”
“Do you—would you like another cookie?” Why is my voice high pitched? This is Declan. He’s my, no, not friend, but he’s my…whatever. He shakes his head, eyes lowered.
“Am I making you nervous?”
“No,” I say too quickly. My eyes close at his laugh. “I’m not nervous.”
“Good. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“You don’t.”
“Then why are you blushing?” He laughs again and I come back to myself, slap him lightly on the arm. “There she is.” He pulls on my shoulder. “Come here.” His chest is warm, comforting and I don’t jerk back from him when he takes my hand, rubs his thumb across my fingernails. “Your mum, what was her name?”
“Evelyn.”
“‘McShane’ is a northern name, yes?”
“Her people were from Belfast originally.”
“Ah.”
The questions aren’t invasive. Declan seems genuinely curious and I don’t mind him prying. Then his next statement changes the mood and I feel the heavy weight of such an invasion gather in my chest. “You miss her.” He says it so simply, as though he knows exactly how I feel with very little confirmation from me.
I close my eyes again, tilt my head against Declan’s shoulder. I try to ignore the sharp flashes of memory that rush to the forefront of my mind when my vision crosses the room to that picture. I can only manage to answer Declan with a nod.
“I’m sorry, love. I don’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s fine.” I sit up, put distance between us, but I can’t help answering him. “I do miss her. Sometimes I miss her so much I can’t manage to breathe.”
“I remember that feeling.”
“Do you?” I ask, but there is a lump already forming in my throat. It makes my voice shake. Before I can stop it, the accustomed burn beneath my lids fires up and I shoot for subtly, rubbing my eyes to clear away my tears before they begin.
“Shite, I’m sorry,” he says, resting his hand on my back.
“No. No, it’s okay.” When I throw a glance over my shoulder, I notice that there is clear concern in Declan’s eyes. “It’s hard. Sometimes, you know, sometimes I forget. Not her. Just sometimes for a few seconds, I forget she’s gone. Mostly when I’m half asleep or in that space between asleep and awake?” Twisting around, I slouch against the sofa, fidget with the seam of my jeans. Declan watches me, his attention is fierce and I don’t question why I can speak so freely with him, why mentioning my mother comes effortless with no one else but Declan. “It’s like my mind sorts through all the data of my day, but then that’s not a part of it. It slips past the filters and I forget. Then I worry that I forget too often and I—” I shake my head, brush back the tears that have collected in my eyes. Declan reaches for me, but I leave the sofa, return to the kitchen counter. “You sure you don’t want anything to drink? I know you like chocolate, I have—”
“You’re not a bad daughter for forgetting.” He stands behind me, interrupting my flippant distraction. Declan rests his hands on my shoulders and I like how firm his grip is, how he won’t let me disregard my feelings. “It’s only natural. For me it got so that I’d started to forget what my mum looked like.” I face him, mildly horrified that he’d admit something like that. “It’s not likely to happen to you since you were so much older than I was when you lost your mum, but there will be days when you won’t think of her a’tall. And that’s okay, love. That’s what’s supposed to happen.”
“Forgetting her is okay? I don’t see how.”
He brushes his thumbs over my tears, wiping my cheeks dry. “It doesn’t mean you don’t miss or that you don’t still love her. It just means that you’re learning to live with the crushing agony of it all. It just means that the gaping hole in your chest is growing smaller.”
“But you haven’t forgotten your mom completely.”
“Course not. But I have my da. I don’t know what I’d have done if I’d been on my own.” He smoothes my hair behind my ear and I enjoy the calm his fingers send through my skin. “Honestly, love, you being on your own and still managing, it’s fecking brave. You’re so damn strong, stronger than I would have been.”
“I didn’t really have a choice. Besides, I have Ava and my friends.”
Declan nods, his hand resting on my shoulder and then I feel the familiar crackle of energy when his eyes lower to my mouth. Suddenly, thoughts of my mother, of our mutual heartbreak fades away, like something I was meant to remember but can’t clearly recall. When I inhale, bringing my chest up, Declan’s thumb rubs against my bottom lip, then just as quickly, stops. “Can I ask you something?” he says and I smile, a silent reply. “That part of the bet, the proper kiss at the end of the night?” My grin stretches and my hands shake when I touch his chest. He draws one step closer. “I’d like to amend that.”
“No—no take backs,” I say in a whisper.
“Sorry?”
“It’s…just an expression.”
And then, he kisses me.
His lips are soft, warm and I don’t let myself think, I don’t analyze that I shouldn’t be letting Declan Fraser kiss me again, that I’m not for him, that it’s inappropriate to be with him, alone, yet again in my apartment. I just let him kiss me. I don’t refuse him when his hands tighten around my waist, when his tongue slips past my lips and slides against mine. I don’t argue when he maneuvers us back to the sofa or when he lifts me up and sets me on his lap to straddle him. Weeks of flirting, of infrequent, hurried kisses and lingering gapes, brief touches coalesce in this moment, spilling heat and greedy need between us.
His kiss leaves my mouth, runs to my chin, along my neck and my heart staggers, is wild against my chest. Declan’s hands rip fire over my skin. He grasps my hair between his fingers as he kisses behind my ear, down to my throat. There are soft noises leaving our throats, light moans that echo around the room and I’m not certain who makes them. I’m only sure that I like his attentions, that my skin warms like a fever and that I never want it to stop. My fingers glide through his hair, scrape against his scalp and I feel his shoulders straighten, his body as it moves against mine. His hips arch as he tries to get closer, to kiss me deeper. Declan’s hands leave my hair and lower down my spine, coming to rest on my ass, gripping me down so that our bodies connect. I pull back when I feel a hardness, a rigidity pushing under me.
We stare at each other for a moment, questioning, seeking permission, but I can’t break down that wall, can’t relinquish my pride, even if it means disappointing him. Yet I like the way his eyes have darkened, how his hold on me is firm, desperate and so I don’t stop him when he stands, when he doesn’t ask my permission to leave my living room with me wrapped firmly around his body. Instead, I encircle my legs around his waist as he walks us back to my bedroom. He lays us down, hovers over me and his weight flattens me to the mattress. He kisses me again, deeper, harder and I let my fingers run against his face, let my nails glide down his neck.
His eyes are nearly black, hooded as he stares at me. “We’re not drunk.”
“No and I still don’t want casualness.” I lift up on my elbows, considering him. “I don’t love you, Declan.”
“I can live with that.”
“I’m not sure if I even like you.”
He laughs. “You like me fine, McShane.”
My mind buzzes, the conflicting emotions battling; the want, the need, the logic all fighting for control. “Can you kiss me, just kiss me and not let us get all worked up?”
“I’m already worked up. But if you don’t want me—”
“I do. I just…I can’t, Declan. This… you and me? It’s too fast.”
When he stares at me like this, I wish I could read his mind. Is he annoyed? Is he frustrated that I want things slow? I wasn’t dishonest. I didn’t initiate a thing, not even this date, but I haven’t pulled away from him. I haven’t said no once because I’m not sure what I want or at least, how much I want.
He nods, but doesn’t move off of me. And I don’t stop him, not when his fingers run along my collar, feather light touches against my neck, not when he hesitates at the buttons on my shirt.
“I’m not going to ask you to do anything you don’t want, love.” He moves down further, his voice low, gruff. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop touching you. Not if you don’t stop me.”
I let him unbutton my shirt because I like the way his fingers feel against my skin. I like his face buried in my cleavage as he kisses me there and the low, husky growls he makes as his licks over the top of my breasts, as he dislodges my shirt from my body, as he lowers the straps of my bra.
“I knew you had freckles everywhere,” he says, pulling a small laugh from me. He works the front clasp free and my breasts spill out, heavy and then aching as Declan skims his fingernail against my nipples. His eyes are so dark, no hints of the usual bright green present as he studies my breasts, as he cups their full weight in his hands. His touch is like a sacrament, reverent, slow. The heat of his stare licks against my skin and I close my eyes at the course trace of his palms over my nipples, the sweet, rough drag of his fingers tracing around the areola. I come unglued when he lingers over me, takes one breast into his mouth, sucking on a raised nipple, exploring, discovering what I like best by the low moans I make.
Declan is heavy on top of me, but it’s not uncomfortable. In fact, I like how wide he is, how his body covers me completely, how he cups my hips and pushes himself against me, between my thighs as his teeth pull on my hard peaks. I can feel his erection against my core, near my stomach, and love the way he arches and grinds into me, our bodies separated by denim, by uneasy restraint.
“McShane, you’re fecking beautiful,” he says, his movement increasing, his breath panting against my neck and I think how ridiculous this is, how I know I want this man, how he clearly wants me. Still, I hesitate, won’t let down my guard. This is erotic, likely the most erotic moment of my life. It’s somehow silly, how we are still clothed, how the friction of him rubbing into me with his breath moistening my bare breasts, with his fingers pinching and rubbing my nipples into stiff points, shouldn’t be this carnal, blissful sensation.
But it is.
He is.
I am.
And I lift my legs around his waist, constricting him so that his pace continues, so that the friction burns hotter, increases until I am thoroughly soaked, until his dick surges into my flesh through his jeans, stimulating me, urging me and that irrational sensation intensifies. His fingers pinch down harder, his hips rock forward and that thick bulge lands directly against my clit, over and over until the sensation grows sharper, until my body convulses and I orgasm hard, harder still, my fingernails cutting into his wide shoulders, pushing him closer to me, deeper against me.
My voice is a rasp of spent energy and Declan looks down, shocked, then pleased and instantly overcome. His body shakes, his arms shudder and those beautiful, clear eyes roll up, disappear behind his closed lids and his deep voice rumbles, shouts until he, like me, is spent. He collapses onto me, his heavy weight against my tender breasts.
“Jaysus,” I hear him whisper.
My chest is sweaty, my skin damp and Declan rolls to my side, encircles my waist, holding me against his chest. We stare at each other and I wonder if he feels as ridiculous, as sated as I do. By the smile on his face and the heavy lidded cast of his eyes I suspect he does. “I’ve not done that since I was a kid.”
“Me either.”
He grunts, rests forehead on my chest. “McShane, you kill me.” His eyes are low lidded, dark. He rubs his thumb across my bottom lip. “But fuck me, it’s a happy death.”