legs, putting his face close to hers.
“Bullshit,” he said. “You are here to find out the very worst things about me and then make them sound like fucking virtues. I don’t know how you’re gonna do that, Molly, but I do know you’re going to know some bad stuff before this is over. You want me to show you mine? The least you can do is show me yours.”
Molly’s abs contracted in time with her hurried, shallow little breaths, her body screaming at her, just electric and alive with the nearness of him, of where he was. Focus. Be a badass.
“Why?” she said. “Are you actually ashamed? Do you possess the capacity to feel shame?”
The change in him was immediate. His face darkened, his mouth grew tight. Molly could have handled it just fine if he’d been angry, but his eyes looked sad.
“You don’t know me yet, Molly,” he said softly. “That was a shallow, bullshit, superficial thing to say, and it was beneath you.”
She bridled for a minute—beneath her?—before she realized he was right. She didn’t know him, didn’t know anything about his inner life, didn’t know what drove him. Except that something painful had happened six months ago, something bad enough that he had constructed elaborate lies about alcoholism and who knew what else, and she’d just called him shameless.
She hated realizing she was wrong when she was still angry.
“Yeah, that was a dick move,” she said. Grudgingly.
His hands raced up her thighs to circle around her hips and he pulled her violently forward, their chests nearly touching. She could have stopped him at any time. Could have told him no. Why hadn’t she?
“Apologize,” he growled.
That was why. The voice, the order: she felt it deep inside. She almost wanted to moan.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He squeezed his thumbs into the crease where her legs met her hips and she rocked a little, involuntarily. Molly grit her teeth, fisted the bed sheet, and glared back at him, determined not to let him get the better of her. She would not beg him to fuck her right now, on this bed. She would not .
“It’s not about shame,” he said. “It’s about proving to me that you’ve seen enough of your own shit to understand mine.”
She studied his face. There was no pretense there. Just open, honest eyes, a calm certainty. No games, no power exchange.
And the worst part is it made perfect sense to her. The only reason she could even consider the idea of telling Declan the worst things that had happened to her was that she could see, in those eyes, that terrible things had happened to him, too.
She gave in.
“What do you want to know?” she asked.
Now he flashed a wicked smile while his hands still branded her thighs. “Why do you fight it?”
“Fight what?” she said. It sounded weak even to her.
“How much you want me.” He emphasized his point by digging those thumbs in a little deeper.
Oh Christ, was there even a point to denying it anymore? Declan saw right through her. It would be more embarrassing to lie, to keep lying, and admit that she was afraid she couldn’t control herself.
He slid one hand up to her waist, toying with the edge of her shirt, as if to prove that she didn’t want him to stop.
“Answer me,” he said.
An order.
She sighed. Fuck it. Honesty.
“I told myself it was because I wanted to be professional, for the book,” she said. “And that’s true. But that’s not the real reason. That’s not the reason I’m scared shitless of the way I feel when you touch me. I fight it because I’ve been burned by guys like you before, Declan. Badly. Bad things happened. And I’m not doing it again.”
Declan moved that hand up from her waist to her face, touching her cheek, her neck, tucking her hair behind her ear. He looked thoughtful and angry all at the same time.
“Somebody didn’t treat you right,” he echoed.
Molly didn’t trust herself to speak.
Declan took her chin in his hand and looked her in the
“Bullshit,” he said. “You are here to find out the very worst things about me and then make them sound like fucking virtues. I don’t know how you’re gonna do that, Molly, but I do know you’re going to know some bad stuff before this is over. You want me to show you mine? The least you can do is show me yours.”
Molly’s abs contracted in time with her hurried, shallow little breaths, her body screaming at her, just electric and alive with the nearness of him, of where he was. Focus. Be a badass.
“Why?” she said. “Are you actually ashamed? Do you possess the capacity to feel shame?”
The change in him was immediate. His face darkened, his mouth grew tight. Molly could have handled it just fine if he’d been angry, but his eyes looked sad.
“You don’t know me yet, Molly,” he said softly. “That was a shallow, bullshit, superficial thing to say, and it was beneath you.”
She bridled for a minute—beneath her?—before she realized he was right. She didn’t know him, didn’t know anything about his inner life, didn’t know what drove him. Except that something painful had happened six months ago, something bad enough that he had constructed elaborate lies about alcoholism and who knew what else, and she’d just called him shameless.
She hated realizing she was wrong when she was still angry.
“Yeah, that was a dick move,” she said. Grudgingly.
His hands raced up her thighs to circle around her hips and he pulled her violently forward, their chests nearly touching. She could have stopped him at any time. Could have told him no. Why hadn’t she?
“Apologize,” he growled.
That was why. The voice, the order: she felt it deep inside. She almost wanted to moan.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He squeezed his thumbs into the crease where her legs met her hips and she rocked a little, involuntarily. Molly grit her teeth, fisted the bed sheet, and glared back at him, determined not to let him get the better of her. She would not beg him to fuck her right now, on this bed. She would not .
“It’s not about shame,” he said. “It’s about proving to me that you’ve seen enough of your own shit to understand mine.”
She studied his face. There was no pretense there. Just open, honest eyes, a calm certainty. No games, no power exchange.
And the worst part is it made perfect sense to her. The only reason she could even consider the idea of telling Declan the worst things that had happened to her was that she could see, in those eyes, that terrible things had happened to him, too.
She gave in.
“What do you want to know?” she asked.
Now he flashed a wicked smile while his hands still branded her thighs. “Why do you fight it?”
“Fight what?” she said. It sounded weak even to her.
“How much you want me.” He emphasized his point by digging those thumbs in a little deeper.
Oh Christ, was there even a point to denying it anymore? Declan saw right through her. It would be more embarrassing to lie, to keep lying, and admit that she was afraid she couldn’t control herself.
He slid one hand up to her waist, toying with the edge of her shirt, as if to prove that she didn’t want him to stop.
“Answer me,” he said.
An order.
She sighed. Fuck it. Honesty.
“I told myself it was because I wanted to be professional, for the book,” she said. “And that’s true. But that’s not the real reason. That’s not the reason I’m scared shitless of the way I feel when you touch me. I fight it because I’ve been burned by guys like you before, Declan. Badly. Bad things happened. And I’m not doing it again.”
Declan moved that hand up from her waist to her face, touching her cheek, her neck, tucking her hair behind her ear. He looked thoughtful and angry all at the same time.
“Somebody didn’t treat you right,” he echoed.
Molly didn’t trust herself to speak.
Declan took her chin in his hand and looked her in the
Similar Books
