The
# Reunion The key turned in the lock with a soft *snick*, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment. Diana’s heart hammered against her ribs. Two weeks. Fourteen long days of empty bed and silent phone calls. She stood in the center of
Chapter 1
The key turned in the lock with a soft *snick*, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment. Diana’s heart hammered against her ribs. Two weeks. Fourteen long days of empty bed and silent phone calls. She stood in the center of the living room, the last of the evening sun painting gold stripes across her bare shoulders. She’d worn nothing but his favorite shirt—a soft, worn flannel that drowned her short, curvy frame—and the anticipation thrumming under her skin.
The door opened.
Declan filled the frame, his tall, slim silhouette outlined by the hallway light. His travel bag hit the floor with a dull thud. For a long moment, he just looked at her, his blue eyes dark, intense, sweeping from her tousled blonde hair down to where the shirt hem brushed her thighs. The silence wasn’t empty; it was thick, charged, a living thing pulsing between them.
“Hi,” she breathed, the word barely a whisper.
He didn’t speak. He never did, not at first. His quietness was a language she’d learned to read. He crossed the room in three long strides, the scent of airports and cool night air clinging to him. His hands, broad and sure, came up to cradle her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. His beard brushed her skin as he leaned down, but he didn’t kiss her. Not yet. He just held her gaze, his breath warm on her lips.
“Missed you,” he finally said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated straight through her.
“Show me,” she challenged, her playful smile trembling at the edges.
His answer was a slow, deliberate exploration. One hand slid into her hair, tilting her head back. The other traveled down her neck, over the flannel, pausing to feel the quickened beat of her heart before continuing its descent. He found the first button. Undid it. The second. The fabric parted, revealing the soft swell of her breasts, the neat, trimmed patch of blonde curls below her navel. His gaze was a physical caress, hotter than any touch.
“You kept my worship schedule clear,” he murmured, his fingers tracing the line of her collarbone. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of intent.
“Every minute,” she affirmed, arching into his touch.
His mouth finally found hers. It wasn’t a gentle reunion kiss. It was hungry, claiming, a relearning of taste and texture that spoke of deprivation and pent-up need. His tongue swept against hers, and she melted into him, her hands fisting in the soft cotton of his t-shirt. She could feel the lean strength of him, the evidence of his own longing pressed firmly against her stomach.
He broke the kiss, his breath ragged. “Bedroom. Now.”
It wasn’t a command; it was a shared destination. Taking her hand, he led her down the hall, his quiet dominance a thrilling anchor. The bedroom was dim, the sheets cool. He turned her to face him, finally shrugging off his own shirt. In the half-light, she could see the familiar landscape of his torso, the trail of brown hair leading down. Her mouth watered.
He guided her onto the bed, following her down, covering her body with his. His lips found her ear. “I’m going to take my time,” he whispered, the dirty promise sending a violent shiver down her spine. “I’m going to relearn every inch. And you’re not going to come until I say you can.”
A soft, desperate sound escaped her. The game had begun. The tension of two weeks apart had snapped, twisting into a new, exquisite form—the sweet, agonizing tension of his control, and her willing, aching surrender to it. His large hand slid down her belly, and her world narrowed to the path of his touch, to the intense, passionate silence, and the worship that was just beginning.
Chapter 2
His mouth left a searing trail from her ear down the column of her throat, a slow, deliberate conquest. The world dissolved into sensation: the crisp scratch of his beard, the hot, wet pressure of his lips, the firm grip of his hands anchoring her hips to the mattress. He worshiped her with a quiet, focused intensity that stole her breath.
He moved lower, his lips brushing the swell of her breast before closing over one taut peak. A soft, ragged cry tore from her as his tongue circled, his teeth grazing with just enough pressure to make her arch off the bed. His large hand covered her other breast, his thumb mimicking the maddening rhythm of his mouth. The dual assault was exquisite, a symphony of need building low in her belly.
True to his word, he took his time. His kisses mapped her ribs, the dip of her navel, the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. He breathed her in, his quiet reverence a contrast to the filthy promise he’d whispered. When his tongue finally found her, it was not a hard press of demand, but a slow, luxurious lick from bottom to top that made her thighs tremble. He explored her with meticulous attention, learning the shape of her, the taste, as if two weeks had erased his memory and he was committed to its total, sensual recall.
His fingers joined, not inside her, but tracing her slick, swollen folds, circling the aching center of her pleasure with a touch so light it was torture. He was building her up with agonizing slowness, holding her perfectly on the shimmering edge where pleasure and frustration became one vibrating note. She clutched the sheets, her knuckles white, every fiber of her being straining toward the release he controlled so completely.
Without warning, he withdrew. The cool air was a shock against her damp skin. He moved up her body, his blue eyes dark with predatory heat, and captured her mouth in a deep, claiming kiss, letting her taste herself on his lips. His hard length pressed against her thigh, a blunt, urgent demand.
“Turn over,” he murmured against her mouth, his voice thick. It wasn’t a question. It was the next phase of his devotion. A fresh wave of anticipation crashed through her, hotter and deeper. The night, and his worship, were far from over.
Chapter 3
A shiver, sharp and delicious, raced down her spine at his whispered command. She obeyed, turning over onto her stomach, the cool cotton sheets a contrast to her feverish skin. His hands settled on her, large and warm, and began their work.
He started at the base of her neck, his thumbs pressing deep into the taut muscles there. “You’re all wound up,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration in the quiet room. His hands moved down, kneading the flesh of her shoulders, her lower back, with a firm, possessive pressure that melted the last of her tension.
“Just waiting for you,” she breathed into the pillow, her voice muffled.
His touch grew more deliberate, more intimate. His fingers traced long, languid patterns down the curve of her spine, over the swell of her ass, and along the sensitive backs of her thighs. It was less a massage now, more a claim. He outlined her shape, memorizing her anew with his touch, his fingertips occasionally dipping into the crease where her thigh met her cheek, teasing the very edge of her.
“God, your skin,” he said, his voice thick with admiration. “It’s like silk under my hands. I thought about this every night. Just this. Having you under my hands again.”
“What else did you think about?” she asked, twisting her head to look at him over her shoulder.
A slow, wicked smile touched his lips. His gaze was dark, heated. “I thought about you, just like this. Warm and willing. I thought about how you taste.” His hands stilled, one palm resting possessively on the crest of her ass. “Now I’m going to taste every inch of you from behind.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. His large hands spread her, a gentle, undeniable pressure. The first touch of his tongue was a slow, broad stripe from the very bottom of her slit all the way up to the top. Diana cried out, her fingers clawing at the sheets. It was an utterly vulnerable, breathtakingly intimate angle, and he worshipped it with a focused hunger that left her trembling.
His tongue delved deeper, licking into her with firm, slick strokes. He alternated between broad, flat passes that made her hips jerk, and tight, concentrated circles around her clit that stole the air from her lungs. The explicit, wet sounds filled the room, a lewd soundtrack to his devotion.
“You’re so wet for me,” he groaned against her, the words vibrating through her core. “So fucking perfect. This pussy is mine. Tell me.”
“It’s yours,” she gasped, the words torn from her. “Always yours.”
He rewarded her with a deeper, more relentless rhythm, his hands holding her firmly in place as his mouth worked her toward a shattering peak. The pressure built, coiling tighter and tighter, a brilliant, unbearable tension. She was right there, trembling on the precipice, her entire body bowing with the need to fall.
Just as her climax threatened to detonate, he pulled away. The sudden absence was a physical pain. A ragged, desperate sob escaped her.
His weight shifted on the bed. She felt the hard, hot length of his cock press against her inner thigh, a promise of what was to come. He leaned over her, his breath hot in her ear. “Not yet, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice rough with his own restraint. “I’m not done worshiping you. I need to be inside you when you come.”