Chapter 7 - The Fire in the Glass
The kiss was not gentle. It was a torrential release of three years of restrained hunger, dark devotion, and agonizing proximity.
Nora gasped into his mouth, and Declan seized the opportunity, his tongue sweeping past her lips with a predatory greed that made her head spin. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in the thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. For years, she had felt too large, too heavy, too much for the world to handle. But against Declan’s broad, unyielding frame, she felt perfectly matched. He met her weight with granite strength; he absorbed her curves with desperate reverence.
His hands moved over her velvet gown, worshiping the curve of her hips, the swell of her thighs, lifting the hem of the heavy fabric until his calloused palms met the bare, warm skin of her upper legs.
Nora whimpered against his lips, an intoxicating mix of vulnerability and raw desire pooling low in her stomach. "Declan... wait... look at me."
Declan pulled back, his breathing ragged, his chest heaving against hers. His pupils were completely dilated, rimmed only by a sliver of dark amber.
"I am looking at you," he rasped, his voice thick with unmasked lust. "I can't see anything else."
"I have stretch marks," she whispered, her voice trembling as the final remnants of her lifelong shame fought for survival. "I am soft. I don't look like—"
"If you finish that sentence, Nora, I will take you right here on this table," Declan warned, his gaze blazing with absolute conviction. "You are soft where a woman should be soft. You are strong where it matters. You are my queen, and every mark on your skin is part of the territory I intend to worship for the rest of my life."
To prove it, he dropped to his knees between her parted thighs.
Nora cried out in shock as his lips met the soft, bare curve of her belly, kissing away the phantom aches of old cruelties. He pressed his mouth to her hip, to the inside of her thigh, his hands gripping her flesh with unapologetic hunger. There was no hesitation, no holding back. He treated her body not as a flaw to be tolerated, but as a masterpiece to be devoured.
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When he finally rose and lifted her into his arms, carrying her toward the master bedroom, Nora buried her face in the crook of his neck, weeping silent tears of profound liberation. For the first time in thirty years, Nora Jenkins was entirely, unconditionally wanted.
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