Page 24 of Pin My Alpha
“Don’t,” I hear myself say.
Declan stops, halfway through a retreat. He watches me, his expression unreadable. Not angry. Just waiting.
Fuck. I’ve got nothing. My brain is just a loop of closer and get away.
“It’s manipulative,” I try, scrambling for a reason. “To just do whatever I say.”
A muscle jumps in his cheek. “Okay.”
“Stop being so reasonable.”
“What do you want me to be, Shay?” His voice is quiet. Too quiet.
The answer is right there, big and ugly and impossible. I want to stop being so fucking tired. I want his hands on me. I want him to tell me what to do for five whole minutes so I don’t have to think. I want to be held so tightly there’s no room for doubt. I want him to look at my spreadsheets and tell me I’m good at this. I want to save his stupid bar. I want to stay.
I want. And that’s the whole goddamn problem.
He can’t see that. I won’t let him.
So I do the only thing I can. I move first.
I duck under his arm. He lets me, of course he does. The moment I’m clear, I turn and drop to my knees in front of him.
The wood floor is cool through the denim of my jeans. My pulse hammers in the fresh mark on my neck. Declan doesn’tmove. He just stands there, one hand still braced on the bar, looking down at me.
From here, he’s enormous. Jeans pulled taut over thick thighs, the dark fabric of his henley stretched across his chest. The air around him is warmer, heavier, and my skin tingles with the nearness of him. The hard ridge of his cock presses against his fly, right at eye level, and my mouth goes dry. I remember the weight of him in my hand last night, the way he felt when I squeezed.
His eyes are dark, the green almost gone. “Shay.”
Just my name. A warning. A question.
I give him a smile that feels sharp enough to cut. “You wanted to talk about assets?”
My hand covers the bulge in his jeans. He’s already hard, the heat of him soaking through the denim into my palm. I squeeze, feeling the solid thickness of him jump against my fingers, and a low sound gets caught in the back of his throat.
He sucks in a sharp breath. I heard it.
But the victory I’m supposed to feel never shows up. Instead, as my fingers tighten, something inside me just… gives. Not breaks. Opens. A terrifying, hollow space right in the center of my chest.
I keep my chin tipped up, forcing the challenge. My thumb strokes the ridge of his cock through the fabric.
“Let’s renegotiate.”
“Terms are simple,” I say, because my brain has apparently decided to run this like a hostile negotiation. “You don’t get to talk.”
A corner of Declan’s mouth lifts. That’s all. Not even a real smile, but it’s enough to make my teeth ache.
“You’re serious,” he says, his voice gone low and rough.
“Dead serious.” I give the hard ridge of his cock a squeeze through his jeans. His hips jerk forward, a sharp, involuntary movement he catches a second too late.
The air between us goes thick. My body answers like it’s been waiting for the signal, slick already soaking through my underwear.
Fantastic.
“I’m proposing,” I say, trying to sound like I’m not one deep breath away from forgetting my own name, “that you shut up and let me work.”
Declan just looks down at me. Not past me, at the spreadsheets on the bar behind him. At me. His eyes are dark, his beard neat. He’s still got that stupid bar towel slung over his shoulder, like he’s someone’s hot, divorced uncle who has opinions about bourbon and knows how to fix a leaky faucet.
