Page 3 of Daddy's Ring
"He's asking." I'm already gathering my things. "There's a difference."
"Is there?" But she's not trying to stop me. She knows better by now. "Be safe. Text me when you get home."
"I will." I slide out of the booth, leaving cash on the table for both our drinks. "And Nia? Your bookstore's going to be incredible. I can already see it."
She smiles, real warmth breaking through the concern. "Get out of here. Go see your criminal boyfriend."
The afternoon heat hits me as I push through the coffee shop door, South Street alive with its usual chaos of tourists and streetvendors and musicians competing for corner space. I pull out my phone, typing a response I've typed a hundred times before.
On my way.
The Wolfe estate sits in Chestnut Hill like a fortress pretending to be a mansion. Stone walls, iron gates, the kind of old money architecture that makes people whisper about history and power. I've been here enough times that the guards wave me through without checking, their expressions carefully neutral even though I know they're cataloging every detail to report back to whoever needs to know.
Declan's waiting at the front door before I'm even out of the car—my beat-up Honda that looks obscene parked in this circular driveway next to vehicles that cost more than most houses. He's in dark jeans and a black henley, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. The sight of him still does something to my pulse, even after two years.
"Zola." My name in his mouth sounds like a prayer and a claim all at once.
I barely get the car door closed before he's there, one hand cupping the back of my neck, the other splayed across my lower back as he pulls me against him. His mouth crashes into mine with an urgency that steals my breath, tongue sliding past my lips in a kiss that's all possession and heat. My bag slips from my shoulder, forgotten.
He tastes like mint and something darker, something that makes my knees weak and my fingers clutch at his shirt. The henley's soft under my palms, his body hard beneath it, all solid muscle and restrained power. When he walks me backward toward the door without breaking the kiss, I go willingly, stumbling slightly on the step.
"Missed you," he growls against my mouth, his hand sliding lower to grip my hip with bruising pressure. "I spent all fucking day thinking about this."
My back hits the doorframe and his body pins me there, overwhelming in the best possible way. He's so much bigger than me—six foot four to my five eight—and he uses every inch of it now, caging me in, his thigh pressing between my legs in a way that makes me gasp into his mouth.
"Declan—" It comes out breathless, needy. My fingers thread through his thick black hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan.
"Say it again." His teeth graze my bottom lip, his hand finding the hem of my shirt, callused fingers skating across bare skin at my waist. "Say my name like that."
Heat pools low in my belly, my body responding to him the way it always does—immediate, desperate, like I've been waiting for this all day too. Which I have. I always am. His mouth moves to my neck, teeth scraping over my pulse point, and I arch into him helplessly.
"Inside." The word barely makes it out. "We can't—the driveway?—"
"Don't care." But he does, pulling back just enough to grab my bag from where it fell and guide me through the door, his hand still possessive on my hip. The moment we're inside, he kicks it shut and has me pressed against the wall of the foyer, his mouth finding mine again with renewed intensity.
I'm losing track of where I am, drowning in the feel of him, the taste of him. His hand slides under my shirt properly now, palm hot against my ribs, thumb brushing the underside of my breast through my bra. A whimper escapes my throat and he swallows it, his other hand fisting in my hair to angle my head exactly where he wants it.
"Bedroom," I manage between kisses, my own hands working at his belt. "Declan, please?—"
He makes a rough sound of agreement, already moving, pulling me with him toward the stairs. We're a tangle of limbsand kisses, his mouth never leaving mine for more than a second, both of us grabbing at clothes and skin and?—
My stomach growls.
The sound cuts through the haze of lust like a bucket of ice water. Declan freezes, then pulls back with a curse, dropping his forehead against mine. We're both breathing hard, my lips swollen from his kisses, his hair disheveled from my fingers.
"When did you eat last?" His voice is rough, but there's something else threading through it now. Concern.
"I had coffee with Nia." I try to pull him back down for another kiss but he doesn't budge, his jaw set in that stubborn line I know too well.
"Coffee isn't food." His hands gentle on my waist, thumbs rubbing circles through my shirt. "Before that. When?"
I search my memory, coming up frustratingly blank. "Yesterday? Lunch, I think. Maybe breakfast this morning?—"
"Maybe." He steps back completely, running a hand through his hair. The loss of his body against mine feels like a punishment. "Jesus, love. You can't do this."
"Do what? I've been busy?—"
"Too busy to eat?" The concern morphs into something harder. Not anger, exactly, but close enough. "You're going to run yourself into the ground."
