The Reckless Secret, Complete Series (An Alpha Billionaire In Love BBW Romance) (5 page)

H
er hand shook
as she fumbled her key card out of where she’d stuffed it in her bra that morning—had no idea what had happened to Aunt Constance’s; had she dropped it on the bed with the coats? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing except getting inside her own room and shutting out the world.

She couldn’t breathe with the weight of how badly she wanted to go back and let Declan pull her apart in the most exquisite way.

“Maggie.”

She nearly dropped the key card, pulse thundering through her veins, the sound of her rapid breathing deafening in this silent hallway.

“I’m gonna get changed and head home—
shit
.” She’d dropped the card.

“Already? The night’s young.” Declan’s voice was almost begging.

Bending to retrieve the card in the most undignified way possible—the dress not allowing ease of movement—she said, “I’ve had enough excitement for one day,” and stood, and then went entirely still, suspended in anticipation.

She could feel him behind her, close but not quite touching—feel the warmth of him, the raw
need
.

“Maggie,” he said, and she nearly whimpered. “
Maggie
. Look at me.”

She swallowed and squeezed her fingers around the key card, coiling heat spreading through her pelvis. “I can’t.”

His voice, a breathy murmur, ghosted across the soft skin of her neck beneath her ear. “Why?” It wasn’t really a question. It was a challenge.

“Because I’ve got no control around you,” she admitted desperately, pleadingly, every ounce of her senses firing up for him.

“Tell me to leave,” he murmured to her, and she felt it then—the shadow of a touch on the side of her neck, the very whisper of his tongue. “Tell me to walk away, and I’ll never bother you again.”

She nearly did—it was on the tip of her tongue. It would be so sensible…

But just for once,
please
, her body screamed at her—
please, screw sensible
.

Her heart threatening to burst out of her chest, she turned to him. The devastating agony of need on his face almost knocked her off her feet.

The breath punched out of her lungs as he suddenly pressed into her space, no warning, no word—nothing but the fire in his eyes that told her she was in trouble, and she was going to love it.

He said nothing, and she didn’t blink; they looked at each other for a heartbeat or two, and then he took that final step, his wide, muscled chest knocking against her breasts, his face so close to hers now she could see every lash framing his fiery eyes.

She licked her bottom lip, and she whispered, “What are you—”

His next movement was so swift, it pushed a gasp out of her.

He grabbed her wrists, pushed her back against the door, lifted her hands above her head, and pinned them to the wood with one solid grip—and then he slid in close, his whole body from his hips to the arm above her head, pinning her down, and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t remember why this was such a bad idea.

He smirked, and it was the sexiest damn thing she’d ever seen.

“Declan—”

“Shut up and kiss me,” he said in a voice thick and heavy and so, so close, his breath brushing her lips and his eyes watching her mouth and the hand around her wrists flexing, like he couldn’t help it, like he was barely in control.

And in that moment, her own control snapped like the thinnest gossamer strand of silk, a moan hitching in her throat as she gave in to her desires and he must’ve seen it, recognized the need in her, because he stuttered a breath and crashed his mouth to hers, kissing her deep like he wanted to suck the very air from her lungs.

He released her hands and grabbed her thighs, hitched her up and pressed between her legs, an awkward strain on her too-tight dress but she didn’t care, not when his groin crushed against hers, his cock thickening and separated from her only by the fine panties she wore.

“Open the door.”

“Yeah—let me just—oh God…”

She got the door open somehow, by some miracle, and they tumbled through it, Declan holding her up and Maggie slapping the wall in a blind attempt to find a light, unable to focus with how Declan was sucking on her neck and then devouring her mouth and God,
God
, she was gonna come undone.

Hand making contact, she managed to flood the room with light, and simultaneously kicked off her shoes and dropped the card as the door swung itself shut and Declan carried her across the room.

“Bed,” he mumbled against her mouth.

“Couch,” she responded, and he made a sound of agreement or arousal or
something
, something that shot straight to her clit and made her moan.

The world tipped up beneath her, and all of a sudden she found herself straddling Declan’s lap; he’d found the couch and collapsed back on it, and now he had a handful of Maggie’s ass and she was staring into his flushed face and staggeringly, so abruptly, she was knocked breathless by the pure perfection of him.

He must’ve taken her pause and whatever was on her face for something else entirely, because he said, “We don’t have to—”

And she said, “Shut up,” and pressed in to lick into his mouth, taste him, breathe the essence of him into her lungs. He kissed hard, but he touched her gently—hands roaming her back, the swell of her ass, creeping down her thighs to hook thumbs beneath the hem of her skirt. So clearly desperate to get under her clothes, and there was no part of her that wanted to deny him.

She arched her back, pressed her breasts against him, the angle allowing her to rub her crotch somewhere in the vicinity of his hardness, and he groaned into her mouth, put a hand at the base of her throat and pushed her away an inch.

His lips swollen and red, his eyes heavy-lidded, he kept her at bay with a hand on her throat and looked her in the eye, captured every ounce of her attention as his other hand traced a path between her legs, beneath her dress, and found the very edge of her wet panties and pulled them aside, exposing her aching pussy.

She stuttered in a breath, held it, and he slipped a finger through her swollen folds, directly over her clit. The whimper rushed out of her in the instant before he released her throat and pulled her in for a plundering kiss, pressed the pad of that finger to her entrance and rubbed his thumb over her clit, starting a rhythm that had her rocking into it, grinding against his hand, breathy moans escaping her as he went faster, harder. The kiss devolved into a press of open mouths and he didn’t let up, relentless with it, rubbing her and pushing in and catching the tight bundle of nerves over and over again until she was fisting her hands in his shirt, her toes curling, and the noises coming out of her were primal, almost orgasmic—

“No,” she gasped, reaching down to still his hand. “No, please—I want you inside me when I—”

“I don’t have anything,” he whispered, “Let me do this for you, God, I just want to touch—” and he didn’t let up even as she tried to stop him, forcing her towards climax, working her clit like it was his one goal in life to tip her over the edge, swallowing her moans and tangling his other hand in her hair, but not like this—please—

“I do,” she gasped desperately, almost manically. “I’ve got one.” And he went suddenly, shockingly still.

“You do?” His chest was heaving, his cock visibly straining his expensive pants, and her words had obviously put him on the edge of
something
because the look in his eyes hit her like a dart of electricity to the groin.

“Yes,” she said. “
God
, let me just—”

She leaned over him, fumbling down the side of the couch, found her purse and dug around inside it. Frustration had her groaning and then she was groaning for a whole other reason—his impatience and arousal had apparently won out, because he’d taken the opportunity to slip two fingers back inside her, swipe his thumb over her clit.

“
Please
, Declan, I can’t…”

“You’ve got ten seconds, and then I’m making you come,” he promised, and she could’ve cried with the beautiful agony of it.

Eventually, blessedly, she found the condom at the bottom of her purse, but by that point she was too far gone to make much use of it. Her eyes were fluttering shut with the waves of pleasure washing over her, her whole body sparking with electric heat, and even when he stopped, when he took a moment to fiddle with the condom, she couldn’t stop the sensations flooding her system, and he said something that sounded like, “God, you’re beautiful,” in the instant before she felt it—the press of his cock against her entrance.

Somehow, while she’d been lost on the edge of climax, he’d managed to free his cock, sheath it, and lift her high enough to position himself ready to press into her.

But he didn’t, not yet. He waited—waited for her to come back into herself enough to look at him, to meet his eye, to nod. And then he pushed into her in the same moment she pressed down on him, and they both released breathy moans of pure pleasure as they joined in the middle.

He gave her only a moment, long enough to pull her close and taste her tongue, for her to catch a breath or two and adjust to the size of him stretching her open. And then he gripped the curve of both her hips and guided her into motion above him.

It didn’t take long for either of them. They jolted into a stuttered rhythm, Maggie grinding down on him as he rocked up into her, both of them wordless and breathy, panting through messy kisses and sliding their hands over sweat-slick skin. She wanted to touch more of him, feel the cut of his abs and the strength of his shoulders, but he still wore his suit and she had no coordination left in her to try to strip some of it away, so she hooked arms around his neck and fucked down on him harder and then she was cresting, and he was gritting his teeth, and her eyes rolled back in her head as she crashed over the edge.

Minutes later, slumped against him, she caught her breath enough to say, “That was…”

Crazy, was what it was. A snapshot of manic sexual energy colliding and making them both rut at each other like animals. She wanted to giggle.

He was busy tracing fingertips up and down her spine, his cock still inside her, soft now but so warm and big, still making her feel full. Satisfied.

“You still want me to leave?”

She tutted in exhausted amusement, sat up straight and looked at his sex-roughened face. Felt a surge of fondness rise in her chest, wrap around her heart. “I think I can put up with you for a while longer.”

He ran a hand over the swell of her tummy and up to cup a generous handful of her breast, thumb brushing her hardened nipple through the material of her dress. “You’re exquisite,” he said, and she huffed a mildly embarrassed laugh.

“Shut up,” she muttered back at him, and he kissed her.

I
t took
her a moment to figure out what was different as she drifted into consciousness the following morning. She blinked her eyes open, stretched out her back, groaning a little at the pleasure of it—and then it hit her.
Pleasure
. Declan. Sex. Last night.

Oh God.
Instantly she was hit with the dual sensation of absolute satisfaction combined with a little bit of embarrassment. She wasn’t ashamed of what had happened, but she did feel a little off about how easily she’d given in to her desire for the man. She was a make-‘em-wait kind of girl, but it turned out that when it came to Declan, all of her preconceived notions went out the window. It almost made her want to laugh.

She stretched again, smiling, and rolled onto her side.

The bed was empty.

She sat up, holding the blanket to her chest, and glanced around for signs that he was in the bathroom or he’d popped down to get coffee. “Declan?” she called, her voice cracking with sleep. Silence met her.

Mildly unsure of the situation, she got up and began getting herself ready. None of his things were here. Surely he wouldn’t have put his full suit back on to go down and get coffee?

Thirty minutes later, showered and dressed, she had to face the fact that he’d gone. He hadn’t bothered waking her to say goodbye, hadn’t left her a note, not even a message on her phone apologizing for slipping out so early. Nothing.

Ditched her.
Again
. Taken what he wanted and vanished.

The pit of her stomach went very hollow, and her heart thudded along dully as she left the room and headed towards the elevator.

She refused to feel badly about his disappearing act. Refused to give him the satisfaction of it. Because it turned out her instinct had been correct: Declan Archibald was not a man she should let in. He was looking for a bit of fun, and she’d been his toy. And that was the end of it. It wasn’t worth one ounce of her time.

Her throat swelled thickly as she headed towards Grant’s room. She spent minutes knocking and knocking at his door and getting no answer. The second man of the day to disappear on her. She was starting to sense a pattern here.

Several of the wedding party were loitering in the lobby when she made it downstairs, and if she cast a surreptitious gaze around for Declan, no one needed to know. He wasn’t there.

All of a sudden, and for no explicable reason, Maggie so very deeply wished her mom was here. She was supposed to have been, of course, a big family wedding like this. But she’d very wisely chosen to take her latest boyfriend to Europe instead.

But Aunt Constance was here, holding court in the center of the lobby, loudly dictating the disposal of the wedding flowers.

Maggie ducked her head and hurried over to the desk.

“Excuse me,” she muttered, trying to avoid drawing anyone’s attention.
Especially
Aunt Constance’s. The girl behind the desk smiled up at her blandly. “Did the guest in room 249 already check out?” Because it was either Grant had left her here at the hotel alone, or he’d gotten so black-out drunk last night that he was currently in a coma in his room, completely oblivious to her hammering on his door. Neither option was particularly pleasant.

The girl tapped at her keyboard. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” Maggie said swiftly, and then tried to get the girl to move as quickly as possible through the check-out process. She could hear Aunt Constance’s voice getting closer, and sooner or later, one of her cousins or a weird old uncle would spot her here, even as she half hid herself behind a large potted tree.

“Should I call a car for you?” said the girl, because of course there’d be a selection of town cars on retainer. No one from the Emerson family should ever be expected to make their own travel arrangements.

“No thank you, I’ll get a cab,” said Maggie, and booked it out of there.

The cab took her to the train station, and the hour-long train journey home was a battle in self-discipline. She point-blank refused to think about Declan Archibald or how terrible she now felt about the whole thing, but her overactive mind had different ideas. She fought against memories of his perfect face and toned muscles all the way home, and ended the journey with a headache and damp underwear.

She was full of bad mood as she slammed the building door behind herself, trudged up the stairs with irritation, feeling like a black cloud was hovering over her head and making her hate everything.

And then she froze.

Sitting on her doorstep, propped against the frame and brightening the gloomy hall like a burst of brilliant sunlight, was the largest bouquet of mixed flowers she’d seen in a long time. And in the middle of it, enclosed in a dainty silver envelope, was a note.

She knew instantly it was from Declan, her instinct firing up and filling her with annoying giddiness, and her stupidly romantic brain was already tumbling with possible messages:

…sorry I had to leave…had an early meeting…didn’t want to wake you…

…hated leaving you…want to see you again…

…couldn’t wake you…snoring…

The last one made her blush, because that could’ve been a very real possibility.

But the card didn’t say anything like that—didn’t express regret at leaving, didn’t ask to see her again, didn’t do a damned thing to dissipate her black cloud.

In a rushed, can’t-be-bothered kind of scrawl, it simply said:
Thanks for the great time. –D

Never in her life had she felt so soundly and instantly dismissed. And it left a wretched hole in her stomach that almost made her want to cry.

Which quickly and violently turned to anger.

How
dare
he use her like that—make her think his history of wanting her would lead to something more than a random hook-up at a wedding, so seedy and unfeeling and so very the opposite of how Maggie liked to conduct herself.

Who did he think he was? He might be Mr. Desirable Bachelor Number One in certain circles, but that kind of crap didn’t wash with her. She didn’t care that he was panty-meltingly attractive, that he oozed money and power, that he was dynamite in bed. The charm-offensive way he’d taken down her barriers had been little more than a tactic and it left a bitter taste in her mouth now, a sourness that smothered all appealing thoughts of him in ugly truth. He was a player, and she was no game.

She called her brother, needing to hear a friendly voice right now. Wanting to feel that old comfort of her brother’s care.

What she got instead was a snappy tone that left her reeling.

“It’s not a good time right now, sis.”

“What? Why?” She was standing at her floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the gloomy grey skyline like the world’s most pathetic cliché.
And here we have our classic jilted heroine
, said a voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like Aunt Constance,
standing in misery and feeling sorry for herself.
She could almost hear the Adele soundtrack.

“I’m busy.”

The words brought her out of her own ridiculous thoughts and back to reality. And not what he said—but how he sounded as he muttered them. Strained and scratchy and weak.

“You don’t sound good,” she said, frowning, already turning away from the window and searching out a pair of shoes. “Should I come over?”

“I’m fine. I’m just…tired. Don’t fuss.”

“I’m not fussing. I’m
worried
. This can’t be the flu—you were okay last night.”

“Speaking of last night—what happened to you?”

The abrupt change of subject worked—instantly she was flooded with embarrassment and anger again, drowning out her concern for her brother’s wellbeing.

“Nothing.”

“Mags,” he said flatly. “You disappeared before the cake even came out.”

She considered lying. A story about getting a headache and slipping off to bed was on the tip of her tongue. But there was a part of her, the part that still lived with the memories of her broken childhood, of her brother’s strength in pulling her through it—that part of her desperately wanted to confide in Grant, just so he could make her feel better about it somehow. Like he always did.

She opened her mouth, closed it, swallowed dryly, and then took a sharp breath and said, “Declan.”

“What about him?” Grant asked, and then almost immediately: “Oh my God, Maggie, tell me you didn’t.”

Her cheeks burned hot and she had to resist the urge to abruptly hang up. “You made me dance with him!”

“Yeah,
dance
. To give me a break from your nagging. I didn’t want you to hook up with him, Jesus Christ.”

Nagging
. He didn’t say it harshly, but it unsettled her all the same. Like she’d become a nuisance in his life, one he wanted to palm off to some other poor unfortunate soul.

She stored that thought away for another time and brought her mind back to the hideously mortifying topic at hand.

“I thought he was a good friend of yours.”

“He is. You know we go way back. Which is why I know that this—you and him—is a terrible idea. It was bad enough hearing you’d been on a couple of dates with him, but
sleeping
with him?”

Rather than make her feel better in any way, the thinly veiled accusation in his tone put her hackles up. He was
judging
her. Never mind how dare Declan—how dare Grant!

“What’s the big deal?” she bit out. God, she was so done with men today. “Girls can do the casual hook-up thing, too, you know.”

“Yeah, and as long as that’s all it was, you’ll be fine.”

She scowled at her empty apartment. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Hesitantly, as if he could sense the danger zone he was currently tiptoeing through, he said, “The guy’s not one for settling down, all right? He likes…fun.”

“Fun.”

That hollowness was slowly making a reappearance, making her wish she could end this conversation and go bury herself in bed for the rest of the day. When she’d hoped that Grant might make her feel better about all of this somehow, she never considered that he might instead confirm Declan’s shitty behavior.

“Look, he’s got a reputation,” he continued. “He’s known for this. I’m just saying—leave it at that, okay? Don’t get involved. That’s not who he is.”

“You’re saying he’s a player.”

“Of course, he’s a player,” Grant said, impatience in his tone, like she was an idiot for even having to question it. “He’s Declan Archibald. The guy
every
pretty young thing wants. There’s no way he’s ready to give up the perks of that particular label.”

Ten minutes later, Maggie took the flowers outside and down the street and chucked them in a dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant. She didn’t even want the smell of them in her home.