“What are you doing, ma belle?” There’s a slight amusement in his tone, and I nearly jump to the ceiling because of it.
“I was promised Ron Astor the Second, and I still haven’t seen him yet,” I joke.
“Does that mean you only want me for my dick??
?
“Of course. You thought it was you?”
“That sounds as if I’m your whore.”
“You are, just like I’m yours.” I finally manage to free him of his boxers after so much stupid fumbling. He doesn’t even attempt to help me, the dickhead.
“You’re mine, huh?” He grips me by the hip as his other hand clutches my jaw.
This time, he’s the one who’s making me stare at him, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
As long as he looks at me, I pathetically feel like maybe everything will be okay. No, maybe not pathetically, but magically. So…magically.
I never believed in magic, but I also never believed in feelings or in people. Now, I believe in Ronan.
Maybe it’s because I now know he’s probably not Edric’s son and his origins aren’t what I thought.
But would that have made a difference?
It’s Ronan.
He didn’t ask for permission when he invaded my life, and he certainly won’t be asking for it now.
My thighs shake when he brings me down on his dick, sheathing himself whole inside me. My eyes roll to the back of my head as he fills me to the brim.
Oh. God.
“Fuck, belle. You feel so good and tight and fucking right.” With my breasts in his face, his breaths tickle my sensitive skin when he speaks.
I’m about to thrust them more, demanding attention, but Ronan doesn’t need that. His mouth latches onto a nipple, making me moan then whimper as he runs his tongue over it. He pounds with his hips from the bottom, driving into me deep but slow. It’s like he wants to feel me, to engrave me in his memory.
And that, the fact that he’s memorising me instead of the usual rough pounding, flutters my heart.
It’s a strange type of sensation, something that makes my own hips jerk in reaction.
My fingers dig into the material of his jacket as I go up and down his length with a pace that matches his.
He releases my nipple with a pop and stares up at me with that gleam in his eyes — the gleam I lost a few minutes ago, the gleam that comes from pain and trauma. Deep-seated trauma.
I seal my mouth to his.
His lips claim mine in a raw passionate kiss that robs me of breaths, thoughts, and logic. It’s almost as if I never existed until this moment.
When I’m joined with him this way in all senses of the word, it’s as if nothing else is here with us.
No broken parts, no nightmares, no wars to wage.
But that’s a lie, isn’t it?
I can pretend it’ll never happen, but it will.
I can pretend I won’t hurt him, but I will.