The way he took control of me, how he brought me to orgasm.
God, I can’t believe I came by just the teasing of my nipples. Shouldn’t there be a natural law against that or something?
I wish all my arousal had disappeared when I saw his face — his stupid symmetrical face — but it didn’t.
Not even close.
Those aristocratic features were nowhere near boring at that moment, or ordinary. All I saw was the one person, the first person who made me feel.
Really feel.
I felt so much it was unbearable. That’s why I still can’t come down from that high even now.
Then he grabbed me, trapping me, and although the signs of an attack nearly swept me over the edge, they didn’t.
They freaking didn’t.
Usually, I’d have an episode if someone as much as tried to cage me. It brings back dark memories, thoughts, and smells, but at that moment? When he took all my will against the wall, I felt a strange sense of awareness. My nipples hurt even more than when he touched them.
They still do. They’re sensitive, throbbing, and sending tingles down to my core.
A shiver snaps through my spine and I curse myself, throwing the covers off and breathing heavily. So what if he touched me and it somehow didn’t suck? So what if he’s more than his gigolo image and has more depth? And he does have depth. The moment his smile disappeared — which is rare as hell — it was almost as if a different person altogether emerged.
A person who finds sick pleasure in trapping me, subjugating me to his will and mercy.
Still, that doesn’t change anything.
Ronan Astor is only a pawn in my game, a domino. That’s it.
That’s all.
He took that picture of me, and he’ll use it to threaten me to end the engagement and my damn plan. If anything, he’s my worst enemy now, and I’ll deal with him as such.
I retrieve my phone, determined to read an article or two then go to sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll deal with the mess that is Ronan Astor.
I won’t allow him to step on me even if it’s the last thing I do.
Of their own accord, my fingers hover over the Instagram app. I don’t even use Instagram — or any social media, for that matter — but the other day, I made an account. It has zero followers, is following one, and lacks any profile picture.
The only reason I started it was to see what he posts in my quest to read him.
Ronan’s Instagram is a translation of his bubbly, energetic personality. It’s filled with pictures of him and his friends half-naked. Most of the shots are in pools with bikini-clad girls, and he always showcases that signature sickening smile.
A smile that hides more than it shows.
I hover over a picture of him from the side taken without his notice. It’s after one of the games and he’s wearing the team’s blue uniform. The stadium’s lights shine on him as he throws his head back in deep, radiant laughter that glows on his entire face.
How can he fake that? Even I fell for it, and I don’t understand human emotions all that much.
How could someone be so carefree and yet bottling up so much inside?
It doesn’t make sense.
Either you’re on this side or that — it can’t be both.
I scroll down below and find a picture of him leaning down to hug his mother’s shoulder. She’s smiling at the camera, and his grin in this one is almost too boyish, softer than the others.
The caption says: Her ladyship. A woman after my own heart.