My gaze locks on his. “Help me?”
He doesn’t hesitate. His hands are on me instantly, sliding my thin top up and over my head in one smooth motion. No bra. His pupils widen, and something dark and primal flickers across his face—like he's seeing me for the first time all over again.
The cold air kisses my bare skin, my nipples tightening under his stare. He bites his lip hard, and I can't help but smile at him..
“So, fucking beautiful,” he breathes out.
“Your turn now.”
He smirks, and in that sinfully effortless way that should be illegal, he arches one arm back, hooks the collar of his shirt, and peels it off in a single, fluid motion.
If he did that every day, I don't think we would ever leave the room.
His torso is lean and lightly tanned, scattered with old bruises from his time with Vespera, but gods, he’s still stunning. My fingers drift to the serpent tattoo on his forearm, wrapping around a dagger. Then I trace over the ink along his ribcage—Memento mori, omnes.Remember, you must die, all of you.
I let my fingers drift down until they meet the waistband of his joggers—but he stops me. Gently, he lifts my chin, staring down at me just before he kisses me again.
“I love you,” he says against my lips. “More than all the damn stars in the sky. I will love you forever.”
I swallow hard just as he reaches for me, lifting us effortlessly. My legs curl around his waist as he pivots toward the bed, and the moment my back hits the mattress, he hovers above me. His eyes blaze into mine, all-consuming, before he dips his head, lips ghosting over the sensitive curve of my neck, sending heat spiralling through me.
He kisses, sucks, and bites—hungry, worshipping—and I arch into him, desperate for more. My breasts brush against his bare chest, skin on skin, and it sets my nerves alight. That feeling in my chest—full and aching—bursts wide open.
His lips drift lower, teasing across my chest until they find my nipple, sucking hard and pulling a gasp from me. I arch instinctively, every nerve igniting under him. Before I can catch my breath, his hand slips down to the waistband of my panties,fingers brushing over with deliberate, electrifying intent. With one swift, practised tug, he rips them clean off—fabric tearing, the sharp sting against my skin making me gasp again. My eyes fly open to find him grinning up at me, wild and wicked.
“Oops,” he says, utterly unbothered, mischief dancing in those baby blues. “Don’t worry, I’ll replace them. Or…” he pauses with a cocky wink. “Maybe I won’t.”
Then he kisses down my stomach, leaving a hot, open trail as he moves lower—lips brushing my belly, my hips, all the way to the edge of my pubic bone.
“I like the thought of you always bare under your clothes,” his eyes lock with mine, dark and hungry. “Ready for me to fuck, whenever I want.”
I really like that thought too.
“Naughty boy.” I prop myself up on my elbows, a slow grin spreading across my face.
His head rests just above my pussy, breath hot against my skin, and he groans—loud and guttural—like my words physically shook him.
“Fuck, don’t say that again.”
I let out a soft, wicked chuckle. “Why not?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. Ronan thrives off praise—being called good, needed, wanted—but this? It’s different, and it’s still new to him. New to me.
He nips my inner thigh in retaliation and lifts his head, eyes locked on me. “Because I want to be your good boy,” he growls, voice wrecked with need. It makes my lip part, makes me ache to taste him.
I crook a single finger and he breaks.
The control shatters, and he's on me, mouth crashing against mine, tongue desperate and devouring. My fingers are already at his waistband, tugging down until I've got him in my hand—thick, hot, throbbing with need. His groan vibrates straightthrough me. He kicks free of the last barrier and drives his body against mine, skin to skin, the sheer hunger of him pressing me deeper into the mattress.
I slide my palms up the length of his spine, tracing every line, every bruise, grounding us in this moment.
“Say it,” Ronan rasps against my lips, his cock grinding over my clit, making his breath hitch, every shudder in his body proof he's hanging on by a thread. He's trembling with the effort, muscles wound so tight he might break—but he won't take me, not until I give him the one thing he's desperate for.
He wants the words. Needs them.
I lean in, dragging my lips along the shell of his ear, my voice nothing more than a sultry whisper. “You’re my good boy.”
He shudders hard against me, all that restraint fraying to nothing. My smile curves against his skin as I drag my tongue along the shell of his ear, slow enough to be cruel. “Now,” I whisper, threading my fingers in his hair, tugging just enough to make him whimper, “fuck me like the good boy you're dying to be.”
He braces over me, muscles tightening as he aligns himself, the blunt head of his cock dragging just enough to make me whine. And then—he slams into me, hard and deep, punching the air from my lungs in one glorious, brutal stroke.
