Page 11 of End Game

I gasp when the hard length of him presses into my lower belly, heat shooting straight through me and settling somewhere much lower.

He secures my jaw with a strong hand, and his lips are on mine.

The kiss is not tentative or careful—it’s wild and desperate and so fucking hungry. He chases my tongue and then lets me chase his. I can barely breathe between the pressure on my chest and how hard his mouth is pressed to mine.

Whatever hesitation existed between us dies the second his mouth meets mine.

Kissing him feels like it lasts forever and not long enough when he breaks it and meets my eyes again.

“Stoplight system?” he asks quietly.

“Yes, and very green,” I answer with a smile.

His lips are on mine again, and then he’s trailing kisses down my jaw and neck. I gasp as he finds the sweet spot near my pulse point, and I feel the goosebumps materialize on my skin. I rise up on my toes, trying to chase his mouth as he pulls away.

Those eyes find mine again.

“Sweetheart, I didn’t want our first time to happen before we had a conversation.” His voice has a rasp to it I’ve never heard before. “But I don’t want to stop long enough to have it right now. I need you to keep your hands to yourself. Can you do that?”

I’m sure a flicker of curiosity crosses my face, but my voice is steady and sure when I reply, “Yeah, I can do that.”

He lets my wrists go, and a flat palm at the small of my back holds me against him while he kisses me again and turns me so my back is to his bed.

Every instinct tells me to reach for him—to slide my hands over him, pull him closer, finally feel everything I’ve only imagined.

But he asked me not to.

And I trust him enough not to know there is a reason and not to need it yet.

So I leave my hands loose at my sides.

“Stay,” he commands playfully as he steps away from me.

I miss the heat of him instantly as he crosses to his dresser. He opens the top drawer and pulls out two neckties, wrapping them around his hand as he walks back over to me.

He tosses the ties on the bed and then holds my eyes while he reaches for the hem of my shirt.

It reminds me of the basement—the same almost reverent patience as he undresses me. His fingers slip beneath fabric, dragging it away piece by piece.

He watches every inch of skin he uncovers like he’s committing it to memory.

By the time I’m completely naked, being looked at by him somehow feels almost as intimate as being touched.

He wraps me in his arms again. One hand on my ass and one on my waist as he kisses me again.

Instinctively, I raise a hand, but the second my fingers brush his arm, he pulls back.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

“It’s okay, Cami.” There’s no frustration in his voice, only reassurance. “Get on the bed, arms above your head.”

“Yes, Sir,” I tease, because apparently some part of my personality is still operational.

His mouth finally curves, and it settles me.

I do sit on the bed and then slide up before I rest my hands above my head. Ronan looks at me, his gaze lingering as it trails from the hands above my head all the way to my feet.

He leans over and grabs the neckties.