Page 197 of End Game

I don’t.

Imagination apparently doesn’t account for heat.

Or pressure.

Or the way Ronan kisses like he does everything else—with full intention.

There is no testing brush of mouths and no uncertain hesitation after months of knowing exactly what we want.

His lips press firmly against mine, then part, and something in my chest tears loose.

The fireworks outside become vibration more than sound.

I feel one detonate through the floor at the same time his fingers slide into my hair.

My pulse is hammering against his palm.

I don’t touch him.

Every instinct I have is screaming at me to close the space, grab his shirt, pull him closer, finally, finally… fucking finally put my hands on this man.

But I know him.

So I keep both hands clenched against my own thighs and kiss him back with everything I have.

Ronan doesn’t break the kiss as his hand finds my wrist. For half a second, his fingers circle it.

Then he lifts my hand and puts it against his waist.

It’s permission.

My entire body reacts.

I grip him.

Not hard. Just enough to know he’s real.

His breath breaks against my mouth.

Then he takes my other hand too and guides it, settling my palm against his ribs before releasing me.

That almost wrecks me more than the kiss.

Touch me.

Not spoken, but said all the time.

I do.

My hands slide around him, one spreading over his back while the other stays at his side, and the second I pull him closer, Ronan kisses me harder.

Fuck.

Months.

Months of wondering whether every look meant what I thought it meant.

Months of him naming things I couldn’t say, making space, setting rules, telling me not yet without ever making it feel like never.