Page 208 of End Game

Maybe because Ronan knows that.

He kisses me before I can think about it too much.

The kiss is slower than New Year's.

No countdown.

No fireworks.

No months of pressure breaking open at once.

This feels deliberate in a completely different way.

His hand stays at my neck while the other settles at my waist, and I let myself touch him immediately this time—within certain zones.

One hand against his side.

The other at his shoulder.

Nothing unexpected.

Nothing from behind.

I know his rules.

More importantly, I'm starting to know his body.

The way his breathing changes when I move my thumb along his ribs.

The slight tightening in his hand when he likes something.

The way he leans into contact when he's the one who has already decided he wants it.

Ronan breaks the kiss and orders, “Shirt off.”

My entire body responds before I move.

Fuck.

I pull it over my head.

His gaze travels down me without any attempt to hide it.

I'm used to being looked at.

Tattoo artist. Tattoos everywhere. Shirtless around the house often enough that nobody cares.

This doesn't feel like being looked at.

It feels like being assessed.

Appreciated.

Wanted.

Ronan touches the ink across my chest with two fingers.

Not tracing the whole design.