Page 422 of End Game

His hand.

His voice.

Dark.

Pressure at my wrists when I forget.

Nothing else.

Every time sensation builds enough that my brain starts lunging forward—

Is he going to—

He stops.

At first it's infuriating.

Then something changes.

Because eventually I realize there is no point guessing.

Ronan will do what he does when he does it.

I can't make it come faster.

Can't chase.

Can't help.

Can't plan.

My body starts loosening.

“Better,” he murmurs.

I nod.

He keeps stroking me slowly, but the fingers on his other hand drift between my legs.

I tense as they glide down behind my balls and almost rim me.

“Color?”

“Green.”

“Do you want me to touch you here?”

A different kind of heat rolls through me. “Yes.”

His hands leave me for just a few breaths, and then I feel the cold of the lube and gasp.

His fingers start working me open.

Nothing surprising.

Nothing I haven't done before.

Slow pressure.