This.
This is why I’m so deranged. This evasiveness. It took him two years after what happened to even talk to me, and now I’m lucky to drag one sentence out of him. He’s so guarded, even from me. And it makes me question everything about him, but when I look at him, I do believe him. He believes he’s protecting me by withholding information. By handling it. That’s how things work in the mob. The men deal with business, and the women look the other way.
On some level, it’s nice to be able to disconnect like that. To trust and have faith that the syndicate will protect you. That’s how it works with the other girlfriends and wives. Unfortunately, it never worked that way for me. So it’s hard for me to look at Ronan right now and just tell him that none of it matters. Because it does. It involves me. And I know there had to be a reason for him to tell Lachlan after all this time. A damn good reason because it was a very risky move.
“Just tell me one thing,” I croak. “Tell me that you’re safe and they aren’t going to punish you for it.”
“Ye’re safe, Sasha,” he replies. “I’ve made sure of that.”
“I wasn’t asking about myself,” I answer. “And it’s funny how you can say that, because I didn’t exactly feel so safe when Lachlan was questioning me about it. Testing me when he knew the answer the whole time. What would have happened if I’d told him the truth?”
Dark clouds roll through his eyes, and something shifts in his expression. It looks like betrayal. And I feel a little guilty for even mentioning it though I shouldn’t.
“He did that?” Ronan asks.
“It doesn’t matter,” I sigh. “I don’t want to cause problems between you two. That wasn’t my intention. I just needed to know that you were safe.”
He’s quiet for a long pause, and it’s obvious he’s still thinking about it. But whatever’s actually going on in that head of his is still a complete mystery to me.
“Ye’re done dancing,” he says finally, in a tone like I have no say in the matter.
“I’m fully aware of that,” I snap. “Tonight was my last night.”
He grips my hair into a makeshift pony tail and tugs on it. His mouth hovers over mine, the heat of his every exhale skating over my lips.
“Nobody else gets to see you like that,” he declares. “Ye're claimed.”
His words douse me in gasoline. His eyes light the match. And when he grinds himself against me, all that's left to do is burn for him.
He crushes his lips against mine and kisses me so hard it borders on painful. His hands are tearing at the strings of my bikini, yanking them apart until I’m completely naked in his arms. His raging hard cock is still sandwiched between our bodies, at least until it isn’t. He picks me up and the next thing I know, I've got ten inches of Ronan shoved inside of me. I cry out against him, and he feeds off of it, sucking his own choice of poison from the hollow in my throat. The taste of my skin is what gets him off. Being inside of me. Owning me. He drinks from me and gives me another lethal injection of his brand of narcotic.
“Why are you always doing this?” I pant against him. “Why do you always do this?”
His only answer is to fuck me into the wall. Being the psychopath that I clearly am, I come so hard I nearly black out. I want him. But he’s so bad for me. The worst. And still, I clamp down around him, pulling him deeper inside.
He’s putting me on display right now. Anyone could come down here and see us. I can only imagine what we look like. Him fully dressed, me naked and pressed against the wall. Lipstick smeared, mascara running down my face. Good and thoroughly used by him.
I wonder if Ronan’s thinking about that too, when he groans and finishes inside of me.
Without a condom. Again.
Jesus. This fucking man.
His forehead falls against mine, and we both just hold on to each other until our breathing calms. And then he releases me and I slide down his body until my toes touch the floor.
His come is still leaking out of me when I bend over to pick up the scraps of my clothing. I attempt in vain to make myself decent while Ronan watches. He’s already zipped and apart from his bloody lip, there’s not a bit of evidence he just fucked me into next week.
“I hope you enjoyed that,” I tell him. “Being that it was the last time.”
He looks at me. And we both know it’s a lie. This thing between us isn’t over. I'll always be enslaved to this man. I'd serve him any day of the week and twice on Sundays. Because, fuck me, that’s why.
He could just come out and say it if he really wanted to. Rub it in my face and tell me the ugly truth. Instead, he simply says, “Come on. I’m taking ye home.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sasha