“Did your parents live there with you?”
“Maybe,” he says. “I only met my father once. Never met my mammy.”
There’s no emotion in his voice. It’s like he’s telling me the weather outside is cold. Or it’s Monday. It’s just a fact to him. Nothing else. And that devastates me.
“So who raised you?”
“A lady,” he says. “I didn’t know her name. She reared us until we were eight, and then our training began.”
“Training for… killing, right?”
“Aye.” He nods. “But mostly just war. They believed a war was coming. And they were making us into soldiers.”
“So how did you meet Lachlan?”
“I met him in a church,” he explains. “After I left the compound. His mammy took me home and looked after me until she died.”
This time, there is warmth reflected in his voice. Even though he doesn’t say it, it’s obvious he cared for her very much. His relationship with Lachlan becomes so much clearer with those simple words. And I find myself wishing that his mother were still alive so I could hug her and thank her for helping Ronan. For raising him to be the man that he is today.
“Will you tell me what kind of things they made you do at the compound?”
He’s quiet, and his eyes are dark again, shutting me out. This is a question he doesn’t want to answer. And I have to accept there are just some things I may not ever know. It’s up to him to tell me if he wants to. But I will break down his barriers, one by one.
“You could show me,” I offer instead.
“How do you mean?” he asks.
I leave the plates on the table and stand up, taking his hand in mine. Ronan stares at our linked fingers for a moment before he relaxes in my grip and follows me where I lead him. To the bedroom.
I release his hands and step in front of him, nervous.
“I want to feel you,” I explain. “All of you, Ronan. I want to feel your skin against mine. To know you. Will you let me?”
He’s frowning. His eyes are downcast, and I can’t get a read on him. I’m afraid he’s going to say no. So I reach up and touch his face, stirring the magic that lingers between us every time we come together. I want him to feel it too. To take comfort in the knowledge that he’s safe with me. That I would never hurt him or judge him. Because at this point, I can no longer deny that we are connected on some strange level. And I know I can’t be the only one who feels it.
“Tell me what you’re worried about,” I say.
“I don’t know,” he answers.
“But you like it when I touch you?”
“Aye,” he says.
“Do you trust me?”
He nods without a moment’s hesitation. I stand on my toes and brush my lips against his, giving him the softest of kisses. His body relaxes into me, and he tries to pull me closer, but I stop him.
“I want to feel you,” I insist.
Our gazes lock, and then finally, he nods. That mournful look is back in his eyes again, and a part of me hates that I’m making him uncomfortable. But the other part of me, the one that wants to help him see there’s nothing to worry about, wins out.
I unbutton his suit jacket and slide my hands inside, over his broad chest. I peel it back off his shoulders and then go to work on the buttons of his undershirt. Once I’ve got that off too, I grab his hands and guide him backwards to the bed. He follows and sits down, and I kneel before him to remove his shoes and socks.
My palms slide up his trouser clad legs, soaking in the full power of his strained muscles before I reach his belt. I unbuckle him and tug down his zipper. He’s wearing black briefs beneath, swollen from the outline of his hardened cock. My instinctive urge is to touch him. To please him. But first, I want to explore everywhere he’s never let me venture before.
He lifts his hips and helps me with the business of removing his pants. Then I stand before him and remove my own. I’ve done this hundreds of times at the club. For an audience of other men. It meant nothing then. But it means everything now.
Ronan watches closely as if he might miss something should he even blink. He’s seen me naked plenty over the last two years, but he still looks at me like it’s the first time. Like I’m not dirty or wrong or broken the way I often think I am.
His tendons are strained from how badly he wants me. How much he’s struggling to maintain his self-control. So I don’t make a long production of it. Tonight’s not about putting on a show for him. Tonight’s about learning the landscape of his body. Connecting with him in a way that’s more intimate than any other. Knowing his skin. The story only his body can tell me.
My fingers burn with the need to have those things.