I’m sure Ronan is the same. Alas.
I attempt to pull the shirt down lower, but it only seems to tighten across my chest, which makes my nipples show through more. So I give up and fold my arms, casual-like.
His eyes glint as they track my movements. A shiver runs down my spine.
My own gaze wanders down his body till it reaches his boxers, where there is a considerable bulge. I try not to think of just how considerable it is.
I force my eyes back to his face. It’s a challenge, given the eye candy that is Ronan Masters unclothed. But I manage it.
My scrambled mind strains for a coherent thought. “Did she get a lot of night terrors in LA?” I circle back to what drew us both out of our rooms tonight.
He gives a shaky exhale and runs a hand through his hair, tucking the long strands behind his ears. “She did the first few weeks she stayed with me. The psychologist said that they’re not uncommon, but they can be worse when a child is worried or has a sudden change, like her being left in an unfamiliar place.”
“It would be a lot for anyone, especially a child as sensitive as Belle.”
“Night terrors can be hereditary. I got them when I was younger. I was worse, though. I used to sleepwalk,” he says.
“That must have been scary for your parents.”
He doesn’t answer, but his shoulders tense. I realize I’ve never heard him mention his dad, and barely his mom.
After a minute, he says, “It was just me and my mom. She wasn’t…well. She was often too out of it to notice.” He holds himself stiff, as if uncomfortable with the revelation.
“Your scar. The table,” I say, remembering what he said about the glass table and sleepwalking.
He nods with a frown. I want to ask more. I want to understand him better. I want to console him and patch up the places that are obviously still bleeding inside. But instinct tells me to let him share at his own pace.
“Belle won’t remember this in the morning.” he changes the subject.
“She hasn’t had a night terror since I’ve been here. Do you think she had one tonight because of the phone call?” I ask.
Our eyes connect. It wasn’t just Belle who was disturbed by the call.
“I’m going to get a drink. Do you want to join me?” I set my fear of rejection aside because the man needs to talk.
He looks torn. Then his expression shifts. He lets out a gusty breath. “Yeah, I need something too.”
“I’m going to grab a robe, and I’ll meet you downstairs.”
His lip quirks. “I guess I should get some clothes on as well.”
“Nah. You’re good.”
He barks out a laugh. “You want me like this?”
I almost moan.Yes. Very much like this.Except maybe without the boxers.
“The majority of the world wants you like that, Mr. Superstar. But I won’t be greedy. You can put on pants.”
I say it lightly, as if I’m joking, but the reality is, I’m dying for him and his magnificent face and body, for his quiet soul, for all his obvious strength, and even more for the vulnerabilities he inadvertently reveals.
“I’ll see you downstairs,” he says, and I feel his whisper-rough voice like a caress on my overheated skin.
He doesn’t move right away. And we stay in the hallway, devouring each other with our eyes, standing close, the space getting smaller between us as we lean toward each other.
I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. Instead he turns and strides down the hallway toward his room. Presumably, to put on pants. He’s mean like that.
* * *
