The bedroom was small, spare. A bed with a dark comforter, a lamp on the nightstand, blinds drawn against the night. She barely registered any of it. Her focus was on him—the solid weight of his body, the heat of his skin through his shirt, the way his hands moved over her like he was memorizing her shape.
"Lila." His voice was rough. "Tell me to stop and I will."
"I don't want you to stop."
He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were dark, intent. Searching for something.
"I need you to be sure."
She reached up and touched his face. The stubble along his jaw was rough under her fingertips. "I've spent two years being careful. Being smart. Being alone." She held his gaze. "I'm sure."
His breathing changed, and his eyes widened. The control he always maintained—the careful distance—cracked open.
He kissed her again, harder this time, and his hands found the hem of her shirt. She lifted her arms and let him pull it over her head. Cool air hit her skin, followed immediately by the warmth of his palms sliding up her sides, her ribs, the curve of her breasts still covered by her bra.
She fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. Got three undone before giving up and pulling it over his head instead. He helped, shrugging out of it and tossing it aside.
For a moment, she just looked.
He was lean and hard, his chest marked with old scars she wanted to trace with her fingers, her mouth. A puckered line along his left side. A starburst near his shoulder. Evidence of a life lived dangerously, of battles survived.
She pressed her palm flat against his chest. Felt his heart beating fast beneath her hand.
"You're staring," he said.
"I'm appreciating."
His mouth curved. Then he reached around her back and unhooked her bra with practiced ease. It fell away, and his hands replaced it, cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples until they hardened.
She sucked in a breath.
He bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth. Licked. Sucked. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as sensation shot straight down between her legs. He switched to the other side, and she arched into him, her hips pressing forward, seeking friction.
They moved toward the bed. She didn't remember who pushed or who pulled, only that suddenly she was on her back and he was above her, his weight braced on his forearms, his hips settling between her thighs.
She could feel him through their jeans. Hard. Ready. She rocked up against him and watched his jaw clench.
"You're making this difficult," he said.
"Good."
His hand slid down her stomach, popped the button on her jeans, and tugged down the zipper. She lifted her hips, and he peeled the denim off, taking her underwear with it. Then he sat back on his heels and looked at her.
Lila resisted the urge to cover herself. The way he was looking at her—like she was something precious, something worth protecting, something he wanted desperately—made her feel powerful instead of exposed.
"You're beautiful," he said. Simple. Direct. Like he was stating a fact.
"You're overdressed."
He stood and shed his jeans and boxers in one efficient motion. She took her turn to look, to appreciate. He was hard, thick, and when he climbed back onto the bed and settled over her, she felt the length of him press against her thigh.
His hand slid between her legs. Found her wet and ready. His fingers parted her folds and stroked, slow and deliberate, learning her responses. When he circled her clit, she gasped. When he slid one finger inside, her hips bucked.
"More," she said.
He added a second finger, stretching her, filling her. His thumb kept working her clit as his fingers moved in and out, building a rhythm that had her breathing hard, her hands fisting in the sheets.
"Ronan." His name came out ragged. "I need?—"
