Page 18 of Naughty Irish Liar

I wasn’t one of those girls who stumbled in front of the object of their masturbating fantasies like a clumsy twit. But even I gave a quick glance down to my reeboks to check my laces were fastened.

“Ronan….”

His head swerved, his eyes—no word of a lie, may Jesus strike me down if he so chose—checked me out so damn lazy-slow I was touched all over. That look right there was why eye-fucked was in the Oxford dictionary. His dirty-boy gaze roamed from my tennis shoes, up my white jeggings, lingered on my gray marl hoodie covered chest and only then did he reach my face.

Good god. See, this was why it never worked with anyone else.

My heart and my body already belonged to someone.

How could I ever have sex with someone else when my body was across town being mentally petted by strong Irish hands?

The attraction was real and strong, and it consumed me.

The attraction was reciprocated because when his gaze finally rose to my face his hooded lids were everything I knew about wanting sex.

The fine hairs on my arm stood on end.

“Invite me in,” he rasped and just like that I died outside of room 5031.

I unlocked the door and felt the heat of Ronan behind me as I tried to act cool walking into my suite, it occurred to me, the mountain had come to Mohammed.

And I was going to scale him.

I’d loved the man in all his brusque ways long before I truly knew what it meant to love another person and I’d lost him in the same vain because of timing and lies.

My teenage-self had been impetuous, bratty even. She’d acted in sexual impulse.

Funny that then, I wanted to do the same by attaching my nether parts to his face.

* * *

Five years ago

Brooklyn Heights

Today was the day.

If I left it any later Ronan would be gone from the estate and I’d never see him again and my life would be over.

We’d been getting on so well lately. He laughed at my stupid jokes and he always ate Rissa’s baked cookies I sneaked him from the kitchen. I was desperate enough to grasp at anything positive to let me know he liked me back.

I loved him.

Really loved. Not like when I had a crush on the Bachelor from season eight.

Abandoning the pink cupcake on my dresser, too excited to eat, I spent far too long deciding what to wear in my closet. When I settled on white shorts, flip flops and a Doctor Who T-shirt I went downstairs in hopes he’d arrived already.

He’d been working for daddy all summer long. I never quite knew what he did, only that daddy was impressed. He sang Ronan’s praises most every night to mom at dinner. I had to figure that was a good thing when he found out we were dating.

Or would be dating.

Whatever. Same difference.

It was all just a matter of time.

Oh, god. There he was. Waiting by daddy’s car. He came by every morning at 7 am, then he spent a few hours in daddy’s home office before they went out to one of the hotels.

Last week Ronan spent a weekend in Chicago with daddy at Clemonte’s. I’d begged and begged to go with him, but he knew my damn English paper was due and told me no. Who the fuck has summer school anyway? This idiot. Every year for the past four and it sucked, but I was earning extra credit and for someone who wasn’t naturally academic I needed to work twice as hard.

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