Page 52 of Ronen
Ronen swung one slender leg over the bike, and I couldn’t help but remember how those legs had felt straddling my hips as I buried my dick into his tight heat. All the blood in my body rushed straight to my cock, making my jeans uncomfortable.
He stopped digging in the seat compartment, giving me a knowing look, like he had read my thoughts. Keeping my face bland, I waited while he dug out his registration. Handing it to me, along with his license and proof of insurance from his wallet.
I pointed a finger at him. “Sit. Wait. Do not move,” I commanded, and he leaned against the bike, splaying his arms out in a ‘who me? I’m not going anywhere’ gesture.
While I waited for his information to pull up, and checked in with dispatch, I had time to observe my mate.
He was such a contradiction, a study in opposites, like there were two sides to Ronen.
It didn’t feel like he was putting on a persona when he was at the library, or even now, flying down the highway at breakneck speed.
No, it felt like this was exactly who Ronen was. Two sides of very different coins, yet both sides were him.
I would bet money that only a handful of people got to see this side of Ronen. This wild, reckless, uninhibited, and surprisingly, just a bit playful side.
In those few moments, watching him lean against his bike waiting for me to slap him with a speeding ticket, like he had not a care in the world, I realized I wanted to know both sides of Ronen.
I wanted to know all of Ronen.
I wanted Ronen.
Tearing off the ticket when it printed, I held it out as I walked back over to him.
His lips curved up in the briefest of smiles as he took the ticket from me, his eyes dancing.
“Have a good night,” I told him, walking away. “And slow the fuck down.”
“Mason.”
The soft way he called my name caused a shiver of need to snake up my spine, as I turned slowly to face him.
When I didn’t speak, he jostled his helmet from one hand to the other. Finally, he asked, “How are the kids?”
My mind went blank trying to decipher what the fuck he was talking about.
When I still didn’t speak, he asked, “Do they have their teeth yet? I read baby goats get their teeth at about a week old, and they’re two weeks, right? A few days older?”
I guess we were going to make small talk now? About my goats?
Taking a few steps to close the distance between us, I stared down at his upturned face, my eyes glued to his oh-so-kissable pink lips. “They do. Have their teeth, I mean. Fritter nipped my fingers this morning, little bugger.”
Ronen’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Fritter? You named one of them Fritter? What kind of name is that?”
Headlights illuminated the road, and a black BMW crawled by, then honked when Ronen tossed them his middle finger.
Giving him a questioning look, he shrugged. “It was my cousin, Logan,”
Rolling his eyes, he sighed, “At least he won’t go tattle to his dads, who then would tattle to my dads. I swear, I can’t do anything in this town without someone in my family finding out. Logan will keep his mouth shut though. Anyway, back to this abhorrent name for this poor little goat. Explain.”
It wasn’t an ideal place to have a conversation, but if Ronen was going to actually speak to me, I’d take it. It was better than nothing.
Running a hand through my hair, I told him, “Mama’s name is Cinnamon Bun, Cinnamon or Cin, for short. The two kids are Kruller and Fritter. Apple Fritter technically, but Fritter works.”
He stared at me, blinked, then sighed wistfully. “And now I want a pastry.”
“All my animals are named after desserts,” Grinning, I shyly admitted. My family teased me endlessly about it.
He tilted his head and went back to staring at me, until I felt heat creep across my face, and I scuffed one toe in the dirt. “How many animals have you named after something in my Uncle Quinn’s bakery?”
