Page 77 of Ruthless Savior
She's not yours,I remind myself firmly.Not really.She's under my protection, that's all. This is temporary.
The word feels hollow even in my own mind.
I try to return to my work, but it's useless. Every few minutes, my attention drifts back to her. When she shifts in her seat, when she runs her fingers through her hair, when she reaches for her drink—every movement seems designed to torture me.
And my cock stays rock-hard through it all, pulsing like there’s a second heartbeat lodged in my shaft, the straining of it against my fly becoming unbearable.
The attraction I feel for her isn't rational. It's primal, urgent, and it feels completely beyond my control. And sitting here watching her, wanting her, knowing I can't have her without complicating everything, is driving me slowly insane.
I need a few minutes alone, a chance to clear my head and get my body under control. Maybe then I can focus on something other than how much I want to carry her to the other bedroom at the back of the plane and spend the rest of the flight showing her all of the other ways I can pleasure her.
"I'll be back in a minute," I mutter to no one in particular, standing and heading toward the bathroom at the rear of the aircraft. I see Leila glance up, but she says nothing.
The bathroom is nearly the size of one in a luxury hotel, complete with a shower. I close the door firmly behind me, my hand already at the button of my pants as the memories of our wedding night flood back in. Leila underneath me, her legs wrapped around my waist, her fingers twisting in the sheets as I moved inside her. My name on her lips, the sound of her climaxing, the feeling of her clenching around my fingers as I readied her for my cock?—
Christ. I can’t get myself free of my clothing fast enough.What the fuck is she doing to me?This is pathetic, jerking off in an airplane bathroom like some kind of desperate teenager. But I need the release, need something to take the edge off this constant wanting that's been eating at me all day. This is the third time today, and I can’t get enough. If I could, I’d have been inside of her every one of those times, filling her up with my cum. Leaving the feeling of me fucking her imprinted inside of her until she could barely walk without feeling me?—
I free myself from my jeans and wrap my hand around my length, already hard and aching. In my mind, it's not my hand but hers, soft and uncertain at first, then bolder as I guide her. I imagine teaching her how to touch me, how I like to be stroked, watching her slender hand wrap around me as I lean back and murmur praise. The fantasy is so vivid I can almost feel her fingers instead of my own, can almost hear her voice whispering my name. I'm close, so close, when the door handle rattles.
"Ronan?" Leila's voice comes through the door, and I freeze. "Are you okay? I heard… I thought maybe you were sick."
Fuck. I clear my throat and try to make my voice sound normal, though my heart is hammering against my ribs, mylungs tight, and my cock throbbing on the edge of release. "I'm fine. Just give me a minute."
But she doesn't leave. If anything, she sounds more concerned. "You've been in there for a while. Are you sure you're?—"
The handle turns, and suddenly the door is opening, and Leila is standing there, her eyes wide with surprise.
Fuck. I forgot to fucking lock it.
For a moment, neither of us moves. She takes in the scene—me with my jeans open, my hand wrapped around myself, the obvious evidence of what I was doing—and her cheeks flood with color.
"Oh," she breathes. "Oh, I… I'm sorry, I thought..."
I quickly try to make myself decent, cursing under my breath as I struggle with my zipper. It’s impossible to stuff my erect cock back in, and it’s not softening anytime soon. "Jesus, Leila, don't you knock?"
"I did knock!" she protests, but she's still staring, and the look in her eyes isn't entirely shock. There's something else there, something curious and aroused that makes my pulse race despite the embarrassment of being caught. "I thought you were sick!"
"Well, I'm not sick," I mutter, finally getting my jeans closed. "I was just..."
"I can see what you were doing," she says quietly, and now there's definitely something other than shock in her voice.
We both go very still again. I can smell her shampoo, her perfume, see her pupils dilate as she stares at me. The air between us feels charged, electric, just like it did on our wedding night, before everything spiraled out of control. Her teeth sink into her lower lip, and just looking at her mouth makes me ache.
"Why?" she asks suddenly.
I blink, confused. "Why, what?"
"Why were you… taking care of yourself instead of..." She gestures vaguely between us, her cheeks reddening further, but her voice steadier now. "I mean, we're married. If you wanted… if you needed..."
The question hangs between us, and I can see the confusion in her eyes. I think I see hurt, too, and my chest tightens. Something in me rebels at the idea of ever hurting this woman in any way, no matter how mild. No matter how necessary for us both.
But she has to understand how things are. And if it means being cold to her again, like before, that’s what I’ll have to do.
"Because this isn't a real marriage," I say finally, the words coming out harsher than I intended. "Our wedding night was necessary for legal reasons, but now that it's done, there's no need to complicate things further."
Her expression shifts, her lips pressing together as she eyes me guardedly. "Complicate things how?"
I run a hand through my hair, frustrated with this conversation, with her proximity, with the way she's looking at me like I've hurt her feelings. Incredibly, I’m still hard, and I try to fix myself again, but it’s a losing battle. "You know this is temporary, Leila,” I grit out as I struggle with my cock. “I promised you a divorce when this is all over, promised you could go back to your normal life. The more we… the more intimate we become, the harder that's going to be."
