Page 93 of Ruthless Savior
“I believe that,” I whisper. Summoning all the bravery I can, I get up, reaching out to take his hand. “Let’s dance.”
His fingers are warm and steady as they close around mine, and I let him lead me toward the small crowd of dancers. The wooden floor creaks slightly under our feet, and I'm hyperaware of every eye in the pub that might be watching us. The sight of Ronan O’Malley and his wife dancing here is no small thing, I think.
But when Ronan turns to face me, when his hands settle at my waist and I place mine on his shoulders, the rest of the room seems to fade away. We're close enough that I can smell the spice of his cologne, can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him properly.
"Just follow my lead," he murmurs, and his voice is lower than usual, rougher somehow.
It’s not easy. The music is fast and lively, and there’s no time to stop and think. But that makes me more able to follow him, because Idon’thave time to overthink it. I force myself to justlet go, to feel the rhythm of the music, and more importantly, to feelhim.
Ronan. My husband.
For the first time, I understand why people like the Puritans claimed dancing was a gateway to sin. There’s nothing overtly sexual about this dance, but letting myself find the rhythm of it with Ronan connects us intimately in an entirely new way. I’m viscerally aware of the movement of his body, the sway of it, the flex of his muscles, in tune with him as I move along with his every step. Our bodies click into sync with one another faster than I would have expected, and my pulse speeds up as I see him looking at me, heat in his eyes as he spins me out and brings me in again, up against his hard, muscled chest.
The lead singer is singing in Gaelic, so I don’t understand the words of the song, but I don’t need to. I can feel the emotion in it—something bittersweet and hopeful at the same time, lyrics that sound sad somehow but are set to a tune that demands dancing. Something that matches the ache in my chest as Ronan pulls me a little closer.
"You're a good dancer," I call out over the music, trying to diffuse the tension between us by the tiniest bit, but it doesn’t work. His eyes gleam, and a slightly arrogant smirk that I’ve never seen before curls the edge of his lips.
“I know,” he answers, smiling more widely than I’ve seen before as he spins me and pulls me in again.
The song begins to wind down, the fiddle's melody growing softer, more wistful. Around us, other couples are starting to separate, returning to their tables with flushed cheeks and bright smiles. But Ronan doesn't let go of me, and I don't step away.
He pulls me in closer without saying anything. He doesn’t need to. I can feel what’s between us, the moment that he doesn’t want to let go of, and I don’t want to, either.
Right now, it doesn’t feel like he’s a mob boss and I’m his inconvenient wife. It feels like we’re just the last two people in the world, dancing to a tune only we can hear, connected by an intimacy that feels as if we’re the only two people to ever experience it. Like this moment was made for us, and only us, no matter how ridiculous that is.
My entire body feels attuned to his, every shift of his feet and flex of his muscles sending sparks through me. I tip my face up, looking at him, and I wish with every part of me that he would kiss me.
And for the briefest of moments, as his eyes slide down to my lips, I think he will.
I can see the same confusion in his eyes that I feel in my chest. This wasn't supposed to happen. Whatever this is, whatever's building between us, it wasn't part of the plan. But it's here anyway, and I can see that he feels it, too.
The music stops, and the spell breaks. Ronan's hands drop from my waist, and I step back, suddenly aware of how close we were, how intimate we must have looked to anyone watching. My cheeks burn with embarrassment and something else—disappointment, maybe, that the moment is over.
"That was fun," I manage, stumbling over the words, because I need to say something, need to fill the silence that's stretching between us again.
“It was.” Ronan’s voice is calm, flat, but I think I hear the faintest note of wistfulness, although I might just be imagining it.
We make our way back to our table, and I'm grateful for the dim lighting that hides the flush I can feel spreading across my face. Bridget catches my eye from behind the bar and gives me a knowing wink, bringing us her apple crisp on a single plate to share, which feels intentional. I reach for a fork, glad to havesomething to do that isn’t looking at Ronan right now, feeling the weight of that moment still hanging between us.
The band strikes up another tune, something slower and more melancholy, and I let the music wash over me as I try to make sense of what just happened. Try to understand why dancing with my fake husband felt more real than anything else in my life right now.
Ronan doesn’t try to touch me. We share the dessert and finish our drinks, and then he gets up to pay the tab, before nodding to me. I get up and follow him out of the pub, his hand on the small of my back as he walks with me to the car.
The ride back is silent. I can still feel that tension humming between us, see the tightness of his hands on the wheel, the firm line of his jaw in profile when I glance over at him. He’s sitting rigid, eyes fixed on the road, as if he’s fighting something within him… something that I suspect I know what it is.
He pulls into the manor’s courtyard, handing over the keys to a guard who steps forward. We walk into the house, to the foot of the stairs, and I turn suddenly toward him, pausing as I reach out to touch his arm before I can stop myself.
“Ronan—”
He moves so quickly that I don’t even get to take a breath before his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is desperate, hungry—like the kiss that night in the library, the first time. It takes my breath away, the way his hands frame my face, sliding into my hair, his tongue sliding along the seam of my lips and demanding entrance.
I gasp against his mouth, and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss until I'm dizzy with want. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and I hear him make a sound low in his throat that sends heat racing through my veins. He backs me against the edge of the staircase, his body hard against mine, and I can feel him throbbing through our clothes.
It sends a blaze of heat through me, a need that I never knew existed until him.
He lifts me with an arm around my waist, holding me against him as he starts up the stairs, still kissing me. We stumble upward, pausing every few stairs when one of us can't resist pulling the other close again. His mouth finds the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and I have to grip the banister to keep from falling. By the time we reach the landing, my lips are swollen and my entire body is pulsing with desire, my lungs so tight that I feel like I can’t breathe.
