Page 94 of Ruthless Savior
Ronan pushes open our bedroom door, stumbling inside with me as he kicks it closed again. His hands roam over my body with the same hunger that his mouth has on mine, tugging my dress up. His palms find the smooth skin of my outer thighs, my hips, my waist, breaking the kiss just long enough to yank the sweater dress over my head and toss it aside, as my fingers feverishly pull up his sweater. I want to feel his skin against mine, want more of him, and he groans my name as I yank it off with one hand and go for his belt with the other.
He pushes me gently against our bedroom door, his body pressing against mine as his hands roam over my waist, my ribs, mapping me like he's been wanting to do this for weeks. Maybe he has. The thought makes me bold, and I work at the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel skin against skin.
He backs us toward the bed as his jeans fall to the floor, both of us down to our underwear. We fall onto the bed, his body atop mine as I moan and arch against him, and his hand slips between my legs, tugging my panties to one side. I can feel the heat of his cock through his boxer briefs, searing my thigh, and Ronan groans aloud as he kisses me again.
His fingers part my folds, dipping into the wetness that’s entirely for him, and I cry out his name, arching into his touch.
And somehow, that’s what breaks the spell.
He goes still, his fingers still touching me, his forehead dropping to rest against mine. I can feel him shaking with the effort of holding himself back. "We can't," he says, his voice rough and strained. "I can't?—"
"What?" I'm breathless, confused, still floating in a haze of lust. My hips twitch, eager for more of his touch, and another ragged groan spills from his lips.
"We can't risk..." He closes his eyes, jaw clenched. "If you got pregnant, Leila. This arrangement it's temporary. When De Luca is no longer a threat, when this is over—" He pulls his hand away, rocking back onto his knees and giving me an unfairly stunning view of his naked, muscled body and his straining cock, trapped behind the thin fabric of his boxer briefs. “A condom can still fail.”
The words hit me like cold water.Right.This is temporary. This is business. Protection for me, and nothing more. No matter how real it felt dancing in that pub, no matter how right it feels to be in his arms right now, we have an expiration date.
He moves away from me, sitting on the edge of the bed as he runs a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—we shouldn't have?—"
“It’s okay,” I manage, even though it’s not. Every part of my body is begging for more, screaming in frustration at how abruptly we stopped. I get up, forcing myself to put space between us as I go to the dresser to get a shirt to sleep in. When I turn back around, Ronan is in bed, his jaw tight as he looks at me.
Well, at least he’s not going off to pleasure himself without me.Part of me wishes he would, just so I could finish what he started myself. But the other part of me doesn’t want that. I don’t want my own fingers to fantasize about him instead of feeling him on me, in me.
I wanthim. I want the pleasure that he showed me on our wedding night, again.
And it’s starting to look as if that really is never going to happen again before this marriage is over.
23
LEILA
Iwake to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the sound of a car engine fading into the distance. For a moment, I'm disoriented, caught between the memory of my own bed back home and where I am now. I think I feel the heat of Ronan’s body next to me for a second, but when I roll over, he’s gone. The sheets on his side are already cool to the touch.
I swing my legs out of bed, padding to the window just in time to catch a glimpse of a black Mercedes SUV disappearing through the manor’s gates. He’s leaving, I realize—back to Boston, I assume. Realistically, I know why, but I can’t help but feel that he’s running from what almost happened between us last night.
That’s another thing that makes sense, too, if I look at it pragmatically—sex would only create more complications between us. Feelings, attachment, intimacy… and the possibility of pregnancy that Ronan is so worried about, no matter how careful we are.
But there was nothing pragmatic about the way it felt when he kissed me last night, or how badly I wanted him to keep going.
Mrs. O'Brien confirms it when I make my way downstairs for breakfast, her expression carefully neutral as she sets a plate of eggs and toast in front of me. My mom isn’t down yet, and Mrs. O’Brien gives me a careful smile as I sit down.
“Claire was tired this morning, she said she’d take her breakfast in her room. And Mr. O’Malley had to leave early to go back to Boston,” she adds. “He said he’d be back in a few days.”
I nod and pick at my breakfast, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in my chest. This has nothing to do with me, I know—or at least not what we almost did last night, or how what passed between us while we were out at the pub. But I can’t shake the lonely feeling that I’m left with, the feeling that I glimpsed a part of Ronan that he’ll likely never show me again.
He opened up to me. Just a little; just a glimpse. But it felt like it meant something.
Like he hadn’t opened up to anyone in a long time.
The rational part of me knows that this is all business, including his absence. The other part—the part that can still feel his hands on my skin, his mouth against mine—feels abandoned.
I feel adrift for the rest of the day, going to check on my mom, taking a walk, browsing the library. The next two days are much of the same—trying to stay busy and keep my mind off of Ronan and Rocco and the uncertainty that’s my life right now. I feel off, as if I’m getting sick—my body feels sore and uncomfortable, and the food that’s been so delicious the entire time we’ve been here starts to turn my stomach, even just when I smell it. I wonder if I’m getting the flu. That feels like an insult to injury, after all of this, but I don’t actually feel sick. Just… off.
It’s the third morning after Ronan left that it hits me.
I’m sitting at the breakfast table, sipping a glass of water, when Mrs. O’Brien sets a plate of eggs and fruit in front of me. The fruit smells sweet… or it should, anyway, but the moment I breathe in, I feel my stomach roil so dramatically that I boltup from the table, racing to the nearest bathroom with the utter certainty that I’m going to be sick.
I barely make it before I'm retching, my hands shaking as I grip the porcelain bowl. When the wave passes, I sit back on my heels, breathing hard, my mind racing.
