Page 39 of At Your Mercy
“Shouldn’t you at least get that taken care of first?” he asked pointedly, reaching out his hand to lightly brush my side.
I shrugged. “It’s hardly a scratch.”
Ro glared at me. “I’m pretty sure it needs stitches. At least fucking clean it.”
“Are you worrying about me? That’s awfully sweet of you, doll,” I chuckled.
He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Fine, whatever. It’s not my fault if you get sepsis or some shit, though.”
I grinned. “As long as I get some time with you, I frankly don’t care what happens to it.”
His chest hitched, and I took advantage, guiding him backward step by step until the backs of his knees brushed the edge of the bed. He caught himself on instinct, palms splaying against the silken covers.
I caged him in without touching him yet, leaning over until his space was filled with nothing but me. “Will you give me control? You can take it back at any time.”
His lips parted, a breathless sound escaping before he could stop it. I let my knuckles graze down his jaw, tilting his face up to mine.
His jaw pressed obediently into my hand, and that was all the permission I needed. My mouth found his—firm, claiming, a kiss meant to strip the air right out of his lungs. He stiffened, hands pressing against the mattress as if debating whether to push me off. But his lips parted all the same, a muffled sound spilling into me that I swallowed down like it was a form of sustenance.
I deepened the kiss, one hand sliding from his jaw to the back of his neck, holding him steady while my other traced down his torso, over the ridges of tension straining beneath his sweater. He gasped when I grazed his nipples, the noise breaking the kiss just long enough for me to murmur against his mouth, “So sensitive. I like that.”
His eyes burned into mine, his body arching into me. I pressed him back onto the bed, not with brute force but withthe inevitability of gravity itself, lowering him until he was half sprawled across the sheets.
I stayed over him without rushing, letting the weight of my body hover over him just enough for him to feel enveloped. My thumb brushed over his soft lips, still damp from the kiss, and then I leaned in to claim his throat. The first drag of my teeth against the delicate skin there drew another stifled sound, his hands gripping the bedding so tightly the fabric strained.
“You want it so badly, don’t you?” I whispered against his pulse, letting my teeth nip and tongue soothe in the same breath. “You want me to take care of you. You want me to make you mine.”
He writhed, a quiet, choked noise slipping free when I let my hand splay over his hip, thumb dragging dangerously close to where his tension betrayed him most. I didn’t touch him there—no, not yet. I wanted him strung tighter, every nerve tuned only to me.
I lifted my head just enough to watch his eyes. Wide. Glinting. Caught somewhere between anxiety and want.
My lips curved. “Say ‘betta’ if you want me to stop. Otherwise—” My hand traced slowly along his thigh, teasing ever closer, then pulling back. “—I’ll give you exactly what you came here for.”
“Please,” Ro whispered, barely audible, like he couldn’t bear to say it any louder, couldn’t bear to have anyone hear his vulnerability besides me.
My breath hitched, and my cock twitched in its confines. I placed my hands on the slight curve of his hips, rubbing his hipbones through the fabric of his pants. Slowly, I began the journey upwards, bringing his sweater up off his abdomen, then arranging his arms above his head to pull it all the way off.
Ronan’s chest was pink as it heaved under my stare. Unable to resist, I pressed a chaste kiss over his heart before hooking my fingers in the waistband of his pants, carefully pulling them off.
He made quite a pretty picture sprawled out in just a pair of tight black briefs, the darkness of his underwear a stark contrast to the rest of his body.
Leaning down, I pressed a kiss on each hip, then peeled the final piece of clothing off of him.
I raised up on my knees to take him in.
“Fuck,” I cursed, almost overwhelmed by his unencumbered beauty.
He was exquisite—a porcelain doll brought to life and laid out on silk. Ronan’s alabaster skin, almost translucent in certain spots under the warm chandelier light, every line of him carved fine and lean, not bulky, but deceptively strong. His hair spilled across the pillow, wild and tousled. His white lashes fluttered against that unearthly skin, his mouth swollen from my kisses, his cheeks pink with arousal.
And his eyes—God, those fucking eyes. They stared up at me, pupils blown out around a ring of soft pink, practically eating me alive as I began to undress.
I sat back on my heels for a moment, watching him watch me. My chest ached with the sheer unfairness of it—this boy, this beautiful assassin, spread out on a bed I’d bought with blood and power. He was everything I never thought I’d have, never thought I deserved, and honestly, never thoughtexisted.
I caught a glimpse of myself in a gold-framed mirror across the room. Its reflection didn’t lie. My hair had gone salt-and-pepper years ago, silver threaded thick through the dark. My skin bore creases from decades of living, of frowning and smiling and surviving, and the tautness of youth was long behind me. There was a softness over the muscle, a heaviness in the shoulders and chest that spoke of age and time.
And yet, here he was, looking up at me as if I had the power to ruin him.
A low chuckle escaped me, rough at the edges. I leaned back down, bracing a palm against the mattress beside his ribs. “You’re a dangerous creature, doll. But fuck, you’re gorgeous.” My lips grazed the hollow of his throat as I whispered it. “I never thought I’d have someone like you laid out in front of me. Someone so… perfect. So untouchable.”
