Page 81 of Ghosts Don't Cry
“Is this okay?” he asks again, voice rough with concern and barely restrained need. “Are you sure?”
I answer by pulling him closer, showing him with my body what I can’t find words for. When I wrap my legs tighter around him, he groans, his control slipping. His forehead presses against mine, his breathing ragged.
“Lily.” My name sounds different on his lips now. “I’m not going to last.”
“I don’t want you to.” I cup his face, making him look at me. His eyes are almost black, irises swallowed by his pupils. “Let go, Ronan. It’s your turn now.”
The permission breaks the last of his control. His rhythm falters as he buries his face into my throat, his breath hot against my skin. I wind my arms around his neck, feeling him shake above me, inside me, my name a broken prayer falling from his lips as he comes.
It’s beautiful. It’s perfect.
It’severythingI wanted.
Afterward, he tries to move away, but I tighten my hold. “Please stay.”
“I’ll crush you.”
I kiss his shoulder, tasting salt and skin. “You won’t. Just stay. For a few minutes.”
His weight settles over me, grounding me, and keeping me here in this moment that feels too big for words. His fingers trace patterns on my skin, poetry without sound, confessions he won’t speak aloud.
“Happy birthday, Lily.” His lips find mine again, gentle and sweet.
I smile against his mouth. “Best present ever.”
He laughs. Not the sharp defensive laugh he usually uses, but one that starts deep within his chest. In this moment, he’s not the boy who sleeps in abandoned buildings or the boy who haunts school hallways and libraries.
He’s just Ronan.
He’s mine.
And I am his.
Chapter Thirty-One
RONAN
I’ve been sittingin the kitchen since before dawn, staring at the tools laid out across the table. My hands aren’t steady enough for work. Not yet.
My head aches from lack of sleep. My eyes burn. I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, but my stomach rebels at the thought of food. Even my coffee tastes bitter on the tongue, making acid churn in my gut with every swallow.
I drag a hand down my face, two days worth of stubble rasping against my palm. My skin feels too tight, stretched over bones that ache with exhaustion. I need to get this feeling out of me before it drowns me.
And for some reason, my mind takes me back to that night.
Feldman’s.
The sickly glow of overhead lights, the hum of drink coolers, cold tile beneath my palms. The alarm shrieking, while I sat there waiting. Too tired to fight anymore.
I never broke in anywhere. I stole when stores were open, when I could blend into crowds, and the exits were easy to reach. But that night? That night, I had nothing left.
I was slowly dying, and I couldn’t do it anymore.
Fuck.
My chest is tight. My pulse erratic. My vision wavers in and out. I lurch to my feet, the chair scraping against the floor, too loud in the quiet house. I need to breathe different air, put space between myself and the walls that feel too close right now.
My fingers curl around the car keys before I can think better of it.
