Chapter 22 Ronan
Ronan
It had been a week of long, blurry days of drifting in and out of sleep, of painkillers that made the ceiling shift and ripple if I stared too long, and of Wes’s steady presence at my side like gravity itself.
He wouldn’t let me lift a finger.
If I so much as tried to swing my legs out of bed on my own, he’d materialize out of nowhere—one hand on my shoulder, a quiet “not yet, doll.” He fed me, helped me sit up, changed the bandages when they needed it.
The gunshot wound still burned when I breathed too deeply, but it was cleaner now, the edges less angry-looking.
The strangest part was the quiet—just sunlight sneaking through the blinds and the sound of Wes humming under his breath as he moved around the room.
Sometimes he’d sit at the foot of the bed, files spread over his lap, laptop open with reports of who knows what.
The patch over his eye was smaller now, the bruise along his jaw fading from purple to yellow.
His wrist was still wrapped, a splint peeking from beneath the rolled sleeve of his shirt.
I hated seeing him hurt, but he brushed it off whenever I mentioned it, more worried about how many spoonfuls of soup I’d managed than the fact that he could be facing permanent blindness.
He was gentle in a way that didn’t make sense for someone like him. For someone who’d seen the things he had.
At night, when the pain made it hard to sleep, he’d pull me against his chest, his palm splayed warm over the bandages as if he could will the wound away. I didn’t ask if he slept. I doubted he did.
He told me stories from the time he spent raising his nephews, regaling me with tales of “the first time they made a head shot” or “that time they almost set the elderly neighbor’s house on fire.”
Listening to how his nephews were, I suddenly understood why he didn’t seem overwhelmed by my personality.
He also told me more recent stories of them. About how the eldest had kidnapped his patient, who’d been seeing him for trauma therapy—which was… well, I imagined that wasn’t very helpful to the poor guy’s mental health. And about how the younger twins had kidnapped their partner, too.
I was glad that the kidnapping gene seemed to come from Wes’s brother, and not him.
I also learned that Wes had become their guardian after his sister-in-law had tried to drown the twins, which led to the eldest shooting and killing both parents.
Sometimes it felt like he was bullshitting me with these stories, because fuck.
It wasn’t a big surprise then when he’d told me that Elias was being held in the twins’ basement until I was ready to deal with him.
Because apparently, keeping people locked in their basement was just a regular thing for them.
Even with all of Wes’s efforts to keep me entertained, I wasn’t used to sitting in bed all day. By the seventh morning, I’d finally had enough of being treated like I was made of glass.
“Wes,” I muttered, watching him pour coffee into a mug he clearly meant for me. “You don’t have to keep doing everything for me. I can get up and get my own coffee.”
He didn’t look up. “Not happening, doll.”
I rolled my eyes, but it tugged something in my chest, and I winced. He was at my side instantly, one knee on the mattress, concern etched between his brows.
“See?” he said, softer now. “Still hurts.”
“Yeah, but it’s already so much better. I’m going to go insane in here, babe.”
For a second, he just stared at me, like the words didn’t quite register. Then he reached out, brushing his thumb along my jaw the way he always did when he didn’t know how to answer.
“I like you calling me ‘babe’.”
“That’s all you got out of that?”
The corner of his lip turned up in a smirk. “Yep.”
I groaned, “I’m going to die of boredom, Wes.”
Wes set the mug down on the nightstand, careful as ever, then straightened up with that maddening calm of his. “You won’t die of boredom,” he said.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
He gave a quiet hum. “Maybe a little.”
I leaned back against the headboard, letting the blanket fall a little lower over my hips. “You’re cruel, you know that?”
His gaze flicked down for just a second—barely noticeable, but enough. “You’re still healing.”
“Uh-huh,” I drawled. “You keep saying that. You’ve said that every day this week. Probably a few times a day.”
He smirked faintly, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. “Healing is more important than getting off, babydoll.”
I tilted my head, watching him. “Getting off is healing to me and my dick.”
“Ro,” he warned, his voice not as steady this time. His jaw flexed, that muscle just under the scar tightening like he was clenching it too hard.
“You’ve been hovering over me for a week,” I went on. “Feeding me, dressing me, holding me while I sleep—” I let my voice soften, almost a whisper. “I’m so backed up. Come on, pleaaase?”
He looked away, scrubbing a hand over his face. “We really shouldn’t—”
“I’ve been so empty, babe…”
His gaze snapped back to mine. For a second, the air between us shifted—thickened. The same look he always got right before he lost control flickered there, gone as fast as it came.
“You’re impossible,” he muttered.
“You like it,” I shot back, smiling faintly.
He shook his head, stepping closer until he was standing right beside the bed. “You don’t make it easy to do the right thing.”
My hand found his wrist where it rested on the mattress, fingers brushing over his pulse. It jumped under my touch. “You could sit down,” I murmured. “Just sit. You don’t even have to touch me.”
He hesitated, but he sat, the mattress dipping under his weight. I turned toward him, close enough that his breath brushed my cheek when he exhaled.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he said again, though his voice had lost its edge.
“I am resting,” I whispered. “I can rest while you fill me up.”
He laughed quietly under his breath, the sound rough. “You’re such a fucking brat.”
I leaned forward, just enough that our foreheads almost touched. “If I’m a brat, how come I’ve gone an entire week without a spanking, hm?”
“God, Ro,” he breathed. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
I smiled, barely. “Maybe I do.”
He let out a slow breath, and then, softer, he said, “Not tonight.”
I groaned loudly, getting frustrated that my desperation wasn’t being answered in turn. “At least sit there while I get myself off, please. My balls are going to explode if I wait any longer.”
He narrowed his eyes at me but relented. “Fine. But if I see you’re in too much pain, you’re stopping.”
“Bring me the lube?” I asked sweetly, giddy at the chance of coming. And possibly at goading him into fucking me.
Wes drank me up as I shimmied out of my sleep pants. It took him a second to refocus and get the lube from the drawer.
He handed the small bottle over, then settled down on the edge of the bed.
I pouted at the distance he’d put between us.
I huffed, just to make sure he knew of my frustration, then popped the lid of the bottle open, pouring a generous amount onto my cock.
Spreading my legs and raising my knees, I made sure Wes had an excellent view of everything.
“Fuck, babydoll,” he groaned, palming his hardening cock over his jeans.
I pumped my length a few times, my breath speeding up as I went. Wes’s eyes were glued to the movements of my hand.
I was used to being the center of attention, sure, but whereas most gazes made me itch to cover myself up, Wes’s made me want to put on a fucking show.
Biting my lip, I dragged my slick hand down to my tightly furled pucker. The moment I dipped a fingertip in, Wes’s pupils—or at least the one I could see— dilated. It was heady seeing the effect I had on him.
It was downright intoxicating.
I began to finger myself, never taking my eyes off his face. My other hand traveled down my abdomen, wrapping itself around my cock, matching the tempo of my fingers.
“God, Ro. Look at your perfect little hole. Fuck. I can’t believe something that tiny takes my cock. Such a hungry fucking hole, isn’t it?” Wes fished his cock out from his pants, and I whimpered at the sight of it. Precum glistened at his tip, suddenly making my mouth go dry with want.
My stupid fingers couldn’t reach as deep as I needed. I whined, looking up at him half-lidded.
“Please,” I breathed, overwhelmed with quivering need.
Wes sucked in a sharp breath. “Doll…”
“Please just fuck me, Wes!” I cried, my chest heaving as I continued thrusting my fingers as deep as I could—which again, wasn’t nearly enough. I was up to four, but somehow I knew that even if I shoved my entire fist in there, it wouldn’t satisfy me, because it wasn’t his fucking cock.
His throbbing, hot, delicious fucking cock.
“You’re being a bad boy,” he teased.
“Just fucking fuck me, Wesley,” I hissed, tears beginning to leak from the corners of my eyes.
“I don’t know if I should…” He smirked.
“Wessss.”
“Ask me nicely, baby,” he said. “Do it politely. Say please.”
“Please fuck me,” I panted, writhing on the sheets.
“C’mon, you can do better than that, doll.
Ask me to fuck your slutty hole. Tell me that it’s mine.
Tell me that no one but me will ever have the pleasure of fucking it again.
I own it. I own you.” Wes leaned over me and nipped at my inner thigh.
He whispered, “Beg for me to use what belongs to me.”
My eyes rolled back in my head. One of these days, I bet he’d be able to bring me to orgasm just with his dirty talk alone.
“Please, Wes. Sir. Please fuck my slutty hole,” I moaned. “Please. It’s yours. All yours. My hole is yours. Everything is yours—you own my entire fucking being, Wes. Please use me, please, please, please,” I babbled, my tears clouding my vision.
Without warning, there was a sudden pressure on my rim. His hips punched forward, and I let out a silent scream.
I sobbed as he bottomed out. After a quick pause, he lowered his hips, grinding into me. His cock kissed the entrance to my colon, and I was fucking gone.