22. Roll For Trust #2
My entire body responds before I move.
Fuck.
I pull it over my head.
His gaze travels down me without any attempt to hide it.
I'm used to being looked at.
Tattoo artist. Tattoos everywhere. Shirtless around the house often enough that nobody cares.
This doesn't feel like being looked at.
It feels like being assessed.
Appreciated.
Wanted.
Ronan touches the ink across my chest with two fingers.
Not tracing the whole design.
Just one line.
“Beautiful.”
I look at him.
“The tattoo?”
“You.”
That should not hit that hard.
It does.
I reach for his shirt.
He catches my wrist.
Not roughly.
Enough to stop me.
I freeze.
Ronan moves my hand himself and puts it against the buttons instead.
Permission.
Something about that gets under my skin.
I unbutton his shirt slowly, watching him the entire time.
When it's open, I slide my palms over his chest.
He exhales. “Green?”
I almost laugh. “Yes.”
“You're laughing.”
“Because I'm very fucking green.”
“Good.”
There it is again.
That one word.
I hadn't realized praise from him would do this much damage.
He kisses me again, then walks me backward until my knees hit the bed.
“Sit.”
I do.
Ronan opens the drawer beside the bed.
For one second, I expect rope.
Instead, he pulls out two soft leather cuffs.
My dick gets hard enough to hurt.
His eyes drop. “I was going to ask.”
“You can.”
“Color?”
“Green.” I laugh again.
“Do you want these?”
“Yes.”
He steps between my knees.
“Wrists?”
“Yes.”
“One or both?”
I think about it. “Both.”
Ronan's mouth shifts slightly.
Approval.
He fastens the first cuff around my wrist, checks the fit with two fingers, then does the same with the other.
Everything slows down a little.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that I notice his hands more.
The leather against my skin.
The small metal click when he closes the buckle.
His concentration.
When he connects the cuffs in front of me, there's enough slack that I can move, but not enough to forget they're there.
My breathing changes.
Ronan notices that too.
“You're allowed to enjoy being restrained without proving anything.”
I look up at him. “I know.”
His expression says he isn't convinced.
Then he pushes gently against my shoulder. “Lie back.”
I do.
That alone is strange.
I'm usually the one standing over someone.
Usually the one watching for reactions.
Usually the one deciding when somebody gets what they want.
Now I'm on Ronan's bed with my hands lightly restrained in front of me while he sits beside my hip and looks at me like my reactions are the only thing in the room worth studying.
It's disorienting.
It's also incredibly fucking hot.
His palm settles against my chest. “Breathe.”
“I am.”
“Slower.”
I almost make a smart-ass comment.
Then his thumb strokes once over my sternum.
I breathe slower.
“Good.”
The word drops through me.
Ronan kisses my throat.
Then my collarbone.
Nothing rushed.
Nothing designed to overwhelm.
Maybe that's why it starts to.
His hand moves down my stomach while his mouth follows a different path, and I keep waiting for the moment where I want to take control back.
It doesn't come.
Instead, every instruction makes something inside me settle.
“Lift your hips.”
I do.
“Look at me.”
I do.
“Breathe.”
I breathe.
At some point my jeans are gone.
At some point his are too.
I know those things happened.
I could probably reconstruct the order if I had to—I don't particularly want to.
Ronan's hand closes around my cock.
My whole body jerks.
“Easy.”
“Fuck.”
He strokes me once.
Slow.
Then stops.
I stare at him.
His eyes are fixed on my face.
“Color?”
“Green.”
Another stroke.
Then another.
Not enough rhythm to chase a climax.
Just enough to keep every nerve awake.
I pull slightly against the cuffs.
Ronan looks at my hands. “Do you want them off?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Fuck that word.
He keeps touching me.
Like he's learning exactly how much pressure changes my breathing and where my hips start lifting without permission.
I close my eyes.
“Open.”
They open.
His hand stops.
I make a sound I'm going to deny later.
Ronan's mouth curves. “Stay with me.”
“I am.”
“Good.”
His thumb drags over the head of my cock.
My brain blanks for half a second.
Then comes back.
He does it again.
The room starts losing unnecessary detail.
I still know where I am.
Ronan's bedroom.
Ronan beside me.
Cuffs around my wrists.
Everything else gets less important.
The lamp.
The window.
Whatever time it is.
His voice stays.
His hand stays.
The weight of his thigh against mine stays.
That's enough.
I don't realize I've stopped talking until he asks again, “Color?”
It takes me a second.
Not because I don't know.
Because the word feels farther away than it should. “Green.”
Ronan's hand stills. “Micah.”
“Yeah.”
“Look at me.”
I am looking at him—I think.
His face is close.
Sharp around the edges and somehow soft in the middle.
“You with me?”
I nod.
Ronan's fingers tighten lightly around my cock. “Words, Micah.”
“I’m here.”
“Good. Any dizziness?”
“No.”
“Do you want to keep going?”
“Yes.” The answer comes easily.
That's apparently what he needed.
His shoulders loosen slightly.
Then he kisses me.
The kiss lands differently now.
Slower.
Deeper.
I feel it… everywhere.
My restrained hands come up awkwardly between us, and Ronan takes them gently and presses them back toward my chest.
Something in my stomach drops.
That is the moment it happens.
Not all at once.
Nothing dramatic.
Just a soft internal shift where holding myself together stops feeling necessary.
I don't have to decide what comes next.
I don't have to watch him for signs he's uncomfortable because he's telling me what he wants.
I don't have to make sure anybody else is okay.
I don't have to lead.
Ronan has it.
Ronan has me.
My whole body goes warm.
Heavy.
The room gets even quieter.
“Micah?” His voice sounds close even though my thoughts don't.
“Green.” I hear myself say it.
Ronan strokes me again.
Pleasure rolls through me slower than before, not sharp enough to break whatever is happening in my head.
It builds instead.
Layer after layer.
His voice.
His hand.
The cuffs.
My breathing.
“That's it.”
Another stroke.
“Don't chase it.”
I stop lifting my hips.
“Good.”
My cock twitches in his hand.
Some distant part of me recognizes that I've never been this still during sex in my life.
I usually need to touch.
Do.
Watch.
Control something.
Now I don't want anything except what he's already giving me.
Ronan's free hand moves over my chest, grounding pressure over my sternum. “Look at me.”
I do.
“Still green?”
“Yes.”
“You're very quiet.”
I smile. Or I think I do. “My brain's quiet.”
His expression changes.
Something warm.
Something almost awed.
“Okay.”
His hand keeps moving.
I notice his erection beside my thigh.
Hard.
Untouched.
A strange part of my brain tries to reach for the problem.
“You—”
“No.”
My eyes lift to his.
Ronan shakes his head once. “This isn't your job.”
The words slide straight through me.
He wraps his second hand around himself.
The sight should pull me back up.
Instead it sends me deeper.
Ronan stroking himself while watching me.
Getting off because he's getting me off.
Not asking me to perform.
Not requiring anything.
His eyes stay on my face.
“That's it. Just take it,” he says quietly. “You don't have to do anything.”
Fuck.
My head sinks harder into the pillow.
The next breath comes out shaking.
Ronan's hand still strokes me.
His other keeps moving over himself.
The rhythm isn't exactly matched.
Everything narrows to sensation and his voice.
His thumb circles.
My thighs tighten.
“Don't hold back, Micah, let go.”
The orgasm hits differently than I expect.