45. Long Rest Achieved #2
I blink until Ronan comes back into focus.
My thumb catches against the seam of the blanket.
“It worked, though.”
“What did?”
“The distraction.”
The smile that crosses his face is small.
“For a while, I couldn't think about anything except what you were doing.”
I swallow, feeling the ghost of the strap across my skin without moving. “Then you stopped.”
“Yes.”
I glance at him. “I wanted more.”
“I know.”
“You knew I would.”
“I suspected.”
“And you still stopped.”
Ronan's head tilts slightly. “You asked me to decide.”
That lands deeper than any praise tonight.
That was the whole point.
I asked him to decide when enough was enough, and then I spent half the scene proving I would have kept taking whatever he gave me.
He believed the request I made before my brain stopped working better than the request my body might have made afterward.
My throat tightens.
I look away before it turns into tears again.
Ronan's hand settles at the back of my neck.
His thumb rests just below my hairline. “You can ask me for that again.”
I lean into his palm. “Good.”
A pause.
“You also don't need to be devastated first.”
I look over.
There's an irritating amount of amusement in his eyes.
“What?”
“I've been thinking about something.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Usually.”
His fingers stay at my neck. “We made an assumption about you.”
“We?”
“The household. Me included.”
I wait.
His gaze drops briefly toward the blanket over my lap before returning to my face. “You have always been interested in impact.”
Heat creeps over my neck. “And?”
“We interpreted it as technical interest from the giving side.”
My face gets hotter.
Which is bullshit.
“I am a switch.”
“Yes.”
“You all knew that.”
“We knew the word.”
That shuts me up.
Ronan's thumb moves once against my neck. “The side we saw most often became the side we assumed was most relevant.”
I stare at the floor. “I've thought about asking for pain a lot.”
“How long?”
“I don't know.”
He waits.
I sigh. “A while.”
“Before me?”
“Yes.”
“Before Cami?”
“Probably.”
His eyebrows rise.
I laugh.
The movement pulls at the marks hard enough that I wince through it, which only makes the whole thing more ridiculous.
Ronan watches me with that infuriatingly satisfied expression he gets when he uncovers information he intends to store forever.
“You enjoyed the crop.”
“I enjoyed all of it.”
“The flogger bored you.”
“It did not bore me.”
“It was insufficient.”
“That sounds less insulting.”
“It isn't an insult. Cami likes that one.”
I glance at him.
Something playful moves through his expression.
I can picture Cami standing in front of a mirror admiring a bruise while Griffin pretends to disapprove and then touches it.
That thought makes me smile.
“What you asked for tonight was different,” Ronan adds.
The humor fades without disappearing completely. “Yeah.”
“Different doesn't mean better or worse.”
“I know.”
“Or more legitimate.”
“I know.”
“And wanting this doesn't make you less dominant.”
“I know, Ronan.”
“Good. My educational responsibilities are complete.”
“For now.” The words leave before I examine them.
Ronan suddenly seems very interested.
My stomach tightens.
He looks at me.
I look at him.
The air feels warmer.
Enough that I notice his mouth.
I've kissed Ronan dozens of times now.
Apparently that does not prevent his mouth from becoming an entirely new object when I'm sitting half naked in a blanket after he just beat me into the deepest subspace I've ever experienced.
I lean in.
He sees it coming.
I give him plenty of time to move.
He doesn't.
Our mouths meet softly.
No command.
No expectation.
Just Ronan's lips opening under mine and the hand at the back of my neck shifting enough to hold me closer.
The first kiss stays gentle.
The second doesn't.
Heat wakes slowly in my body, pushing through exhaustion and the ache under my skin. When I move closer, my thigh drags against the blanket and the bruised skin pulls hard enough to send a sharp pulse straight into my stomach.
I hiss into his mouth.
Ronan pulls back immediately. “Marks?”
“Yeah.”
“Bad?”
“No.”
His eyes narrow.
I take a breath and shift again deliberately.
Pain spreads low and deep.
My dick responds.
I look at him. “Very much not bad.”
His mouth curves. “Useful clarification.”
I kiss him again before he can become more insufferable.
We stay there longer than I expect, tangled awkwardly on the floor with a blanket between us and my body objecting every time I forget what happened to it.
Eventually Ronan rests his forehead against mine. “You said maybe.”
For a second, I don't understand.
Then my brain catches up.
Sex.
“Yeah.”
His thumb moves slowly along my neck. “You're back enough to answer again.”
“Yes.”
“That still wasn't the question.”
I smile. “It is now.”
His gaze holds mine. “Sex?”
“Yes.”
The answer feels different than it would have a little while ago.
Not foggy.
Not pulled out of me because I'm aroused or because I don't want the night to end.
Clear.
Ronan seems to find the same thing in my face.
“Not here.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
“I don't want to combine them tonight.”
I understand immediately.
Impact is one thing.
Whatever comes next gets to be another.
“And,” he adds, “my bed is significantly more comfortable.”
“That too.”
Standing is an adventure.
The first time I straighten completely, the skin across my thighs pulls and burns so hard that my breath catches.
Ronan doesn't automatically support me.
He watches.
Waits.
Lets me decide whether I need him.
I don't.
But knowing he would catch me again if I did makes the stairs easier anyway.
Ronan's bedroom looks exactly the way it always does.
The same dark bedding.
The same books stacked with no logical concern for whether anybody besides him understands the organizational system.
The same lamp throwing warm light over the wall.
The same chair in the corner with absolutely no clothing on it, because Ronan is apparently incapable of using furniture incorrectly.
I've been naked in this room before.
Restrained in this bed.
I've watched him stroke himself while he watched me fall apart.
Tonight it feels more intimate before we even touch.
Maybe because downstairs he saw something in me I have spent most of my life controlling.
Maybe because I saw what he did with it.
He closes the door and turns. “Still green?”
“Yes.” I step into him and kiss him.
The first few seconds are almost painfully normal.
His hands settle where they usually do—one at my waist, the other along my neck where I can track every movement. Mine rest against his sides, palms spanning the warm skin beneath his shirt.
I know these places.
I know what happens to his breathing when my thumb moves along his ribs. I know the almost invisible tension that means a touch is becoming too much and the different kind that means he wants more.
Learning Ronan has always felt like learning a language with rules he actually explains if I ask.
Tonight I notice every response more sharply.
Maybe because he spent the last several hours reading mine.
His mouth opens wider.
His fingers tighten at my waist.
I move closer until our hips meet.
His very hard cock presses against me through our clothes.
Fuck.
Now I feel exactly how hard he is because of me.
Because of tonight.
Because he liked hurting me and liked holding me afterward and apparently still wants me now that there is nothing left to prove.
My cock stirs despite exhaustion.
I pull back just far enough to look at him.
Ronan's eyes narrow.
A smile pulls at my mouth.
I kiss him again.
His hand slides up my chest and flattens there.
This time I recognize the pressure immediately and stop moving.
Ronan keeps his palm against me for a moment.
His expression changes.
I've watched him make decisions hundreds of times.
Campaign decisions.
House decisions.
Scene decisions.
He gets this slight stillness right before he commits, as though every relevant variable just moved into its proper place.
“Do you want to fuck me?”
My brain stops.
Completely.
Not the soft quiet from subspace.
More like somebody kicked a breaker.
I stare at him.
Ronan waits. “That was a question.”
“I heard you.”
“Good.”
My mouth is dry.
We've had sex.
We've touched each other.
He has had his hands on my cock and his mouth against half my body.
This feels more exposing than any of that.
For him.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” No pause.
No calculation I can see.
Just an answer.
The same way I answered downstairs when he asked if I thought I deserved to hurt.
Something warm and painful presses against my ribs.
Ronan's gaze stays on mine. “I have conditions.”
The pressure breaks enough that I breathe. “Obviously.”
His eyebrows rise.
“Sorry.”
“You aren't.”
“No.”
He almost smiles. “Face-to-face.”
“Okay.”
“My body stays where I put it.”
“Okay.”
“Your hands stay where I put them unless you ask before moving.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“I control my own cock and my own release.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
“If I redirect you, you move immediately.”
“Of course.”
“If I tell you to stop—”
“I stop.” The answer comes before he finishes.
Ronan looks at me for a long moment.
Something in his face eases.
Not fear exactly.
Vigilance.
A small amount of it finally setting itself down.
I lift my hand and stop before touching him. “Can I?”
His eyes flick toward my fingers, then return to mine. “Yes.”
This kiss is different.
Not hotter at first.
Slower.
Ronan lets me open his shirt. Lets my fingers slide over his chest. He takes mine off in return, and his eyes pause over my tattoos the same way they did the first time we were here together.
Then his gaze drops lower. “Turn.”
I blink. “Inspection?”
He smiles. “Yes.”
I turn enough for him to see.
The cooler air catches the marks again.
His fingertips hover over one bruise, close enough that I feel warmth without contact.
“You did good work,” I say.
His hand stills.
I look over my shoulder. “That was praise.”
“I know.”
A flush creeps up his throat.
Before I can enjoy that information too much, he taps my hip.
“Bed.”
We undress the rest of the way without rushing.