Chapter 17 - Ciarán
seventeen-Ciarán
The only light in the room came from the moon shining down through the skylight.
Jordin sat across from me, curled up on my leather couch with a glass of wine in her hand. She was mumbling under her breath every so often—motherfucker this, motherfucker that.
We’d been sitting like this for hours. I didn’t mind, but I hated the way her annoyance took over her whole energy. It made me mad that I hadn’t gotten a chance to lay hands on her husband myself.
Men like him pissed me off. Lied with a smile. Promised things they never intended to honor. That wasn’t me—I never lied to women, never pledged fidelity I couldn’t give. But if I did? I’d damn sure honor it.
The thought of Oak throwing away what he had with her made my jaw clench. Jordin wasn’t just any woman.
She sipped her wine, her foot tapping on the edge of the couch. The mean look on her face didn’t suit her.
I leaned back in my chair—legs spread, one arm draped over the armrest—and watched her for a beat before speaking. She needed something to pull her out of her own head.
“So,” I said, “what’s with all the tats?”
Her head snapped up, brow furrowing. “What?”
I gestured to her right arm, where thorny flowers climbed her skin. “The ink. You don’t seem like the type.”
She rolled her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You just… I don’t know. Seem clean. Like you were too busy being good at everything to sit down and let somebody needle you up,” I teased, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “How many you got?”
Her lips curved slightly, despite herself. She set the glass on the table.
“More than you’d expect. Leyani—my best friend—talked me into the one on my neck. Said it would make me look sexy.” She touched the heart tucked under her jaw. “I was always the cute, chubby girl. I wanted to be sexy. I ended up liking the pain.”
That caught my attention. My eyes sharpened, tracing the line of her throat.
“The pain?” I leaned in. “You like it? Why?”
“Yeah,” she said softly, like she was testing the weight of it. “It reminds me I’m alive.”
I stayed quiet. She always talked more when I didn’t push.
Suddenly, she stood. One fluid motion.
She turned her back to me, fingers gripping the hem of her dress. Slowly, she pulled it up, sliding it over her thighs, her hips, until it dropped in a pool of black at her feet.
She was left in nothing but a brown lace bra and panties that matched her skin.
The low sigh I let out would’ve been embarrassing if she’d heard it. The sight didn’t just ache—it consumed.
She didn’t meet my eyes when she turned and smoothed a finger over the tattoo above the curve of her mons:
what if this body etched in cursive.
“It’s from a poem by Adrienne Maree Brown,” she said, voice low. “A reminder to honor the body I was given, no matter how flawed it feels.”
“Recite a little,” I murmured, my voice rougher than I intended.
She nodded, gaze far away.
“What if this body is the promise of a lush future,
perfect for holding on to through another night of grief
that is not even shocking
because we all know
we all die.”
Her voice cracked. Then she looked at me.
She turned her arm over, revealing the inside of her forearm. A small music note inked in simple black.
“My first one,” she said. “Got it the day I sold my first song. A reminder of where it all started.”
Then her hand drifted to her ribs. “Still I rise,” she whispered, tracing the words. “For my mother. For every woman who ever had to.”
When I still didn’t say anything, she turned again, and I saw it—
imperfectly beautiful, inked just under the crease of her ass.
My fingers twitched.
This moment felt like a sin and a sacrament—holy in the way it quieted something in me, dangerous in the way it stirred everything else. I wanted to touch her anyway.
I sighed.
Too bad this moment wasn’t real. She was taking her anger out on me, showing me everything I couldn’t have. This was her lashing out at her ex. Teasing me because it made her feel in control.
Under different circumstances, I’d hand her that control—gladly. Just to see what she’d do with it.
But not like this.
A laugh slipped from me—low, dark. I leaned back, tilting my head as I watched her.
“You playing with me,” I said. “Trying to seduce me and don’t even mean it.”
My gaze dragged over her slowly, taking in every curve, every deliberate inch of skin. Searing it all into memory like a photograph.
“But I’m not falling for the bait. You’re angry. And you’re trying to use me to burn it off.”
Her eyes flared. Her fists balled at her sides.
I wasn’t going to let her turn this into something dirty. Not when the feelings I had for her were anything but.
I stood, took three long strides into her space. Close enough for her to feel the heat rolling off me. My hand lifted like I might touch her—but stopped just shy of it.
“I want you, Jordin. I’d give everything just to have you.” My voice softened. “But not like this. You’re not about to use me to patch up a hole he made.”
Her chest rose and fell a little quicker. Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak.
I let my hand drop, stepped back, even though it gutted me to do it.
“This happens when you’re ready for me,” I said. “Not when you’re mad at him.”
Her jaw tightened. But she didn’t argue. Didn’t push.
Just stared at me, like I’d done something she didn’t expect.
I leaned in, brushed a kiss across her forehead.
“Goodnight, J. Sleep in the guest room.”
Then I turned and walked away.