Chapter 13 #3
Ronan knocked lightly on her door. There was no sound from inside. Or so he thought until he leaned closer and heard faint notes of music. He knocked again, then lowered his duffel and satchel to the floor to pull out his key. He was sliding it into the lock when the deadbolt clicked open.
The door pulled away from him, and there she stood, his tall and slender tigress of a woman. She’d changed into a silky matching set of camisole and shorts the same hue as her remarkable eyes.
His passionate gaze moved over all of her—until he drew in a hard breath, seeing the huge purple bruise on one thigh and myriad small band-aids on her forearms and legs.
The low-grade rage that burned inside him grew hotter.
While he wished above all that any threat to her was over, there was a part of him that hoped to find the one perpetrator—and any others who may exist—still alive before the police did.
“Hey,” she greeted him, stepping forward to offer him her mouth.
“Hey,” he said back, using his hand to take the weight of the door from her before bending slightly to brush his lips across hers.
Ireland arched a brow at him. “That’s not a kiss.”
His mouth curved. “Can I come in first?”
“I suppose.”
Using his foot to keep the door open, Ronan retrieved his bags and followed her inside.
The music playing through the speakers was bossa nova, there was a profusion of lit candles, and the air was fragranced with flowers and something savory coming from the kitchen.
Blizzard raced over with a high-pitched meow and quickly began ribboning around Ronan’s legs.
“I bet he thinks I’ll feed him a second time,” he said, setting his things down on one of the armchairs.
Half-sitting against the back of the sofa, Ireland beckoned him with a crook of her finger. “Try that kiss again,” she ordered. “And you’d better make it so good I forget you pissed me off.”
Ronan gave Blizzard a quick caress of dancing fingers along his spine, then straightened and made his way to Ireland. He stopped in front of her, planting his feet on either side of hers, and carefully cupped her face in his hands.
Barefaced, she looked so young. He tried not to think too hard about the years between them. It was, perhaps, what made him uniquely suited to her.
Her tongue darted out to wet the seam of her lips, and Ronan felt a now-familiar stirring in his blood. It was softer, gentler than the raging animal lust she so easily enflamed in him. Lowering his head, he nuzzled his nose against hers.
“A bunny kiss isn’t cutting it,” she whispered.
“Let me cherish you.”
Tilting her head back, she pressed her lips hard to his. Then she licked the upper curve of his mouth with a mischievous swipe.
“You’re incorrigible,” he muttered, his lips moving in a whisper against hers. Then he adjusted the angle and sealed his mouth over hers.
Ireland gripped Ronan’s dress shirt in one fist, holding on to him as the world spun away from her.
The feel of his lips on hers, so firm yet soft, and the taste of him, that rich honeyed bourbon flavor, soaked her senses instantly.
She licked into the warmth of his mouth, her tongue rubbing along his, and she moaned with delight, a shiver moving through her.
Ronan’s low, deep growl weakened her knees.
He held her face gently but unyieldingly, controlling the kiss, taking her mouth with breathless, knowledgeable skill.
He tasted her in kind, with fast, lushly carnal licks, reminding her of more intimate moments when he’d spread her thighs wide and fucked her pussy with that velvety tongue.
She was ensnared, unable to control anything but the way she kissed him back.
As his skin heated with desire, the scent of him filled the air between them, and it soothed and enticed her in equal measure.
Straining toward him, Ireland sucked rhythmically on his tongue, feeling his big body tremble and his fingers flex softly against her cheeks and jaw.
“Mon Dieu,” he gasped, releasing her and stumbling back. He looked at her with hot, dark eyes, his lips wet and swollen, his hands clenching at his sides. His cock strained against the front of his slacks, and she reached for it, her hand cupping the hot, thick length.
Ronan brushed her hand away and stepped farther back. His chest heaved as hers did, their heavy breathing and her racing heart drowning out the music.
“I don’t think I can stay,” he said gruffly. “I shouldn’t. I can’t resist you, and I must.”
Ireland panted softly, her body warmed by desire and the look in his eyes. No man had ever looked at her in quite the same way. So tender and yet so fierce.
The timer on her range began to beep.
She held his gaze. “Dinner’s ready. We’ll eat. Watch TV.”
“No more kissing,” he pronounced, raking a hand through his glorious mane of hair. The movement revealed the thickness of his biceps and better exposed his devilishly gorgeous face.
Her lower lip stuck out in a pout. “It’s not my fault you’re so good at it.”
“You have to behave.” He released a quick, shaky breath and turned toward the kitchen.
Following him, Ireland eyed his equally gorgeous backside.
He had the tightest, lushest male ass she’d ever seen.
Thick with muscle, she often fantasized with memories of their abandoned tryst in the Vidal Hotel, when they’d lain beneath the mirrored ceiling, and she’d watched as he used the power of his incredible body to drive his big cock deep inside her over and over again.
“Stop it,” Ronan snapped, looking at her as he pulled on oven mitts. “I know that look you have, cher. You’re in no condition to have such thoughts in your head.”
She pulled out one of the barstools at the island where she’d previously laid out place settings for two. “Whatever. The doctor said I can resume all activities as soon as I feel up to it.”
“Which you absolutely do not,” he argued, opening the oven and releasing the smells of cheese, bacon, and spices into the air. He set the casserole on the cooktop, took off the mitts, and turned off the oven. “This will need to cool down. As will I.”
Ireland managed a smile, even though she yearned for his body to be once again close to hers.
When he touched her, she felt no pain at all, but more than that, she felt.
The strange disconnect she’d been plagued with since arriving at the hospital was like a thick fog around her, obscuring emotion and sensation.
She watched as he rounded the island, his shoulders visibly tense. He went to his bags and withdrew a foil-capped bottle of sparkling apple juice. It was such a silly, fun, and thoughtful thing to have brought that it made her laugh.
Ronan looked at her and gave a reluctant smile. “That’s my favorite sound—your laugh.”
“Oh, yeah?”
He nodded and returned to the kitchen, opening a cupboard to withdraw two champagne flutes. “Speaking of… I thought you might want to hear how the Six-Ninths’ single is coming along.”
Her brows lifted. “Really? What do you think?”
Shrugging, he loosened the muselet. “I’m not the expert.”
“Is it on your phone?”
“Oui.”
She held out her hand. “If you don’t mind, I can connect it to Lauren and play it on the speakers.”
He pulled his phone out, unlocked it, and slid it across the island. By the time she got the two devices connected, Ronan had finished pouring and joined her on the other side of the island.
She handed his phone back. “I don’t know where you’ve got the file.”
Ronan swiped a couple of times, and then the music flowing from the speakers changed to the opening notes of the in-progress song.
“Oh…” she breathed, startled. Six-Ninths was an alternative rock band, which was partly why their last few albums hadn’t done as well as their debut. What she was hearing, though, was something entirely different.
He looked at her over the rim of his flute in silent inquiry.
“It’s good.” She gave a breathless laugh. “Really good! I don’t know how my dad heard this song out of Six-Ninths, but—”
“Your father had no hand in this, cher.”
Ireland blinked at him. “What? The guys pulled this together themselves?”
Ronan hesitated. “Well…the harmonica is me. And I suggested the bluesy tone. It just felt to me like the lyrics begged for it.”
“Wait. What?”
The song came to an end, which allowed the sound of Blizzard’s purrs to fill the air. Looking down, she saw her cat shamelessly sprawled across Ronan’s crocodile dress boots.
“Ronan…” She set her hand over his. “You produced this song?”
“Well…uh…I wouldn’t say that.”
Ireland felt something bloom in her chest, bubbly like the sparkling apple juice and just as sweet. “You chose the direction of the song and the arrangement. That’s producing, baby.”
She slid her sling over her head and let it fall, carefully sliding off the stool so that she could go to him.
“You’re being a bad patient,” he told her, but his eyes were kind and warm.
“Shut up.” Ireland reached around him and laid her cheek on his chest, giving him a gentle hug. He embraced her in return, and she felt his lips press a kiss to the crown of her head.
“I take it you like how it’s shaping up,” he murmured, his hands running up and down her back. “I’m glad.”
Tears filled her eyes, and she let them fall, feeling them wet his shirt and then his skin. He murmured to her in Cajun French, and her breath caught on a silent sob.
“You have no idea what it means to me that you would do this, Ronan.” She pulled back and cupped his chiseled jaw in her hand. “Because I know what it means to you to do this.”
His smile, so easy and open, so charming, made him impossibly even more gorgeous. Her heart squeezed in her chest.
“I even enjoyed it,” he admitted. “I’ve never worked on creating new music.”
Ireland kissed him. Once. Twice. “Well, this song suggests you have a talent for it.”