Chapter 14 #2
Ireland still didn’t know her brother had turned the ransom demand into a bounty, something every expert said was most likely to get a hostage killed.
Ireland was scrolling through the streaming options for an action movie when Ronan walked out of her bedroom dressed in navy lounge pants, a black Jazz Fest T-shirt, and bare feet.
He was tying his hair back, revealing the beautiful definition in his biceps.
As he walked, she could see the gentle sway of his hefty penis behind the cotton and knew he was commando.
The view ignited a sultry heat inside her.
Ronan’s restrained hair fully exposed the exquisite face that went with that magnificent body.
He was such a savagely beautiful man, his features so perfectly etched, his eyes so compelling, his mouth made for sinning in all the best ways.
His chiseled cheekbones gave his features elegance, while the square and sharply defined jaw echoed his strength of will.
She stared, absorbing the profound feeling of intimacy that came with having a man preparing to spend the night with her in her home.
It was a new experience for her and for them as a couple.
She was surprised by how much she liked it.
Always before, she’d felt guilty inviting him over; the feelings of safety and strength that Ronan inspired warring with love and loyalty to her family.
To be without that shame now was liberating.
Ireland whistled appreciatively.
His smile was temptation incarnate, simply for how openly affectionate it was. “If you think this outfit is worth a whistle, we might need to double-check whether you have a concussion after all.”
“I don’t even see the clothes, to be honest.”
Ronan’s laugh was like a warm breeze over her senses, its deep tone carrying uninhibited pleasure. It was the delight of a hedonist, a man who’d experienced neglect, pain, and captivity and was unwilling to let any moment of joy go uncelebrated. “You’re worse than a menace.”
She winked. “I asked you once if you slept in the nude. You said I’d find out. But I’m not buying that you wear that to bed.”
“I don’t trust you not to misbehave, even while I’m sleeping on the couch.”
Pants were definitely a hindrance. Carefully sliding the sheet from his hips while he slept so that she could take his magnificent cock in her mouth was absolutely one of her favorite things to do.
To hear his sharp gasp of startled pleasure, to feel him swell with need so swiftly against her tongue, to taste and swallow his cum as he shuddered in climax…
Licking her lips, Ireland scooched carefully back into the corner of the sofa as he joined her. “You won’t fit on my couch.”
“I’ve slept on less comfortable surfaces.”
It was a throwaway statement, but she knew the reality of his experiences was heartbreaking.
She watched as he put a tube of something on the table. “What’s that?
“Arnica for your bruises.”
For a moment, she just looked at him. Then she bent at the waist to touch his face, her fingertips tracing the curve of his brow. “Admit it. You’re an android, aren’t you? You’re a cutting-edge version of the Jude Law sexbot in the movie A.I.”
Laughing silently, he turned his head to kiss her fingers. “Temptress. What are we watching?”
Ireland lifted her feet from the floor and stretched her legs across his lap, taking the opportunity to gently caress the bulge of his cock with the sole of her foot. “I’d rather look at you, actually.”
He caught her ankle, a wry half-smile on his face. “That’s not behaving.”
“You’re the hottest man I’ve ever seen,” she breathed, fucking him with her gaze. “I can’t help myself.”
Ronan’s cupped hand slid up her calf and down again. His palm was warm and dry, his strokes slow and easy.
Sitting back again, she sighed with pleasure. “You’re better than any drug. As long as your hands are on me, I don’t feel any pain at all.”
“Is that so?” His fingers slid over the back of her knee, sending goosebumps of delight across her skin. “You have the sexiest legs,” he murmured. “They’re so long. Strong. You prowl when you walk, tigress. When you wrap these around me, there is nowhere else I want to be.”
Reaching for the tube, Ronan unscrewed the cap and peeled off the foil seal. He squirted a little of the clear gel onto his fingers. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
“You won’t.” She angled her hips so that the bruise on her thigh faced upward. She heard his breath whistle softly between his teeth.
He waited a moment for the liniment to warm, then he very carefully swiped it over the darkened skin. “How did this happen?”
“Asshole in the car kicked me a couple of times when I screamed for help.”
His hand paused its moment, his jaw clenching. Then he proceeded to lightly rub the gel into her skin in widening circles. He used no pressure at all. Gradually, the warmth of his hand heated her skin, soothing the lingering tenderness. As the gel began to dry, he repeated the process.
Allowing her head to fall back, Ireland closed her eyes and hummed with delight, focused on the feel of his touch. The air was lush with the scents of lilies and roses. Erotic awareness thrummed inside her, spurred by her electric attraction to the man who tended to her.
His touch moved on to another bruise. “How did you get these marks on your feet?”
Slitting her eyes open, Ireland met his gaze. “They’re from the straps of my heels. I don’t know how I got them. Maybe when I launched out of the backseat and tackled one of them? I had to kick off pretty hard.”
His gaze darkened. “Ireland…”
“I woke up without my shoes.” Flexing her feet, she looked at the scabs. “I didn’t realize my feet were cut up until the guy let me out of the crate and I could see them. I was crying, or maybe I just wasn’t seeing straight, but I thought they looked like tiger stripes.”
Ronan ran a fingertip across the unmarred skin between two of the welts. “Do they hurt?”
She shook her head. “You know… I saw my feet, and I heard your voice. You called me your tigress. And something broke open inside me, Ronan. I was so weak and tired, so scared and in so much pain, but when I heard your voice... I fought back.”
His hand had stopped moving, his gaze locked unblinkingly on her face. “Ma chérie…”
Her mouth curved. “I don’t know that I would’ve gotten out of there if I hadn’t met you when I did.”
His fingers flexed restively against her skin. “You’re a warrior, Ireland. It’s simply who you are. I have nothing to do with that.”
“Maybe I had it in me, but I didn’t know until you told me it was there.”
Catching her hand, Ronan lifted it to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “No one deserves credit for your spirit, cher. Least of all me.”
Ireland gave an offhand shrug. “You don’t have to believe me, Ronan. I know what I know.”
He looked away, his throat working on a hard swallow. When he spoke, his voice was hoarser than before. “Let me see to your other bruises.”
Reluctantly, she pulled her legs from his lap and sat up, tilting her face so that he could reach the bruises on her temple and cheek.
He leaned forward, brushing his lips over her brow. Then he squeezed a little droplet of gel onto one finger and cautiously rubbed it into her skin.
They were close enough that she could smell him now, and he was her favorite scent in all the world. Spicy and seductive, an intoxicating blend that was utterly masculine and wholly Ronan. Languidness slipped into her blood, and Ireland sighed with pleasure.
“Are there any I’ve missed?” he asked, his words carried on a whisper.
Nodding, Ireland bent her head to pull her sling strap off.
“You’re taking that off too often,” he scolded gently.
“The doctor told me not to wear it too often or my elbow would get stiff. I’ve got a brace on.”
Shaking his head, he helped her put it aside on the coffee table.
“Can you help me take my top off?” she asked. “I stepped into it earlier. I can’t pull it over my head with one arm.”
Ronan set the tube down on his lap and caught her camisole hem in both hands.
He carefully worked the top upward, slipping it off her uninjured arm and her head, before working down over her elbow brace.
His sharp inhale was an abrupt sound in the surrounding quiet.
He bit out something in Cajun French that she understood only for the rage it carried.
Looking down, she saw the lavender imprints of her attacker’s fingers on her small breasts. She heard his breathing quicken into harsh inhales and gusting exhales. His nostrils flared as his face flushed.
“Ronan?”
He released a low growl that raised the hairs on her nape. “It’s a terrible thing to have a need to kill a man who’s already gone to hell.”
Ireland leaned toward him and kissed him, a light press of her lips to his. “Don’t think about him. Think about me.”
He took another deep, fast breath. Then he released it in a rush. “Always.”
Ronan kissed her back, as swiftly and as sweetly as she’d kissed him.
Leaning back again, she looked for signs that he was settling down and felt such amazement that she could so thoroughly captivate a man as dazzling as Ronan Boudreaux.
He retrieved the tube and started again, rubbing both hands together to warm the gel.
Ireland was breathless with anticipation, her nipples taut and aching.
The curves were so slight she scarcely needed a bra, but Ronan worshipped them.
No man had ever paid such devoted attention to her breasts.
At times, he’d lie beside her for seemingly endless minutes, his head lowered behind the silky curtain of his hair as he laved the tight tips before suckling her with gentle pulls.
The memories alone made her pussy slick with desire.
She watched as his hands moved toward her, then her head fell back with a thready moan as his warmed palms cupped her with unbearable gentleness.
Pausing, Ronan asked gruffly, “Am I hurting you?”
“God no,” she said breathlessly. “Don’t stop.”