Chapter 4 Ronan
RONAN
I knew it was a bad idea before I said the words.
Not because I know anything of her past. I do not. She is, to me, simply a woman I met at the airport—sharp-tongued, wounded in a way she tries to disguise with humor, and far too young to be entangled with a man like me.
It’s a bad idea because I do not behave this way. Not normally.
I do not kiss strangers on planes. I do not allow chemistry to override discretion. Yet I cannot manage a single regret on the matter.
The aircraft hums steadily as we begin our descent into Boston. The cabin lights brighten gradually, pulling us back into ordinary life.
Sage sits beside me, dressed now, her posture relaxed but her eyes alert. She doesn’t seem embarrassed. Nor does she seem overly sentimental. If anything, she looks clear.
Clear unsettles me more than regret would.
“This is where we pretend we were very mature about all of this,” she says lightly.
“I am always mature,” I reply.
She smiles at that. “Sure you are.”
Her knee brushes mine as the plane shifts slightly. The contact is accidental, but neither of us moves away immediately. The air between us is no longer tentative.
That control is mine. It will remain mine. “You do realize,” I say evenly, “that this was ill-advised.”
“Probably. Still glad we did it.”
The honesty of it strikes me. There is no expectation in her tone. No attempt to secure more from me. I appreciate that more than she likely understands.
The wheels hit the runway with a solid thud. The spell of altitude dissolves quickly in bright light. I release her hand deliberately.
She notices. “So that’s it?”
“That’s it,” I confirm. I say it calmly, because calm is what I do best. “I hope that does not offend—”
“Not at all.” She smiles, relief plain on her face. “You’re a great guy, but I literally just got dumped yesterday. I think it’s still yesterday—I haven’t figured out the time difference thing. Anyway, I couldn’t do the whole ‘let me get your number’ thing. I’m too raw from everything with him.”
“Glad we’re on the same page.”
I retrieve my coat and step aside to allow her to gather her bag. When she struggles briefly with the strap, I take it from her without comment and set it securely over her shoulder.
“Thank you,” she says.
“You are welcome.”
We move through the jet bridge without touching. The physical distance is intentional. Necessary.
The airport is bright and impersonal, all polished floors and overhead announcements. Snow is settling in Boston faster than reports had led us to believe. Should be an interesting spring.
We begin walking toward the exit together, carried by the current of travelers. The air grows colder near the sliding doors.
“You don’t seem like someone who does spontaneous very often,” she says.
“I do not.” Not anymore.
“And you’re not worried this will haunt you?”
I glance at her. “Will it haunt you?”
She considers that, then shrugs lightly. “No. I think I needed it.”
That answer lodges somewhere deeper than I expect.
Outside, Boston greets us with frozen March air and the scent of traffic. The curb is crowded with rideshares and impatient drivers.
“This is me,” she says, checking her phone.
“So it appears.”
We stand facing one another, the energy between us altered. Not diminished. Just refined into something quieter.
“You’re really okay with this being a one-time thing?” she asks.
“Yes.” The answer comes smoothly, but not carelessly. I am fifty-two years old. I have spent decades building a life that rests on stability. I do not complicate it without cause. “Two strangers shared a moment. A good one. And that is enough.”
It sounds clinical when spoken aloud, though I don’t intend it to.
She tilts her head slightly. “You’re very disciplined.”
“I’ve had practice.”
Her car pulls up to the curb, hazard lights blinking. For a moment, neither of us moves. She steps closer first. “I don’t regret it,” she says quietly.
“Nor do I.”
“You’re not going to pretend you do later?”
“No.”
I don’t lie to myself. That’s one of the few rules I have never broken. I reach for her then, my hand coming to rest lightly at her waist. I tilt her chin upward with my thumb and lean down to kiss her. This kiss is different from the ones on the plane. Less exploratory. More conclusive.
There is heat, yes—but also finality.
Her fingers curl briefly into the lapel of my coat. I feel the tension in her, the pull between wanting and letting go.
When I draw back, I keep my voice steady. “You will be fine,” I tell her. “Breakups are difficult, but I can tell. You’ll bounce back quickly.”
She smiles faintly. “I know.”
There is something about her that suggests resilience. She bends without breaking.
“Good,” I say.
Her driver clears his throat politely. The city continues around us, indifferent. She steps back and lifts her suitcase into the trunk.
“No numbers,” she says.
“No.” For a brief second, I consider it—offering my card, extending the moment into something repeatable.
But repetition would change the nature of it. This was powerful precisely because it existed outside of expectation.
She opens the car door and slides into the back seat. The door closes. The car pulls away from the curb and merges into traffic.
And then, she’s gone.
I remain standing for several seconds after she disappears from view. One reckless memory. One extraordinary lapse in an otherwise orderly life. I retrieve my own car when it arrives and settle into the back seat, giving my address with habitual calm.
As the city passes by outside the window, I allow myself one indulgence: replaying the feel of her mouth against mine, the way she responded without hesitation, the clarity in her eyes.
It would be easy to pursue it. But easy is not the same as right.
By the time I reach my penthouse, my composure has fully reassembled. My coat goes on its hook. My shoes are aligned beside the door. Order reasserts itself.
I pour a small measure of whiskey and stand at the window, watching the quiet street below. It was a mistake. I knew that. I did it anyway.
And it will remain exactly what it should be. One remarkable, reckless memory suspended somewhere between Ireland and Boston.
Nothing more.
I breathe deep the free air of being single. I understand her desire to be single after a long relationship fell to nothing. If I were in her shoes, I’d want the same thing.
Particularly if I had been with a partner who didn’t see my worth.
I think of Sage’s freckles and the way she smiles. Somewhere out there is a girl who tastes like heaven and orgasms so prettily that it steals my breath. I hope she has a wonderful life.
I am due a shower, so I head into my bathroom.
Navy and white, thanks to my decorator who said it gives a clean look.
She wasn’t wrong, but it’s not entirely my style.
I keep telling myself I’ll redo it one day, but life keeps me too busy to focus on things like that, so once again, I step into my navy and white shower.
But I don’t hate it. The shower is large enough for six. There’s a bamboo bench in the back, plenty of showerheads, color therapy (which doesn’t make much difference in the navy and white scheme), aromatherapy, and half a dozen buttons I have yet to explore.
All I really care about is the heat.
I let it trickle down my body—now sore, thanks to Sage. It’s been a long time since I was with anyone, and even longer since I was with someone quite as tight as she is. Even still, I’m hard. Soreness only reminds me of her.
Of how she moves. How she feels. And when she squirted—
That’s it. I pump a dollop of lube onto my hand and step out of the direct spray so it only shoots my back.
I grip myself and the moment I make contact, steam hisses between my teeth.
Sage Henley, you are under my skin. My balls lift and tighten as I think of her skin, her compliance.
She takes orders well, and if we had more time, that could have been something intoxicating.
For today, it was mesmerizing, and I’ll take that.
When I had her on her hands and knees, that round ass high in the air, I had to taste her. Something that sweet should be savored. But when I took her from behind, all snug heat and those moans, I nearly came on the spot.
Just thinking about how she sounds, the way her groans roll out of her throat when she’s about to break, that helpless little whine they become—fuck! I shoot on the wall, wishing it were her back.
My knees weaken, so I plop onto the bench and let the jets wash away my sin from my hands. That girl. Jerking off to an encounter I just had is not the way I usually go about things. It usually goes meet the woman, have some fun, never think about her much again.
It’s not that I don’t respect women who sleep with me. It’s that I don’t have space in my life for anything serious. I’m honest about what I want, and I don’t lead them on. That’s not my game.
I like sex. I like power games. I don’t like hurting people in nonconsensual ways.
My life is too complex for traditional dating, so I was relieved when Sage was firm about not exchanging numbers. Keeps everything cleaner, just how I like it.
I tip my head against the glass wall behind me. This went perfectly. It’s a pity I can’t find more women like Sage. She makes me feel like everything is right with the world.