Chapter 10 Ronan
RONAN
Firm. Solid, even. Her ass is like the rest of her. A well-developed machine.
My fingers dig into the flesh there as I pull her down onto my cock, and I’m on my knees on my plane’s bed. I have to give up the two-hand grip on her perfect ass to bar an arm behind her waist. Otherwise, she’s too far away, even while she’s on my cock.
I want her close. Need her heat. All of it.
Her limbs wrap around me—legs at my waist, arms around my neck—like she’s trying to envelop me in every way possible. Every inch of contact between us is the only part of me that’s ever been happy, ever been satisfied.
I found my match. This girl is as greedy as I am.
My sounds are not my own. Neither are hers. These raw vocalizations would have echoed in a real room, but in my airplane, they’re drowned by the low roar of the engines.
Instinct takes over. I flex my hips and bounce her on my cock. Her perfect little tits bounce in time with my thrusts. As much as I’m penetrating her, I’m captive to her sharp green eyes. They’ve pierced me, heating my bones, my soul.
Closer. I need to be closer.
I slow down and press my forehead to hers. “You take my cock like such a good girl, Sage. Look down.”
She does, and her pussy flexes around me again. She likes the view enough that it’s getting her off. She’s near her orgasm now. Her chest flushes, and her breath comes in hot puffs on my face.
Naughty girl.
I taunt her and flip her onto her hands and knees to take her from behind. There’s that perfect ass again, but I have another target in mind, and I lick her everywhere.
Her gasp. That fucking gasp—
I wake up from the dream, my hand already on my cock. The memory is still vivid. It’s replayed now and then for months, and I can’t stop thinking about my mile-high hookup. Sex dreams have invaded my sleep ever since I can remember, but none as intoxicating as this one.
Lube from the top nightstand drawer, and I’m off to the races as I close my eyes once again.
I still taste Sage on my tongue. Sweet. Addictive.
When I swat her ass, the sound echoes in my mind, and I’m without another thought. Only the memory of feeling her stretch around my cock. Mere seconds before she’s trembling on me.
I grab her hands. Force her onto the bed flat. Take away her choices, so she can focus on her pleasure. I have her now. I can make her come at any time, but there’s something delicious about making us both wait to heighten the impact.
Fuck it. I need this.
My hand slides up and down my shaft, a weak mimic of her pussy, but all I have for now. I add twitches to my jerking, trying to bring out the feel of her almost coming on me.
I demand, “Come for me, love.”
We both erupt, the memory of her on my cock, and me in my bed and shooting onto my stomach. The tension in my body vanishes, leaving me huffing on my back and staring at the ceiling.
It’s strange. I haven’t been able to stop thinking of her, to the point that I haven’t slept with anyone else. The thought of doing that feels like the ghost of cheating, which is patently absurd when I consider the circumstances.
I don’t know where she is. Where she’s going. If she’s still in Boston, or if she’s left for greener pastures. We are not a couple. Sleeping with someone else would obviously not be cheating.
And yet…
I laugh at myself again and clean off with tissues before hopping into the shower. I’m no fool. I know I’m being ridiculous. But the fact remains that I’m obsessed.
That’s all this is. An obsession. Not my first.
I’ve had my focus stolen by a woman before, if I’m honest. A chuckle escapes me. I’m deluding myself—my focus isn’t stolen by them. I give it away freely.
My fleeting mirth swirls down the drain by my feet.
When I met Aoifa, I was instantly obsessed.
There was something in the curl of her black hair, so dark it glowed blue in the right light.
The curve of her soft jaw when she smiled.
And she smiled all the time. Her hot brown eyes—that was the only way to describe them.
So full of life that they seemed hot. Fiery, even.
I was never worthy of her, but I tried to be. She loved with her whole heart, lived like every day could be the last. She was passion itself, embodied in a strong woman. She inspired our girls and me to be true to ourselves, no matter what.
It was that last part which led to my affair.
As I dry off, it’s impossible to avoid the topic. Guilt has a way of poking at you until you pay it attention, and right now, my head is a fogged mess.
I was too young to be married, truth be told. Too inexperienced. So, when I met the enigmatic, brilliant Dr. Cathryn Bird at a conference, I was captivated. I reasoned that, if Aoifa thought we should always be true to ourselves, then I owed it to myself to follow through on my attraction.
A pathetic excuse. Nothing more.
The truth was, our girls were two, I was an overworked med student who had pushed himself into school and marriage far, far too young, and my wife was too busy with our girls to pay attention to me. On the outside, I had everything.
On the inside, I felt like I was waking up in someone else’s life every day, and I didn’t know how to handle any of it. I was a self-pitying mess who didn’t appreciate what I had, so I glommed onto the thing I knew would make me feel better in the moment.
As I dress, it occurs to me that I’m lucky to have survived any of it.
I had an affair. Called my wife to check in and blurted out about the affair. She was distracted, ran through a stop sign, and was killed in an instant. Our daughters were left to me.
And then, my affair partner told me she was pregnant.
My phone buzzes violently. The hospital. I’m on call today, so I expected to be brought in. Happens every time. I give the affirmative and head for the hospital.
It’s on the drive there that my thoughts drift once more, this time to the result of my affair. I never blamed Connor for Aoifa’s death, but I understand why he might think so. We’ve never been close. That could easily give him the impression of blame. Another sin on my slate.
I will do my best to address his assumption and build our relationship as best I can.
Historically, it doesn’t always work, but I can still try.
Now that he’s more responsive to my texts, I might stand a chance.
It’s a new development, and I’m not sure what the catalyst was, but I’m grateful for it.
Aoifa would have wanted me to try to bond with Connor. She never would have held my affair against him. If for no other reason, I’ll do it to honor her.
When I arrive at the hospital, it’s the usual chaos. I check in at the nurses’ station and find the one on my case. “What’s the situation?”
“Triplet pregnancy. Thirty-two weeks. Severe hypertension. They want cardio oversight—her pressures are climbing fast.”
Triplets alone push the cardiovascular system to its limits. Add gestational hypertension, and the heart starts to strain under a load it was never meant to carry. Preeclampsia is an unpredictable, dangerous beast.
Strange to say, this is where I’m meant to be. Not thinking about distractions. Not thinking about the past. Not thinking about a woman I met on a flight and haven’t been able to forget since.
Work is clean. Controlled. It’s not easier, but in some ways, it’s simpler.
“Dr. Callahan,” a resident says, falling into step beside me as I head for the patient’s room. “BP is one-sixty over one-ten and rising. Magnesium’s been started. OB is considering immediate delivery, but they want your input first.”
“Any cardiac history?”
“None documented.”
“Symptoms?”
“Headache, visual disturbances, shortness of breath.”
I nod once. “Fluid status?”
“They’re concerned.”
Odd phrasing from a resident, but they’re often overwhelmed in situations like this. He might not make it through his residency.
We reach L&D, and the air changes instantly. It’s tighter here, faster. Voices overlap. Monitors pulse in uneven rhythms. Everything hums with urgency, the kind that demands precision, not panic.
A nurse meets me outside the room, already mid-brief. “She’s not stabilizing the way we’d like. OB is prepping the OR, but they want to know how aggressively they can proceed.”
“They don’t have the luxury of waiting,” I say evenly. “We manage her pressure, monitor cardiac response, and move when necessary.”
I scrub in, movements automatic, practiced to the point of instinct. My focus narrows, the rest of the world falling away. Blood pressure. Cardiac load. Risk of failure. That’s it. That’s all that matters.
I push through the door.
The patient is already on the bed, propped slightly upright, monitors attached, IV lines running. The curve of her abdomen is pronounced beneath the thin hospital gown—high and full, unmistakably carrying more than one baby. Triplets. I can’t see her face beyond that belly due to how she lies.
One hand grips the bed rail, knuckles pale from the pressure. I step forward, already assessing the machines she’s hooked up to. Respiratory rate elevated. Circulatory strain visible.
“She’s compensating,” I murmur, more to the room than anyone in particular. “But not indefinitely.”
“Dr. Callahan,” the nurse says, “OB wants to know if her heart can tolerate labor.”
“Not for long. If her pressure continues to climb, they’ll need to move quickly.” I reach for the chart, scanning it quickly. Numbers, trends, escalation. Everything aligns with what I’m seeing. Severe preeclampsia. Escalating.
I set the chart down and step closer to the bed. “Alright,” I say, voice calm, measured. “Let’s take a look at you.”
She turns her head. Just slightly. Just enough.
And I see her.
For a fraction of a second, my mind refuses to process what I’m looking at. It tries to file her away as just another patient, just another case, just another woman in a bed I am responsible for managing.
I must be hallucinating. My obsession has become something more. I’m seeing Sage everywhere.
I blink to clear my sight. Gently shake my head to help.
But she doesn’t disappear.
It’s her. The same lovely face, now marred by sweat and redness. Those sharp green eyes land a spear in my gut. The internal jolt that I don’t allow to show. The room seems to narrow around us, the noise dulling at the edges as everything focuses on the woman in front of me.
In my hospital. In my care.
Her lips part slightly, like she’s about to say something, but nothing comes out. Whatever words she had catch somewhere between thought and breath, lost to the shock of the moment.
I can empathize.