Chapter Thirteen #2
He doesn’t rush me. Instead, he eases back and cups my face, his thumbs brushing along my cheekbones like he’s relearning me, committing every detail to memory.
When his lips meet mine again, it’s gentle at first—just a whisper of a kiss.
Then it deepens, and everything he’s been holding back spills through the space between us.
The grief. The anger. The loyalty. It all hits me at once, a wave I didn’t realize I’d been standing in the path of, a force I’ve been bracing for all along.
I gasp against his mouth as he turns and walks us backward toward the bed, his hands never leaving my skin. Clothes fall away between stolen kisses and gasped names until nothing separates us. He lays me down like I’m fragile, but I’m not. Not with him. Not anymore.
His body hovers just above mine, barely a breath between us, his gaze never leaves my face.
He moves with deliberate care, almost reverently, like he’s stretching out the moment because he doesn’t want to miss a second of it.
His fingers glide down my ribs, tracing the line of my waist as if he’s learning the shape of me all over again, committing it to memory.
My hands drift up over his shoulders and into his hair, anchoring us both as the world narrows to this—just us, suspended in the quiet pull between heartbeats.
“This first time, I’m going to make love to you the way you deserve—slow, deep, and real.” His voice drops lower, rougher, darker. “But don’t get too comfortable, Berk… because I’ve spent years wanting to fuck you, and I’ve got a hell of a lot of time to make up for.”
A wanton moan slips from my lips before I can stop it—raw, unfiltered, an undeniable yes.
It’s the only answer I can give, because my body’s already ahead of my thoughts, already surrendering to everything he’s promising me with that voice, with those eyes, with the weight of years we’ve carried in silence.
Ronan slides between my thighs, his presence commanding and certain, like he belongs there—like he’s never been anywhere else. His skin is hot against mine, his body solid and brimming with the kind of control that only comes from someone holding back everything.
He watches me the entire time—storm-filled eyes flickering with something equal parts reverence and hunger.
One hand wraps around himself, and then he moves, stroking slowly through my slick heat, spreading the proof of my need for him with every glide.
It’s teasing. Electric. Maddening. And I arch into him without thinking, fingers curling into the sheets as pleasure coils low and deep.
I should feel shy. Exposed. Overwhelmed.
This is the first time since—no. I can’t go there.
Not now. Not when he’s touching me like I’m something worth protecting instead of something cracked and fragile.
Not when, for the first time in years, I don’t feel broken at all.
With him, doubt doesn’t exist. There’s only the quiet ache of being held by one of the men I never truly stopped wanting.
And God, I want everything he’s about to give me.
He notches himself at my entrance, the heat of him pressing into me with a promise that steals the air from my lungs.
And then, in one slow, devastating glide, he sinks into me—deep, all the way to the hilt.
My body arches, a strangled moan tearing from my throat as my legs instinctively wrap around him, pulling him even closer.
We both groan, the sound tangled—raw and wrecked and full of the years we’ve held back.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t thrust. Just stays—buried inside me, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath harsh against my skin. He gives me time. Time to take all of him in, to feel every inch as my body remembers exactly who it belongs to.
Because he’s changed. Grown.
He was big before—but now… now he feels like he was built to ruin me in the most exquisite way. My body stretches around him, pulses with him, and yet it welcomes him like it’s been waiting. Like no one else has ever truly touched me.
His forehead rests against mine, breath ragged, voice strained with restraint. “I have to move, baby,” he murmurs, like he’s asking permission he already knows I’ll give.
I nod, barely able to breathe, my body already trembling from the way he fills me so completely.
He draws back slowly—every inch dragging against me like a promise—and then thrusts forward in a smooth, powerful glide that steals the air from my lungs.
A gasp catches in my throat as pleasure flares through me, hot and consuming.
I’m already soaked, already so open to him that he moves effortlessly, gliding in and out with a rhythm that sends sparks dancing up my spine.
His hips roll with purpose, never too fast, never too rough—just deep, deliberate strokes that unravel me with every pass.
He murmurs softly against my skin, a mix of sweet nothings and quiet, reverent curses—like he still can’t believe I’m real, that I’m here.
His hands roam over me like he’s mapping my body all over again, lifting and bending my legs to change the angle, reaching places that have me crying out his name like a prayer.
Each new shift sends fresh waves of pleasure coursing through me, building and crashing with dizzying intensity.
I lose track of how many times I fall apart beneath him—three, four, maybe more—my body writhing beneath his, helpless to the way he knows exactly how to pull me apart and piece me back together.
Ronan’s pace never falters, never breaks rhythm.
He moves with relentless precision, each thrust purposeful and devastating.
He feels everything—every flutter, every gasp, every time my body tightens around him like it’s begging him to never stop.
I’m wrecked in the most beautiful way, trembling under him, drunk with pleasure and the overwhelming weight of him inside me.
His voice is rough, threaded with authority and heat. “Give me one more, Berk,” he growls against my throat, his breath hot and urgent. “I know you’ve got it in you.”
And God, I do.
I don’t question him, don’t think, don’t even breathe—I just feel.
My body’s already on the edge, teetering on that fine line between too much and not enough.
I’ve barely managed a word since he started, nothing but broken moans and breathless whimpers tumbling from my lips.
But when he commands me like that—low and raw, like he’s claiming every part of me—I shatter.
Another wave slams into me, fierce and blinding, and I cry out, gripping him like he’s the only thing anchoring me to this world. My body clenches around him, desperate and overwhelmed, and this time, he follows me over.
With a groan that sounds like it’s been buried in his chest for years, he presses as deep as he can go, holding still as he releases with a tremble that shakes us both.
His mouth is at my ear now, words dragging across my skin in a growl that makes my body ache all over again.
“Keep that inside you,” he murmurs, possessive and breathless.
“Because we’re not done tonight. Not even close.
” He shifts just enough to kiss the corner of my mouth, his fingers curling around my thigh as he whispers the ultimate promise, dark and full of need.
“I’m going to fill you up again. And again.
Until there’s not a part of you that doesn’t remember I was here. ”
“Yes…” It’s the only word I manage, the only one I can manage, whispered on a shaky breath as I arch into him again. My body is still trembling from the last release, nerves frayed and hypersensitive, but he doesn’t give me a second to recover.
He’s still hard—relentlessly so—and he proves his point with a slow, deliberate thrust that steals the air from my lungs.
I gasp, feeling the intimate heat of him driving deeper, his earlier release slipping from me in warm pulses with each movement, only to be met with the strength of his next.
It’s messy. Intimate. Completely consuming.
Each stroke drags a sound from me, helpless and raw, my body clinging to his like it never wants to let go. He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t have to. His body says it all—the possession, the hunger, the unspoken promise that this night is far from over.
We spend the rest of the night wrapped around each other, tangled in sweat-damp sheets and whispered need.
Time blurs, and I lose count of how many times we fall apart in each other’s arms—how many times he brings me to the edge and pulls me over with nothing but a touch, a look, a word spoken against my skin like a vow.
There’s no urgency, no awkwardness, just an unspoken understanding between us—every time the ache rises, we answer it.
Again, and again. Sometimes slow, sometimes wild, always real.
Even when exhaustion tugs at my limbs and sleep begins to take me under, I still feel him.
The gentle press of his lips on my shoulder.
The heat of his body is never far from mine.
And sometimes, when I drift off for just a moment, I wake to the slow, steady rhythm of him inside me, coaxing me back to life with nothing more than his touch and the deep, reverent way he says my name.
There’s something sacred about it. In this kind of closeness. In being claimed over and over without ever feeling owned—just wanted, desperately, wholly, without apology.
And for the first time in years… I don’t feel broken.
I just feel like his.
By the time we’re finally spent—when Ronan’s breathing evens out and his body sinks into stillness—it’s nearly dawn.
The faintest light creeps along the edge of the curtains, soft and silver, casting shadows across his face.
His arm is draped heavily over my waist, anchoring me to the bed, his bare chest rising and falling in a rhythm that says he’s finally out.
It took all night to get him to this point. Not just the pleasure, not just the exhaustion—but the comfort, the trust.
And now, with the house quiet and his guard completely down, I know this is my only window. If I’m going to search for anything—clues, records, signs of Reign—this is the time to move.
I shift slowly, inch by inch, careful not to disturb the warmth of his embrace too suddenly.
My fingers gently lift his arm, just enough for me to slide out from beneath it.
He mumbles something low and unintelligible, a grumble laced with sleep, and my heart seizes for a second. I freeze, holding my breath.
But he doesn’t budge.
Damn, I must’ve really worn him out. Any other night, any other version of Ronan, he would’ve stirred the moment my weight left the bed. He’s too protective. Too tightly wound. But tonight… he’s still.
I pull the blanket up around him, watching his face soften in sleep for just a beat longer. There’s a tenderness in that moment I want to cling to—but I can’t. Not now.
Now… I need answers.