Chapter 13 #2
And when his mouth closed over my clit, when he sucked gently and moaned like the taste of me wrecked him?—
I shattered.
Hard. Loud. Completely.
But he didn’t stop.
Because he hadn’t had enough.
And neither had I.
The flat of his tongue dragged up my center, then circled back down, teasing me with a patience that bordered on cruelty.
I arched against him, hips lifting off the towel, seeking more, needing it.
But he held me in place with one strong arm flung across my thighs, keeping me grounded while he took his time.
Every stroke made me more raw. More undone.
He traced lazy patterns against my clit, then sucked gently, then harder—drawing out a cry that punched straight from my gut. He groaned like the taste of me was something he’d craved for years. Like he was angry he hadn’t had it sooner.
I clutched at the towel beneath me, then gave up and sank my hands into his hair instead. It was thick and damp and soft at the ends. My fingers tightened instinctively, anchoring myself to him like I might float away without something to hold.
And still—he didn’t stop .
He slid one thick finger inside me. Then another.
I shattered a little.
He curled them just right, hitting something inside that made me gasp, then sob, then grind helplessly against his mouth. I couldn’t be quiet. I didn’t want to. The beach was open. Wild. Unforgiving. But it didn’t matter. Nothing did, but him.
I was trembling.
Moaning.
Desperate.
Each wave of pleasure crested higher than the last, until I was riding a tide I couldn’t control. My thighs shook. My belly clenched. Every nerve felt sunlit and exposed, sizzling with want.
“Ronan—please—” I begged, not even sure what I was asking for.
Release? More? Everything?
He didn’t answer.
He just buried his face deeper and kept going.
Until I broke again.
Until I came so hard I forgot where we were. Who I was. Until my vision went white behind my eyes and the only thing tethering me to earth was the sound of his breath against my skin and the weight of his name in my mouth.
When the climax crashed over me, it wasn’t gentle. It was savage. All teeth and heat and helpless surrender.
And still—he didn’t stop.
He drew out every last ripple, licked up every aftershock like it belonged to him. Like I did.
And I did.
God, I did.
And I wanted more.
I wanted everything .
I wanted his cock inside me, thick and deep, splitting me open until there was no space left between us.
I wanted to feel his weight above me, heavy and real and undeniable, pinning me to the towel, to the earth, to this moment that had swallowed us whole.
I wanted the pressure of his chest on mine, the scrape of stubble on my neck, the brutal stretch of him filling me until I forgot my own name.
I wanted to claw at his back and bite his shoulder and cry out into his mouth as he fucked me slow, then hard, then harder—until I couldn’t remember what it felt like to not be touched by him.
I wanted to be claimed. Marked. Taken.
To be as close to him as two people could possibly be.
“Please,” I whispered. “Please, I need?—”
He lifted his head, mouth slick, eyes sharp.
“Not yet,” he said.
My body wept at the words.
He looked down at me for a long, quiet moment, his chest rising and falling in that same controlled rhythm I’d seen since the beginning—measured, restrained, maddening.
The sun blazed behind him, casting his face in shadow, but I didn’t need to see his eyes to feel the weight of them.
I could feel them on every inch of my skin—my swollen lips, my flushed chest, the tender ache between my thighs.
“Why not?” I asked, my voice more breath than sound.
He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my cheek, the pad of his thumb lingering at my temple like he was memorizing me. “Because I want it to mean something.”
I blinked. “That—what just happened—didn’t?”
He smiled, but it wasn’t teasing. It was soft. Honest. Maybe even a little reverent. “That was for you. Because I knew you needed it.”
He sat back on his heels, letting the sun hit him full-on now—broad chest, corded arms, wet skin that gleamed like bronze. He was still hard. Still aching. I could see it pressing against his trunks, straining with tension he refused to release.
My heart stuttered. “But you didn’t …”
“I wanted to,” he said, voice low, almost rough. “Christ, Zara. You have no idea how badly I wanted to.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because if I fuck you now, here—like this—I won’t stop. I won’t be able to. And you’ll go back to Charleston thinking this was just sex. Just a vacation fantasy. You’ll put me in a box, close the lid, and pretend it didn’t happen.”
I didn’t deny it. Because I might’ve done exactly that.
He leaned forward again, hands braced on either side of me, gaze cutting through the afterglow. “You want more?” he asked.
“Yes.” No hesitation. My voice was wrecked, but certain.
“Then you’ll see me in Charleston.”
The words landed like an ultimatum.
Not a demand. A challenge.
My brows pulled together. “Is that a condition?”
“It’s the next step.”
I stared at him, heart pounding, legs still trembling from the orgasm he’d dragged out of me. “You’re serious.”
“As a heart attack.”
I winced. “Don’t joke about that.”
His eyes softened a fraction. “Then come. Let me see your life. Let me show you mine. ”
“You mean your mansion with secret rooms and bloodstained pasts?”
“I mean all of it.”
“And what if I say no?”
He sat back again, his expression unreadable. “Then you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what it would’ve felt like to have me inside you.”
Damn.
That wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.
Somehow, it turned me on even more.
I looked away, out toward the ocean, where waves lapped gently against the shore like they hadn’t just witnessed something unholy in the sand.
He touched my knee.
“Think about it,” he said, standing and adjusting his trunks like he wasn’t still hard and throbbing under there. “But I’m not begging. You either want this—whatever the hell this is—or you don’t.”
I sat up slowly, folding my arms over my chest, still too bare, still too raw.
But I didn’t say no.
I didn’t say yes, either.
Not yet.
Because some part of me—some loud, wild, wicked part—already knew I’d see him there. Not because he demanded it.
But because I needed to.
Because Charleston was the only place I’d get the answer to the question I hadn’t dared ask since the moment this began:
What happens when the hunted chooses to stay?