Chapter 17 #2
Then the blunt head of him pressed against me, and every muscle in my body tensed in greedy anticipation.
He was thick—impossibly so—hot and heavy in his hand as he guided himself to where I needed him most. I could feel the sheer weight of him, the unyielding promise in every inch.
Wide enough to stretch. Long enough to bruise.
The kind of cock that ruined you for anyone else.
Ruin me.
He leaned forward, one hand braced beside mine on the railing, the other steady at his base as he teased the entrance of my body with maddening control.
“I’m not going slow,” he said, voice right at my ear. “Not tonight.”
The words curled around my spine like smoke, setting every inch of me alight.
I didn’t want slow. I didn’t want sweet or careful or anything that could be mistaken for patience.
I wanted what had been simmering between us since the moment he first touched me—no, before that.
Since he looked at me like I was already his.
Since I wrote that first humiliating, reckless request and meant every damn word.
My body pulsed around nothing, desperate and aching.
I could feel the thick press of him against my pussy, teasing, taunting, dragging through my slick folds with the kind of restraint that bordered on cruelty.
“Then don’t,” I whispered, throat dry and lips parted.
I barely got the words out before my world tilted.
I didn’t get another breath.
He drove into me in one hard, perfect thrust—and I shattered around it.
My gasp caught, ragged and raw, as he filled me to the hilt. There was no easing in. No soft easing at all. Just the stretch. The shock. The claiming.
And yet it wasn’t just the shock of him—it was the overwhelming rightness of it.
I had never, in my entire life, been satisfied. Not fully. Not the way women whispered about in locker rooms or novels or behind closed doors over too many glasses of wine. I’d faked it. I’d chased it. I’d settled for the dull ache of almost.
But with Ronan?
There was no almost .
He hadn’t even moved, and I already felt like I’d come home to a place I didn’t know I’d been searching for. My body clung to him, greedy and shameless, as if it knew this wasn’t just sex. This was the answer to a question I hadn’t dared ask .
I felt full in a way that went beyond physical. Like he reached into the hollow spaces of me—every doubt, every ache, every lonely hour I’d spent trying to prove I didn’t need something deeper—and filled them without asking permission.
I wanted more. I wanted all of him.
I wanted to be taken. Loved. Ruined.
Because for the first time, I wasn’t afraid to want. Not with him. Not when he made me feel like wanting was the most powerful thing a woman could do.
He stayed deep, his body locked against mine, as if even the idea of pulling back was unbearable. I could feel every hard inch of him, every beat of his heart syncing with mine, every breath a silent declaration that I was his now—filled, possessed, undone.
“You feel that?” he asked, his mouth at my neck. “That’s how you’ll know. Every time you close your legs, every time you sit down tomorrow, you’ll feel me. Right here.”
He rocked into me, slow and devastating. “And you’ll remember what you let me do.”
I braced harder against the railing as he started to move, hard and fast and merciless, the sound of skin against skin obscene in the open air.
“You think I’m going to stop with this?” he growled. “You think I’m going to let you walk back into your quiet little life like this didn’t happen?”
“Ronan—”
“No,” he snapped, one hand sliding up my back to fist in my hair, pulling my head back just enough for him to kiss the side of my throat, hard. “Say my name like you mean it.”
“Ronan.” It came out a broken gasp.
“Again. ”
“Ronan.”
“Louder.”
“Ronan—fuck?—”
He thrust harder, deeper, until the words stopped altogether.
I couldn’t speak.
I could only feel.
The world narrowed to the slam of his hips, the slick heat of him inside me, the unbearable need climbing higher and higher with every punishing stroke.
And then—he wrapped his arm around my waist and reached between my legs, rubbing circles over my clit with the same precision he used everywhere else.
I came so hard I saw stars.
My cry tore through the air, sharp and feral, and his body went tight behind mine.
He came with a groan that sounded like it had been ripped from his chest—raw, primal, as if he’d been holding it back for a lifetime and had finally found the one place he could fall apart.
His hips thrust once, twice more, each movement desperate and deliberate, until he was spilling into me, deep and possessive, like he was marking me from the inside out.
He didn’t pull out.
And I didn’t want him to.
I could feel the heat of him flooding me, thick and unrelenting, and instead of panic or guilt or even surprise, all I felt was yes .
A heady, bone-deep yes that bloomed low in my belly and made my breath stutter.
His come dripped out around him as he stayed inside, still hard, still pressing every inch of himself into me like he needed to memorize the shape of my body from within.
I should’ve cared about the risk—about what it meant to let a man like Ronan come inside me without hesitation. I should’ve thought about protection, about consequences, about what could happen next. But I didn’t.
All I could think about was how right it felt.
How I wanted it.
How some primitive part of me ached for it. Welcomed it. Like my body understood what my mind hadn’t caught up to yet—that this wasn’t just sex. This was belonging.
This was his.
And maybe, in some irrevocable way, I truly was his, too.
His chest pressed to my back, breath heavy against my shoulder.
His arms wrapped around me like they were built for this—this exact shape, this exact moment.
We stood there like that for a long time, suspended in something deeper than silence, deeper than breath.
His release still inside me. His body still joined to mine.
A connection that didn’t feel like it ended with orgasm, but began there.
Something dangerous and beautiful and impossibly alive.
I didn’t want to move.
Didn’t want to let a single drop of him slip away.
Because for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to be just a woman who had been touched.
I wanted to be kept.
“Mine,” he whispered again. “You understand me now?”
I nodded, or tried to. “Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I’m yours.”
He exhaled into my skin like that was the only thing that could settle him .
Like he needed the words more than the sex.
It should’ve felt reckless.
It should’ve felt wrong.
But it didn’t.
It felt like coming home to something I hadn’t known I was missing.
And when he finally pulled back, lifted me gently into his arms, and carried me inside without saying another word?
I let him.
Because I knew the next part of the night would ruin me in an entirely different way.
And I wanted every second of it.