Chapter 18
R onan carried me through a short hallway without a word, his chest still bare, his hands sure, like he knew exactly where we were going and what I needed before I could even voice it.
A turn. A door pushed open.
Then—
Candlelight.
Dozens of tiny flames flickering along the edges of a sprawling bathroom, their reflections dancing on the surface of a wide, sunken tub already filling with steam.
The space was dark stone and glass, masculine but warm, the light bouncing off bronze fixtures and echoing against the high, wood-paneled ceiling.
It smelled like cedar and eucalyptus. Like tension unraveling.
He set me down gently, like I was something breakable now.
I should’ve said something. Asked something. But I didn’t.
I just stood there—barefoot, flushed, dazed—as he moved to the tub and adjusted the water, pouring something from a small amber bottle. It turned the water a pale blue and made the steam curl sweet and sharp.
And suddenly, I was back in Miami.
That night in the hotel—the tension between us so thick I could barely breathe.
He’d drawn a bath for me then, too. Turned down the lights.
Spoken to me with reverence and restraint.
But he hadn’t touched me. Not like this.
Not fully. I’d spent that night aching, longing so sharp it bordered on pain.
I’d wanted him then with a desperation I couldn’t name.
Wanted him to lose control. To let go. To take.
But he hadn’t.
He’d waited. Held back.
Now … now he’d fucked me so thoroughly I still felt him inside me.
Now I knew how his mouth felt on every inch of my skin. I knew how his hands moved when he was holding back and when he wasn’t. I knew what it was to break for him—and what it meant when he broke, too.
And that made this different.
The bath wasn’t a gesture anymore. It was a balm. A ritual. A way of saying I see you . A way of saying stay .
“I didn’t expect this,” I whispered.
He turned, meeting my gaze. “I know.”
His voice was rough but softer now, like it had been scraped raw by everything that came before.
He crossed the room and reached for the hem of my dress. I let him pull it off. No fanfare. Just silk sliding down skin, pooling at my feet like it had been waiting to be shed.
Ronan’s eyes moved over me like he was memorizing the shape of what he already owned.
Then he reached for something on the nearby counter—a small black box. He opened it without flourish and held it out in one palm.
Inside was a bracelet. Thin, delicate. Gold. A single sapphire set in the center, dark as twilight.
“I want you to wear it,” he said. “Every time you see me.”
My chest went tight. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s not about that.”
“I know.” I hesitated. “But it’s … personal.”
A flicker passed through his expression—something dark, something claiming. “It’s a reminder.”
My pulse skipped. “Of what?”
His eyes locked on mine. “That you’re mine.”
The air caught in my throat.
He fastened it around my wrist himself, his fingers brushing my skin, sending tiny shockwaves straight to the center of me.
When he was done, he stepped back and nodded toward the water. “Get in.”
I did.
The heat hit first—then the weightlessness. The water lapped at my collarbones as I sank in, the scent of whatever he’d added wrapping around me like silk. I leaned back against the edge, eyes fluttering closed for just a second.
Then I felt him behind me.
He didn’t get in.
He knelt.
One hand cradled the back of my head. The other dipped into the water, lifting, pouring it over my shoulders like a benediction. Again. And again. Until I was soaked and blinking up at him like he’d reached inside and rewired my lungs.
I didn’t even care that I’d already washed and styled my hair earlier.
That it had been blown out smooth and soft, every strand in place.
It was soaked now—clinging to my neck, my shoulders, ruined in the best possible way.
That version of me—the one who planned, who prepared, who tried to control how she looked and how she appeared to the world—felt miles away. Drowned in this quiet, sacred moment.
There was only now. Only his hands. His patience. His care. I wasn’t thinking about tomorrow or touch-ups or anything beyond the way he poured water over me like I was something to be cherished. Revered. Cleansed.
He reached for a cloth next—slow, careful—and began to wash me.
Not rushed. Just … intimate.
He moved over my collarbone. My arms. My stomach. He brought the cloth between my legs, and I gasped.
“You don’t have to?—”
“I want to,” he said simply.
His voice didn’t waver. His touch didn’t falter.
And I couldn’t speak after that.
When he finally stood and reached for a towel, I expected him to lift me from the water.
Instead, he stepped in—already bare, already breathtaking.
The water rose and shifted around us, the heat curling between our bodies as he sank behind me. His thighs bracketed mine, his arms slipping around my waist to pull me flush against him. Solid. Hot. Possessive in a way that didn’t ask.
He pressed a kiss beneath my ear, then another at the slope of my shoulder, his lips lingering like he was memorizing my skin. His hands moved slowly, reverently— trailing suds and steam as they explored every inch like they had all the time in the world.
We didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The silence between us was full—thick with breath, with tension, with something that felt dangerously close to worship.
By the time the water turned tepid, my limbs were limp, my head resting against his chest, my body sated and weightless.
He rose first, lifting me with him, careful and unhurried. He wrapped me in a warm towel before scooping me into his arms again—like I was something to be handled gently, even now. Especially now.
Back to the bedroom. Back to the wide bed dressed in soft white and shadows.
He laid me down, then joined me without ceremony. No striptease. No seduction.
Just Ronan. All of him.
A body made for sin and salvation both—broad shoulders, taut muscle, rough edges softened only by the look in his eyes.
I drank him in.
And still, I was thirsty.
I knew I was in too deep.
I didn’t care.
This time, it wasn’t like before.
It was slower. Softer.
His mouth brushed mine, his fingers stroking every inch of me.
I didn’t just feel wanted.
I felt chosen.
“Lie down,” he said, his voice a quiet command, and I obeyed, sinking onto the bed, the linens cool against my heated skin.
He followed, his body a study in control as he knelt over me, his hands guiding my thighs apart.
But then he shifted, lying on his back beside me, his head toward the foot of the bed.
His hands found my hips, urging me to move, to straddle his chest, facing his feet, and my breath hitched as I understood what he wanted.
“Come here,” he growled, his hands pulling me back until my hips hovered above his face, my knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his head.
The vulnerability of it—the exposure—made my heart race, but his grip was firm, grounding me.
His lips brushed the inside of my thigh, his stubble a delicious scrape against my skin, and I gasped as his tongue found me, teasing my clit with slow, languid strokes that sent sparks through my core.
The sensation was overwhelming, his mouth hot and relentless, sucking gently, then harder, his fingers spreading me open to deepen the contact.
I leaned forward, my hands bracing on his thighs, feeling the hard muscle beneath my palms. The sight of him—hard, thick, pulsing—made my mouth water, and I took him in, my lips closing around the tip of his cock, tasting the salt of his skin.
He groaned against me, the vibration sending a jolt through my body, and I moaned in response, the sound muffled as I took him deeper, my tongue swirling along his length.
We moved together, a rhythm of give and take, his tongue relentless as it circled and flicked, his fingers sliding inside me, curling just right to make my thighs tremble.
I worked him with my mouth, slow at first, then faster, matching the pace of his tongue, my lips tight around him as I sucked, drawing low, guttural sounds from his throat.
The linens twisted beneath us, the soft lights in the room casting flickering shadows that danced across his skin, and I felt utterly consumed, my body alive with sensation.
“Zara,” he rasped against me, his voice thick with need, his tongue never slowing. “You’re so fucking perfect.” His words sent a fresh wave of heat through me, and I rocked against his mouth, my hips moving instinctively as the pleasure built, sharp and unstoppable.
I sucked harder, my hand wrapping around the base of him, stroking in time with my mouth, and his hips bucked, his groans vibrating against my core.
The room was filled with the sounds of us—my muffled moans, his low growls, the soft rustle of the sheets.
My body was a live wire, every nerve singing as he licked and sucked, his fingers moving faster, pushing me toward the edge.
I felt him tense beneath me, his thighs tightening under my hands, and I knew he was close, too.
The thought of it—of unraveling him as he unraveled me—sent me spiraling, and I came with a cry, my body shuddering against his mouth, waves of pleasure crashing through me.
He didn’t stop, drawing out every pulse, his tongue softening but never relenting until I was trembling, oversensitive and gasping.
I focused on him, desperate to give him the same release, my lips and tongue working with a fervor.
His hands tightened on my hips, his groans growing desperate, vibrating against me as he kept his mouth on me, his tongue never leaving my clit, like he loved the taste of me and couldn’t get enough, even as his own climax built.