Chapter 18 #2
Then he came, a low, primal sound muffled against my skin, his release hot and sharp in my mouth, his lips still savoring me, relentless, as if my taste was his anchor .
I’d never done it before. Never swallowed a man’s come.
Not because I was squeamish or prudish—but because no one had ever made me want to.
Not like this. Not with the desperation that gripped me now, the hunger that went deeper than sex.
I wanted all of him. Every drop. Every raw, unfiltered part he gave me.
I swallowed, slowly, savoring the intimacy of it, the way it bound us in this moment. The way it made me feel claimed from the inside out—marked not just by what he did to my body, but what I chose to take from him. What I wanted to take.
He pulled me up gently, turning me to face him, his lips crashing into mine in a kiss that tasted of both of us, raw and unfiltered.
We collapsed onto the bed, tangled in the sheets, our breaths ragged, our bodies slick with sweat.
His arms wrapped around me, pulling me against his chest, his lips brushing my forehead, my temple, my lips, his touch tender now.
“You,” he murmured, his voice rough but soft, “you’re everything.” His fingers stroked my hair, my back, grounding me in the quiet after the storm. The world outside—my job, my principles, the risks—faded, and I let myself sink into him, into the truth of us.
“I’m yours,” I whispered, the words spilling out before I could stop them, and his arms tightened, his lips curving into a smile against my skin.
He didn’t demand more, didn’t need to. He just held me, the night stretching out before us, and I knew this wasn’t about control.
It was about surrender—his as much as mine.
But then?—
“I want to take you out.”
I blinked against his chest. “What?”
“To dinner. There’s a place I like downtown. Quiet. Italian. I want to see you across a table. With wine and real conversation. I want them to see us.”
My stomach twisted.
“I—Ronan …”
He tilted my chin. “What?”
“I don’t know if I can do that. Not here. Not yet.”
His jaw flexed. “You’re mine, Zara. I don’t care who sees.”
I sat up slowly, the sheet pulling with me. “But I do.”
His eyes locked on mine—sharp, possessive, unreadable.
The silence stretched between us.
“I want to,” I said quietly. “I’m hungry. I want dinner. I want to be with you.”
His eyes softened for a half-second. But I didn’t stop there.
“It’s just—” I hesitated, heart thudding.
“This town is a powder keg. My name’s already being whispered in rooms I haven’t stepped foot in for years.
If someone sees us—if a photo ends up online or in someone’s text thread—it’s not just scandal.
It’s professional fallout. I’m not ready to weather that. ”
His brow furrowed. “So don’t.”
I nodded, hopeful. “Could you whisk me away again? Somewhere private. Somewhere it’s just us.”
The moment I said it, I knew I’d misstepped.
His face didn’t harden, not exactly. But something in it shuttered.
“I can,” he said after a beat. “But I don’t want to.”
I swallowed. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to hide you, Zara. I don’t want to sneak around like you’re some dirty secret.” His voice wasn’t raised, but it cut sharp. “I want people to know you’re mine. I want to be the man who walks into a restaurant with you on his arm and dares them to say something.”
“I’m not ashamed of you,” I said quickly.
“Then what are you afraid of?”
I looked away, staring at the darkened window, my own reflection blurry in the glass. “Everything.”
“Look at me.”
I didn’t.
“Zara. Look. At. Me.”
I turned.
His jaw was tense now, eyes narrowed, heat simmering low in his voice. “You want me behind closed doors. In secret. But out there? In your real life? You want me invisible.”
“That’s not true.”
“No?” He sat up straighter. “Feels true.”
“It’s not about you,” I said, throat tight. “It’s about what being with you could cost me.”
He laughed, low and bitter. “What about what it will cost me to stay in the shadows?”
My breath hitched.
His hand came to the bracelet still resting on my wrist. He turned it slowly, his fingers almost gentle again. “I gave you this because I wanted you to remember. Not just who you are to me. But who I am to you.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “I do remember.”
“Then stop acting like this is just a fling.”
My chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. “It’s not.”
He leaned in, voice low and dangerous. “Then act like it matters.”
I blinked hard, pulse pounding. “I’m trying. ”
His expression cracked—just enough to show something wounded beneath the steel. “Try harder.”
I stared at him. At the man who had bathed me with reverence and taken me with hunger. At the man who could make me feel seen and shaken in the same breath.
I wanted to be brave. To get dressed and walk into that restaurant like I didn’t care who saw us.
But I wasn’t there yet.
And Ronan Hale didn’t want to wait.
“I want to make this work,” I whispered. “I really do. Just … not with an audience tonight.”
He said nothing.
His silence stretched so long, I wasn’t sure he’d heard me. But I could feel it—the charge shifting between us. The anger cooling into something colder. He was shutting down, and I was losing him by inches.
I reached for him.
“Ronan,” I said, voice shaking, “can we … can we just stay here? Order something in? Or—” I swallowed. “Let me cook for you. Please.”
That got his attention. His eyes flicked back to mine.
“You want to cook for me?” he asked, like he wasn’t sure if I was joking or stalling.
I nodded, brushing my fingers down his arm. “I know my way around a kitchen. And I’d rather feed you myself than sit across a table wondering who’s watching and what they’re assuming.”
He studied me for a long moment—long enough that I thought he might say no just to punish me.
Then, finally, he sighed. “What would you make?”
Hope sparked low in my chest. “Whatever you have in the fridge. I’ll figure something out.”
He leaned back against the headboard, jaw tight. “ There’s steak. Some fresh herbs. A bottle of wine I was saving.”
I gave a small smile. “Perfect.”
But it wasn’t perfect.
Not really.
Because even as he nodded—reluctant, brooding—I could see the shift in his eyes. The possessive edge was still there, but now it had company. Hurt. Disappointment. Something bruised and dangerous.
I kissed his shoulder gently. “You’re not a secret to me, Ronan.”
He didn’t answer.
So I slid from the bed, wrapping one of his button-downs around my body, and padded barefoot toward the kitchen—hoping the act of cooking for him might do what words couldn’t.
Hoping it might say, I’m here. I want this .
Even if I wasn’t ready for the world to know.
The kitchen was sleek and masculine, all black matte cabinets and polished concrete counters.
Industrial and modern, like the rest of the house, but with thoughtful details—a cast iron skillet on the range, a bunch of fresh rosemary in a tumbler of water near the sink, a worn cutting board that looked like it had seen real use.
Not just a design element. A man lived here.
Cooked here. Cared about the way things tasted.
I took a breath and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, the fabric soft against my skin, the scent of him still clinging to the collar. My legs were bare, the hem barely covering the curve of my ass, but I didn’t bother changing. If I was going to tempt fate, I’d do it like this.
The fridge gave me just enough—two gorgeous ribeyes, golden potatoes, garlic, butter, herbs. I found a bottle of red on the counter already breathing, a decanter beside it like he’d hoped this night might turn out differently.
I couldn’t give him what he’d wanted.
But I could give him this.
Twenty minutes in, the kitchen smelled like home—like seared meat, caramelized garlic, rosemary crackling in a shallow pool of butter.
I moved between the counter and the stove with practiced ease, plating the potatoes, warming the plates, pouring two glasses of wine that shimmered deep red in the overhead light.
I was just sliding the steak onto the plate when I felt it.
That shift in the air.
Like gravity had changed its mind.
I turned.
He stood barefoot in the doorway, black pants hanging low on his hips, chest still bare, hair damp and unruly from a towel run through it. He looked like something out of a fever dream—raw, ruffled, wounded.
His eyes swept over me slowly. Bottom to top. Like he was committing this version of me to memory.
“You really do know what you’re doing in here,” he said, voice lower now, more dangerous in its quiet.
I smiled, trying not to show how much his approval meant. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m not.” He stepped into the room. “But I’m … affected.”
“Affected,” I echoed, arching a brow.
He stopped a few feet from me. Close enough for the heat to rise again. “You, barefoot in my shirt, cooking for me? That’s something I didn’t know I needed until right now.”
The air thickened .
I handed him a glass of wine, and when our fingers brushed, I felt it. The pull. The warning.
“You’re still mad at me,” I said softly.
“I’m not mad,” he said, taking a long sip. “I’m … possessive. There’s a difference.”
My stomach flipped. “You’re also patient, remember? That’s what you told me.”
“I lied.”
I laughed, more breath than sound, and turned back to the stove to plate the second steak. But before I could reach for it, his arms were around me. Strong. Sure. Wrapping around my waist like a vise.
His chest pressed to my back, mouth at my ear.
“You didn’t have to cook for me to fix this,” he said quietly.
“I wanted to.”
He breathed me in like I was the meal now, the muscles of his forearms flexing where they crossed over my stomach. “I’m not used to wanting someone like this.”
I reached down, laced my fingers through his. “Same.”
He pressed a kiss to the side of my neck. Then another. Slower. Hotter. The wine in his hand tilted against my arm, the glass still warm from his grip.
“Dinner’s going to get cold,” I whispered.
“So will I,” he murmured. “And that would be a fucking tragedy.”
I turned in his arms, hands flat against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my palms. “Sit down,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Let me feed you.”
He stared at me like I was asking for the moon. Then, slowly, he stepped back .
I brought the plates to the wide island, and we sat across from each other, knees brushing under the counter.
The food was good—maybe even great—but I barely tasted it.
Not with the way his eyes tracked every move I made.
Not with the heat of his gaze following every slow sip of wine, every lick of garlic butter from my finger, every breath.
“I could get used to this,” he said after a long stretch of quiet.
“What, steak?”
“No.” His eyes burned hotter. “You. Here.”
I looked down at my plate.
“Zara,” he said, voice rougher now, “you don’t have to be afraid of what this could be.”
“I’m not afraid of us,” I said, meeting his gaze. “I’m afraid of what the world will do with us.”
He reached across the counter, hooked a finger under the bracelet still glinting on my wrist. “Let them try.”
The rest of the wine disappeared too fast. The plates were pushed aside. And when I stood to clear them, he followed.
His hand closed around my wrist as I reached for his glass.
“Leave it,” he said.
The words were simple. But the look in his eyes?
That was a promise.
He backed me up to the counter, his mouth claiming mine before I could catch my breath. It wasn’t wild. It wasn’t rough.
It was slow.
Teasing.
A reminder that just because I’d fed him didn’t mean I was off the hook.
“Ronan— ”
“Tell me you still taste like rosemary and wine.”
“Why don’t you find out?”
His mouth curved against mine. “I intend to.”
And then he did.
Right there, against the counter.
Slow. Delicious. Dangerous.
Like he had all night—and every night after.