Sunday, August 13th
Cat
“Does it make me a terrible, horrible son that I really don’t feel like having dinner with the whole damn family every freaking Sunday?” Ronan mutters as he ties his shoes.
I stand next to him in the hallway, one hand on my stomach.
I’ve definitely started to show. The bump is noticeable underneath my clothes now—much to Tori’s, Vada’s, and Summer’s delight, all of whom keep asking if they can touch my belly—and just yesterday I realized I was no longer able to button my jeans.
I know it comes with the territory. I know it’s a change I have to accept.
After all, this baby’s nowhere near done growing.
But still, I cried to Ronan about it yesterday.
I kept yammering about how soon I’d be so big he wouldn’t be attracted to me anymore.
Of course, that boy did everything in his power to convince me otherwise.
He finally managed to when he laid me down on his bed, then descended between my thighs until the only sounds I was able to make were mewling whimpers and moans.
“Not really,” I say. Ronan’s right. These dinners aren’t just dinners.
They’re inspections, check-ins, our parents’ way of ensuring they have an eye on us.
Ever since we told them I was pregnant, they’ve been hovering.
Cooking elaborate meals. Making casual but loaded comments.
Offering advice we didn’t ask for. Always with that thin smile that says, “We’re just checking in.
” But the eyes say, “We’re worried. We’re watching you. ”
And the silly thing is? I still live at home. Granted, I’m at Ronan’s apartment more often than not, but I spend at least two to three nights at home, in my own room. And I see my mom at work every day. Apparently that’s still not enough.
I tug at my white sundress. It’s clingy in all the wrong places. Maybe a corset top wasn’t the best idea.
“I don’t really feel like going either, but it makes them happy.” I fan the back of my neck. “Is it me or is it hot in here?”
Ronan chuckles. “It’s you.”
I turn around to inspect the thermostat, even though I already know they keep the apartment cold for me—cold enough that poor Tori’s taken to wearing Shane’s hoodies and wrapping herself up like a burrito anytime she’s over.
Even Ronan’s started throwing on extra layers in the mornings, but he never complains.
Not once. He just shivers and kisses me and asks if I need anything.
I twist my hair into a knot at the crown of my head and let the cooler air hit my neck. It helps, a little.
“You’re always so damn hot, baby,” Ronan says from behind me, and then his lips brush the curve of my shoulder as his arms slip around my waist, just above the gentle rise of our baby. My eyes flutter closed. I lean back into him, helpless against the pull of his touch, his warmth.
He trails kisses along my neck, and I feel his breath against my skin, feel the way his hands settle—protective and claiming all at once.
“I’d tell you to stop being so horny,” I murmur, “but I don’t really want you to.”
He hums into my skin, and I melt just a little more. “Let’s just skip dinner,” he mutters. “We can eat at home.”
“And what are you going to eat, sweet boy? Me?” I tease with a light giggle.
“Uh-huh,” he groans, his hand gliding down the front of me, slipping beneath the hem of my dress.
He strokes back up along my thigh before settling between them, the heat of his palm pressing right where I’m already aching for him.
Moist heat pools there so fast. It’s always like this. I’m always needy for him.
My breath quickens as he slips one strap of my dress off my shoulder, then pushes the top down, exposing one breast.
“We’re going to be late,” I whisper, my voice barely a breath, already dizzy from the sensation of his mouth—licking, kissing, sucking—while his thumb circles my nipple.
“Want me to stop?” he rasps, his mouth still warm against my skin. I can tell he has no intention of stopping. And honestly, neither do I.
“No,” I whimper, almost ashamed of how fast the word leaves me.
His hand leaves my breast and dips down again, sliding under my dress to hook his fingers in the waistband of my panties. He eases them down to my ankles, then rises, gliding both hands up my thighs as he bunches my dress up around my waist.
“Fuck,” Ronan growls, his hand splaying over my bare cheek. “That ass is so delicious. Everything about you is. I can’t get enough of you, baby.”
His hand slips back up, cupping my breast again, thumb dragging slow, taunting circles over my nipple. I gasp at the sensation shooting straight down my spine, settling hot and deep between my legs.
His other hand glides lower, between my thighs, to my most sensitive flesh. God.
His fingers part me just enough, and he finds my clit like he’s mapping constellations. He draws perfect, maddening little circles with that familiar, practiced pressure that makes my knees weaken.
I brace a hand against the wall, the other gripping his wrist as I try to press into him, into more, but he keeps it measured, deliberate.
“Ran,” I breathe, my voice breaking around the hunger in me.
“I know, baby,” he says, mouth still at my neck, voice low and raw. “You’re already primed for me.”
It’s true. I’m soaked, drenched, and the slow drag of his fingers over my slick, throbbing skin makes me want to sob with need. He doesn’t push in, doesn’t let me fall apart. He just keeps stroking, circling, teasing.
He’s relentless.
My hips start rocking on instinct, chasing friction, but he moves with me just enough to keep me teetering, never tipping. Pleasure coils tighter and tighter, like a wire pulled taut. My breath is coming in gasps now, thighs trembling, nipples peaked and aching under his touch.
“Please,” I whimper, shameless. I’m so wound up, I’m not sure I could stop even if Tori and Shane suddenly walked in.
“Not yet,” he says, his voice like gravel. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this. Desperate for me.”
His words make me wetter, make me throb. I want him inside me so badly it’s blinding. I ache for it, for him, for the way he fills me and makes me feel whole, like I’m not just carrying his baby but his entire damn universe inside me.
He moves his hand again, just enough to slide one finger into me. I moan, sharp and needy, my hips jerking at the sudden intrusion. He pumps once, then twice, then adds another, curling them to stroke that spot inside me that makes me see stars.
My head falls back onto his shoulder, and he growls into my ear, “You’re doing so good, baby.”
His fingers curl again inside me, slow and deep, and then he pulls back, just enough to make me cry out.
“Ran,” I gasp, hips rolling back into him, frantic. “Please—”
“Not yet,” he murmurs again, lips brushing my ear. “I want to hear it.”
I whimper, shaking with want. “Hear what?”
His hand moves again, that cruel, perfect pressure over my clit resuming—tight, deliberate circles that make my whole body clench with need.
“What do you want, Cat?” he asks, his voice low and wrecked, every word laced with hunger. “You have to tell me.”
I can barely breathe. The words stick in my throat, thick with embarrassment and want and everything else that makes him feel like home and danger all at once.
His fingers pause, just enough to make me whine. I’m so close, so damn close, but he won’t let me reach the peak.
“Use your words, baby,” he says, pressing a kiss behind my ear. “Tell me what you need. I want to hear you say it.”
I swallow hard, too far gone to care about shame. I press back against him, shuddering, desperate.
“I want… I need to come, Ran,” I pant. “Please. I need it. I need you.”
“That’s it, baby,” he growls. Then he’s moving again, his hand between my thighs working me with devastating precision. The other pinches my nipple just enough to send a bolt of lightning through me. “You’re so fucking ready, aren’t you? So wet, so close. Just from my fingers.”
God, why is this so hot? I’m unraveling. I’m fire and need and his.
And when he curls his fingers deep inside me and presses down on my clit in that perfect rhythm, I shatter, moaning his name, my body pulsing and squeezing around him, the orgasm ripping through me so fast and so hard it feels like I’m tearing at the seams.
He holds me through it, his muscular front pressed to my back, whispering praise against my skin as I fall apart in his arms.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice ragged. “I love making you come, baby.”
I glance over my shoulder, my body still slick and sensitive, and catch the hunger in his glossy eyes, the flush high on his cheeks. He’s so turned on, barely holding on.
“You need to be inside me,” I whisper, pushing my hips back, brushing against the solid length of him through his jeans. “Don’t you?”
His answering groan is all primal need.
“Go ahead, sweet boy,” I coo, hinging forward at the hip, hands braced against the wall.
“I took what I needed. Now it’s your turn.
” I watch him over my shoulder as he makes short work of things.
He unbuttons his jeans, then yanks them down just enough to free himself.
He fists his cock at the base, the tip glistening.
God, it makes me want to run my tongue over it.
I know how he tastes, know what it does to him when I pleasure him with my mouth, what it does to me in return.
I wish I hadn’t waited so long to try it, but I plan on spending the rest of my life catching up.