Chapter 8
RONAN
When I entered the cabin, Nia stood in the center of my living room, wrapped in nothing but a bath towel, water droplets trailing down her skin. My mind went blank. Blood rushed south to the wrong head with such force I nearly dropped the bags.
“Better?” I asked.
Nia nodded. “Way. Thought you might need help.”
I’d seen beautiful women before, had dated my share of them, but something about Nia in this moment hit different. The raw intimacy of her damn near nakedness blindsided me.
Water from her shower had darkened her locs to a deep mahogany, hanging loose around her shoulders instead of pulling them back from how she’d previously worn them.
Droplets collected along her collarbone before tracing lazy paths downward, disappearing beneath the edge of the white towel. My eyes followed one particular droplet’s journey before I caught myself and deliberately looked away.
“Nah, I got it. Should be enough for a couple of days,” I said unnecessarily, lifting the grocery bags like she couldn’t see them. Smooth, Ronan. Real smooth.
Her lips curved into a smile that held a touch of amusement, like she’d read every inappropriate thought crossing my mind. “Thank you.”
I had to move. Standing there staring wasn’t just awkward; it messed with my self-control. I walked past her to the kitchen, catching a faint whiff of my soap on her skin.
I kept my back to her as I put things away, needing some space to pull myself together. I’d been a soldier, a cop, a police chief. I’d faced armed suspects and tough officials. Discipline was second nature. So why did one woman in a towel have me acting like a teenager?
“I got you some clothes. Nothing fancy. T-shirts, sweatpants. Figured they’d be too big, but something you could lounge in. There’s a pack of new underwear, too. A toothbrush and some, uh, feminine products. Just in case.”
“You bought me feminine products?” Her voice held amusement.
“Yeah, the convenience store had those little travel packs,” I explained.
When she didn’t respond, I turned to look at her. The look on Nia’s face was thoughtful as she studied me.
“That was considerate. I’ve never had a man do that for me. Thank you.”
I nodded once, then turned back to the groceries. “You’re welcome. I need to shower, too, but I can get a pot of coffee started.”
“Coffee sounds amazing.”
Nia watched as I moved around the kitchen, filling the coffeemaker and measuring the grounds. I was hyperaware of her nearby, just a few feet away. The kitchen felt a lot smaller with her in it.
“The clothes are in that bag,” I said, pointing to a plastic sack on the end of the counter.
“Or I could stay in this towel.”
My brows lifted, surprised by her acknowledgment of the tension between us. “Well, if you do, I might have to charge you rent for the view,” I joked.
Get it together, Ro. She’s been through hell. You’ve been through hell. This isn’t the time to be thinking with your dick. I chastised myself.
I realized my mind was full of Nia, how she looked in that towel, how different she seemed outside of protests and holding cells, and how fast she’d gone from adversary to . . . whatever this was.
This wasn’t a physical attraction clouding my judgment. It was the unexpected connection we formed during our confinement.
The coffee machine beeped its completion, pulling me from my thoughts, and I pulled a mug from the cabinet. “I’m gonna grab a quick shower. I won’t be long,” I said after pouring her a cup.
The shower called to me, offering a moment alone to get myself together.
I needed to wash off the grime from the holding cell and clear my head.
One thing was obvious now: Whatever was happening with Nia felt more real than anything I’d felt in a long time.
That scared me almost as much as it excited me.
I headed to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and let it run for a minute before stepping in. The shower spray hit my back, but it didn’t come close to washing away the image of Nia with that towel holding secrets I had no business wanting to uncover.
I adjusted the temperature to be colder, hoping to cool the heat rushing through my body.
It didn’t. My mind circled back to how she’d felt sleeping against me in that holding cell, how her voice sounded when she shared her brother’s story, how her lips had tasted in that moment of darkness when everything else disappeared.
I leaned my forehead against the cool tile, but my body ignored reason. I tried to focus on everyday things. We’d both been through a lot: tear gas, detention, no sleep. Sometimes people connected in crisis, but it didn’t last in real life.
I was the chief of police, and she was an activist who routinely criticized my department.
On paper, we were a bad idea, but in reality, I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this drawn to someone.
Everything about her challenged me: her mind, her beliefs, the way she saw past the badge to the man I tried to hide.
Sometimes I forgot that the man was still here.
Cold water be damned. My body’s reaction was clear. I stopped fighting it and finished my shower. There was no point pretending anymore. Whatever was happening needed to run its course, even if it ended badly.
I dried off quickly and wrapped a towel around my waist. Vulnerability for vulnerability seemed only fair after finding her in just a towel. I brushed my teeth and exited the bathroom.
I didn’t have to go far to find her. Nia stood in my bedroom, her backside facing me as she looked through my dresser drawer. She’d wrapped her locs back up in a loose bun, exposing the elegant curve of her neck.
“Find what you needed?”
She turned. Her eyes took in my bare chest, lingering at the scar on my ribs from an old bullet wound, then trailing down to where my towel hung low on my hips. Her gaze felt like a physical touch, raising goosebumps along my skin.
“Uh, I was looking for socks.”
We stood there, just a few feet apart, both of us breathing a little harder. I took two slow steps toward her, giving her a chance to pull away if I misread the situation.
She didn’t. Instead, she welcomed me as my hands found her waist. The first kiss was careful, so different from our desperate connection in the darkness of the holding cell.
Her hands came to rest on my chest, palms warm against my skin, fingers spread wide as if trying to touch as much of me as possible.
I pulled back slightly, needing to see her eyes to be certain. “Do you feel safe with me?” I asked, my question encompassing everything I needed to know.
Her gaze was steady, unwavering. “Yes.”
I kissed her again, more intensely this time, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her neck. She responded with equal intensity, rising on her toes to press herself against me, her hands exploring the curves of my shoulders, my back, everywhere she could reach.
We moved toward the bed in unspoken consent, never breaking contact. When the backs of her knees hit the mattress, I paused briefly. “Tell me what you need,” I said against her lips, needing her to guide this and give her control.
Nia pulled me down with her onto the bed, her body arching up to meet mine. “You. Just you.”
Her hands moved over my chest, tracing the line of my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder, the ridge of my abdomen.
“You’re a beautiful Black man,” she whispered, her words sending a shiver through me.
No woman had ever called me that before.
Handsome, sure. Strong, yes, but beautiful? The word undid me.
I kissed my way down her neck, savoring the taste of her skin, the soft sounds she made when I found a sensitive spot. Her towel soon joined mine on the floor, and then there was nothing between us—no badges, no causes, no sides of the line—just skin against skin and truth exposed.
Her body responded to my touch with each gasp, each arch of her back.
“Look at me,” I said as I spread her legs wide to play with her clit. I brought my mouth back to hers, sinking my tongue deep inside while pushing my fingers deep into her folds.
Nia groaned against my lips, getting wetter as I played with her. Then I pinched and held, causing her to squirm.
“Fuucck,” Nia whispered against my lips.
I pulled her closer, ready to bury myself deep inside. For a moment, I didn’t move. I wanted to relish the sensation of being inside this woman. Then I pushed purposefully slow, inside her, needing to see her eyes to ensure we were both present at this moment.
Her eyes locked with mine, stealing my breath. Our bodies fell into a groove as natural as breathing. I wanted her to feel every inch of me. My hands roamed up her thighs, to her hips, and over her stomach, to her breasts, where I took my time with each one.
“You’re so beautiful,” I murmured.
I reached a point where slow wasn’t enough. I needed friction, so I moved faster and deeper. I anchored my hands on her hips as I built toward a physical release. Her hands mapped every inch of me, lingering on my shoulders, my chest, the small of my back.
“What are you doing to me?” She murmured as she came apart in my arms, her body contracting around mine.
She pushed me over the edge, too. The physical release was secondary to the emotional walls crumbling between us.
I buried my face against her neck, breathing her in as aftershocks rippled through us both.
Afterward, we lay together, spooning. Neither of us spoke right away, like words might break the spell we’d created in this room, in this bed, between us.
“They did not list this in the protest handbook,” she joked.
The unexpected humor pulled a laugh from deep in my chest. “Definitely not in the police chief manual, either.”
“This is real, isn’t it?”
I caught her hand, lifting it to my lips. “Yes. This is real.”