Chapter 16 #2
“A little,” she admitted. “Do you keep it this cool for the penguins you’re secretly harboring?”
“I can adjust the thermostat.”
“No need,” she said, tucking the throw more securely around her. “I’m fine.”
He studied her for a moment before returning his attention to the screen. Ten minutes later, she felt the cushions shift as he moved closer.
“They’re about to reveal the entire premise is flawed,” he said, nodding toward the screen. “The security system they’re trying to breach can’t actually be bypassed that way.”
She turned to look at him. “Are you secretly a hacker in your spare time?”
“No, but I sit on the board of a cybersecurity firm. The technical consultant for this film clearly took creative liberties.”
“It’s Hollywood,” she said. “Creative liberties are the whole point.”
“It wouldn’t have been difficult to make it accurate,” he insisted. “Here, look—” He leaned closer, gesturing toward the screen as he explained details about authentication protocols that she only half-followed.
What caught her attention instead was the animated way he spoke when discussing a topic he knew well. And his proximity.
Her pulse quickened at his nearness. She could smell his soap, feel the warmth radiating from his body. The casual intimacy of the moment—him in a T-shirt and jeans, explaining movie plot holes while sitting close enough that their knees almost touched.
“You’re not listening,” he said.
“I’m listening. Authentication protocols. Fascinating.”
He gave her a look that said he wasn’t fooled. “My point is the film loses credibility when they get these details wrong.”
“But most people don’t watch thrillers for their technical accuracy. They watch for the story, the tension, the characters.”
“The mistakes distract from those elements.”
“Only if you know they’re wrong. Which most people don’t. It’s like me watching a movie about art forgery—I’d probably miss all kinds of details that would drive an actual art expert crazy.”
He considered this, then nodded slowly. “Fair point.”
She grinned, delighted by this small victory. “Did you admit I was right about a topic? Alert the media.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
As the movie continued, the careful distance between them continued to diminish and by the climactic scene, their shoulders were touching, and she was hyperaware of every point of contact.
The brush of his arm against hers when he reached for his water glass.
The way he leaned closer when making another commentary about the film’s technical flaws.
The steady rhythm of his breathing, which she found oddly soothing.
When he suggested a second movie, she agreed, and during the opening credits, she found herself tucked against his side, his arm draped casually around her shoulders.
This was dangerous territory, she knew. The line between their professional relationship and personal feelings was blurring. But sitting there in his arms, sharing this quiet morning, she found it impossible to care about the consequences.
When the credits rolled on the second film, neither of them moved to reach for the remote. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken tension.
“That was…” he said, his voice quieter than usual.
“Completely implausible?” she suggested, turning to face him.
“I was going to say entertaining,” he said. “Despite the technical flaws.”
The cashmere throw had slipped during the movie, and she pulled it back up.
His gaze lingered on the borrowed T-shirt before meeting her eyes. The air between them shifted, charged with electricity that had nothing to do with fever or gratitude or pretense.
“Devney,” he said, her name coming out rougher than usual.
“Yes?” The word was barely a whisper.
He reached over, his fingers brushing her cheek with surprising gentleness. This touch was different from any before—intentional, loaded with meaning she didn’t dare interpret. “Thank you. For staying. For taking care of me.”
“You already thanked me,” she said, but she didn’t pull away from his touch.
His thumb traced along her jawline, and she felt her breath catch. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?”
“This,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “Whatever this is between us.”
The space between them seemed to shrink without either of them moving. She could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, could feel the warmth radiating from his body despite the fact that his fever had broken hours ago.
“Ronan,” she breathed.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, echoing words from some half-remembered dream. “Tell me this is just me being grateful, or the fever talking, or—”
She silenced him by closing the distance between them, her lips meeting his in a kiss that was soft at first, tentative. Testing. But when he responded, his hand sliding into her hair to cradle the back of her head, the kiss deepened.
This was what had been building between them all morning—all weekend.
When they broke apart, both breathing unsteadily, she searched his face for any sign of regret or uncertainty.
Instead, she found heat.
“Is this just you being grateful?” she asked quietly.
“No,” he said firmly, his voice rough with certainty. “It’s not.”
“And it’s not the fever.”
“Definitely not the fever.” His thumb brushed across her bottom lip, still damp from their kiss. “Though I might be delirious for entirely different reasons.”
She laughed softly, and the sound seemed to undo his restraint completely. His other arm came around her waist, pulling her closer until she was practically in his lap.
“Are you sure?” he asked against her mouth. “Because once we cross this line…”
“I’m sure,” she whispered, and then she was kissing him again, deeper this time, with a hunger that seemed to match the intensity of his response.
His hands found the hem of the Harvard T-shirt, and she lifted her arms as he pulled it over her head. She heard his sharp intake of breath when he realized she wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice reverent as his hands mapped the curves of her body with deliberate slowness. “So beautiful.”
She tugged at his shirt in response, and he helped her remove it, revealing the lean muscle she’d only glimpsed in his fevered moments. Her hands explored the planes of his chest, tracing the defined lines of his torso, feeling his heart racing under her palms.
When he lifted her fully into his lap, she could feel his arousal pressing against her through the thin cotton of their clothes.
The friction made her gasp, and he captured the sound with his mouth, his tongue teasing hers as his hands slipped beneath the waistband of the borrowed pants to grip her bare skin.
“Your bedroom,” she managed between kisses.
“Too far,” he said roughly, his hands sliding down to cup her through the cotton, making her arch against him.
“Ronan,” she protested, even as she moved against him, creating more of that delicious friction.
“Here,” he said, his mouth moving to her neck, finding that spot that made her arch against him. “Right here, where you made me feel human again.”
His words undid her completely. She fumbled with the button of his jeans, and he lifted his hips to help her push them down along with his boxers.
When she rose up on her knees to shimmy out of the borrowed pants, his hands guided her movements, his eyes dark with want as he took in every inch of revealed skin.
The rest of their clothes disappeared with urgency, and then there was nothing between them but skin and desire and the desperate need to be closer.
He took his time exploring her body with reverent touches, his mouth following the path of his hands until she was trembling with need.
His lips traced a path down her throat to her collarbone, then lower, lavishing attention on her breasts until she was gasping his name.
When his hand slipped between her legs, finding her slick and ready, she cried out at the intimate contact.
“Please,” she whispered, her voice breaking on the word.
He positioned her above him, his hands gripping her hips as she braced herself on his shoulders. They both went still for a moment, the magnitude of what they were about to do settling between them.
“Are you sure?” he asked one more time, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.
Instead of answering with words, she kissed him as she slowly lowered herself onto him, taking him inch by deliberate inch. The sensation was overwhelming—he filled her completely, stretching her in the most perfect way, as if they’d been made for each other.
“God,” he groaned against her mouth, his control fraying as she began to move. “You feel incredible.”
She set a slow rhythm at first, savoring the way he felt inside her, the way his hands guided her movements. But as the tension built between them, their pace became more urgent, more desperate.
He pulled her close, changing the angle so that every movement sent sparks through her core. When she was close to the edge, he would slow their rhythm, keeping her balanced on the precipice until she was trembling and pleading.
“Not yet,” he murmured against her ear, his voice dark with control and promise. “I want to feel you fall apart in my arms.”
The combination of his words and the exquisite torture of being held at the brink made her wild with need. When he finally allowed her to chase her release, the climax crashed over her with devastating intensity, her body clenching around him as she cried out his name.
The sight and feel of her coming undone triggered his own. He buried his face in her neck as he emptied himself inside her, his body shuddering with the force of it.
Afterward, they stayed tangled together on the couch, her head on his shoulder, both of them breathing hard.
“Well,” she said eventually, her voice hoarse. “That was worth the sick day.”
“Best recovery plan I’ve ever had,” he agreed, his voice rough with satisfaction.
She lifted her head to look at him, her expression growing serious. “You really did scare me yesterday.”
His expression shifted. “I’m not used to having someone worry about me.”
“Get used to it,” she said, then blushed as she realized how that sounded. “I mean, if you want…if this isn’t just…”
He silenced her with a kiss, soft and sure. “This isn’t just anything,” he said when they broke apart. “This is everything.”
The words hung between them, heavy with implication and promise. Neither of them was ready to examine what “everything” meant, but for now, it was enough.
As the sun set over Manhattan, casting golden light through the floor-to-ceiling windows, they made love again—slower this time, with the luxury of exploration and the knowledge that they had all night.
He worshipped her body with his hands and mouth until she was boneless with pleasure, then loved her with a tenderness that brought tears to her eyes.
And when she finally fell asleep in his bed, her head on his chest and her hand over his heart, the steady rhythm beneath her palm carried her into dreams where the line between pretense and reality had disappeared completely.