Chapter 21 Public Reckoning #2
He almost smiles. “Never asked for normal.”
“Good.”
Because apparently neither did I.
He kisses me once more, slower this time, deep enough to feel like a promise.
“Ronan—” My voice cracks when he yanks my hips forward, dragging my ass closer to him.
I know how wrong this is.
We’re carrying evidence powerful enough to get us killed, locked inside a room surrounded by men who might recognize Ronan at any second. We should be watching the door, checking the files, preparing to run.
Instead, danger hums beneath my skin, turning every touch sharper. The risk should stop me. Somehow it only makes the need worse.
I want him too badly to care.
He gets my jeans open fast, rough fingers working the button and zipper before he shoves them down and off.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my panties, the lace already damp, and peels them down my legs.
I lift my hips to help, breath hitching when the fabric catches against my skin.
The second they’re off, he tosses them aside and spreads me open with his thumbs.
Heat flashes through me so hard it almost hurts.
I’m wet, swollen, aching, every nerve in my body lit and waiting.
Then his mouth is on me.
I gasp, fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue drags up the length of me in one slow, deliberate stroke that makes my whole body jerk.
“Fuck—” The word breaks apart into a moan when he circles my clit, teasing me with maddening precision.
My thighs clamp around his head on instinct, but he only presses in harder, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me and likes it.
He does know.
That’s the problem.
That’s the ruin of it.
Two fingers slide inside me, curling in a way that tears a broken cry from my throat. I arch, shaking, my body tightening. He groans against me, the vibration sending a fresh shudder through my whole body, and I nearly come right there.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak, his voice rough enough to scrape. “Take it, Mara. Let me hear you.”
Like I have any chance of staying quiet.
My hips move against his mouth before I can stop them, chasing more, needing more.
Everything inside me feels hot and desperate and too tight for my own skin.
When he adds a third finger, the stretch makes me whine, my body going taut as wire.
I can feel the pressure building fast now, ruthless and unavoidable.
My thighs are shaking. My breath is gone. My pulse is everywhere.
“Ronan, I—”
I don’t finish. I can’t.
He closes his mouth over my clit and I come apart with a sharp cry, as the orgasm hits hard enough to blur the edges of everything.
My body pulses around his fingers, wave after wave tearing through me, and he keeps going, licking, driving me higher, dragging it out until I’m trembling so badly I can barely hold myself up.
When he finally pulls back, I’m a wreck. I know I am. My hair is wild, my lips parted, my whole body limp and burning and oversensitive. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks up at me with that wrecked, hungry expression that makes my pulse kick all over again.
“You taste fucking incredible,” he says, voice rough. “But I’m not done with you yet.”
A helpless sound leaves me when he stands. He shoves his jeans down without ceremony, and the sight of him between my legs makes heat roll through me all over again. I’m still spread open for him. Still wet. Still shaking from the last orgasm.
He grips himself once, slow, and my eyes lock there before I can stop them. My tongue slips out to wet my lips.
“You want this?” he asks, low and dangerous.
I nod.
“Say it.”
“I want it,” I whisper, my voice shakes, but I force the words out anyway. “I want you inside me.”
That’s all it takes.
He presses the head of his cock to me and pushes in, slow and relentless, until he’s fully inside.
The stretch steals the air from my lungs.
I gasp, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging in as my body strains to take him.
He’s everywhere at once—heat, weight, pressure, possession—and for one dizzy second all I can do is feel.
“Fuck,” he growls, forehead dropping to mine.
He pulls back and drives into me again, harder this time. Every thrust knocks a sound out of me I can’t control. My body keeps tightening around him, chasing the friction, chasing that impossible edge again.
He sets a brutal rhythm, hard enough to make me see white at the edges. My moans break into breathless cries. I’m shaking again, already too close, my whole body tightening around him in warning.
He reaches between us, fingers finding my clit, and the touch detonates everything.
I come with a broken scream, body convulsing around him, pleasure ripping through me so violently I can’t do anything but hold on.
The feel of me coming apart seems to take him with me.
He buries himself deep and comes with a rough groan against my neck, his whole body going taut as he spills inside me.
For a long moment neither of us moves.
We stay locked together, breathing hard, hearts beating too fast, full of heat and the wreckage of what we just did.
When he finally pulls back, I’m still trying to remember how to think. My eyelids feel heavy. My lips curve before I can stop them.
Then a voice booms through the roadhouse speakers.
Male. Smooth. Familiar enough to freeze my blood.
Ronan goes still.
So do I.
We pull apart just enough to hear. I grab for my clothes and shove them back on fast, hands clumsy with adrenaline, while Ronan yanks his pants up, fastens them, and turns toward the door.
The mic squeals once.
Then—
“Well now,” the voice says warmly, amusement curling through every syllable. “Looks like the night just got more interesting.”
Ronan’s whole face changes.
I know that voice too.
Silas.
He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t rage. Doesn’t sound threatened at all.
He sounds delighted.
I snatch my bag up from the chair in the same second Ronan grabs the gun from the back of his jeans. He kills the lock and yanks the door open.
The roadhouse beyond is loud, bright, crowded.
And somehow every person in it seems to have gone quiet at the center.
We move through the hallway and out onto the main floor together.
The room opens around us in a ring of turning heads and held breath and neon beer light. Bikers. Locals. Waitresses frozen with trays in hand. Every eye dragging toward the low stage by the jukebox where the club sometimes makes charity announcements or birthday toasts or public lies.
Silas is already there.
Standing at the microphone.
Smiling.
And when he sees us step onto the roadhouse floor, his smile widens like he’s been waiting for the exact right moment to say it.
“My apologies for the interruption,” he says into the mic, voice smooth as polished poison. Then his gaze locks straight on me. “But I think Mara Quinn deserves a proper welcome.”