Chapter 4
The sound of the front door opening broke the relatively dim quiet of Roan's study, where Clarissa had been working on her upcoming cystic fibrosis resident educational presentation from her laptop.
Resisting any desire to peek out of the closed blinds, she quietly closed her laptop and dove under the desk.
When attempting to hide your relationship with your older half-brother’s best friend from said brother, it was vital not to make rookie mistakes.
Being naked would have definitely been a big problem, so she had waited fifteen minutes to be sure that Roan and Tristan had left before going to find her clothing.
There were only a limited number of places he could have hidden her stuff between his bedroom and the bathroom, which was how she came to be dressed in her camisole and tap pants.
She'd been equally cautious about eating breakfast—washing the dishes, drying them, putting them away, and leaving everything exactly as it had been before. She didn't change the blinds in the study or turn on the lights, because who would have done it if Roan were out with Tristan?
The sounds indicated someone was removing boots and coat. Straining her ears didn't help her determine if it was one person or two. She kept her breathing as quiet as possible, and two or three minutes passed without hearing additional noises.
Muted footsteps approached in the hallway, and Clarissa pretended she was invisible underneath the desk.
“Clarissa?” a voice belonging to Roan and not Tristan asked from the hall. “He's gone.”
She didn't move from the desk, even though she could hear him entering the room. “How sure are you?”
“Pretty sure because I watched him drive away...”
Moving cautiously, she unfolded from under the desk, peeking her eyes over the top. Roan leaned on the open door jamb, his eyes following her emergence with admiration.
Despite having to semi-hide for hours, it warmed her top to bottom. This glorious man found her boring, non-sexy lounging clothes ridiculously sexy, it seemed.
“God.” He crossed the room and kissed her, his deliciously muscular and firm body molding her into him. In these past nine months, she had never tried of the intensity in his amber eyes when they fixed on her. “Where were we?”
His lips plundered hers, and she detected an unfamiliar sweet taste in his mouth. Experimentally, she licked the edge of his lips, making him groan. “Daddy, what have you been drinking?”
“Shooting star mimosas? Like it?” He guided her to straddle him on his desk chair. To position her better, he braced her against the edge of the desk, avoiding her phone and laptop next to his computer.
“I do. Should I be worried you and Tristan had female company while you were on the prowl?” She had no doubts about Roan's faithfulness. However, Tristan had a tendency to invent his own spontaneous fun and rope Roan into it.
“Nope. I'm a rebel. A ronin?” He pushed the camisole straps downward, lowering her neckline a few inches.
She pressed a hand into his chest. “A ronin?”
He lifted her hand, and his next move was to strip off his shirt. Keeping hold of her fingers, he set her hand on the warm sinews of his tattoo. “Yes, a ronin. A masterless samurai. A man alone, no family, no ties, only out for himself. Takes no orders, breaks his own path in the world.”
Since he accompanied the words with a thrust of his hips, she rubbed into his erection and his tattoo. “You can't be mastered and want to master me?”
“Want to more than master you. Want to own you. All mine.” He brought their mouths close together, teasing his breath to hers. “Maybe I should pour one over you and lick it right off this lovely skin that's mine.”
“You should,” she encouraged him. He was allowed to take almost any liberty he wanted, sexually speaking.
Because he was Daddy Roan. Her ronin.
“This'll be a first. Boozed sex,” Roan commented.
“A first? You've already done body shots on me. Several times.” Their June one night stand had involved more than one creative use of alcohol.
“I've never been more buzzed than you,” he pointed out, as he usually prized his control. Which meant he trusted her enough to call him out if he crossed any line.
“How buzzed are you?” She definitely could get used to him using her thoroughly... and a little rough.
Less control wasn't necessarily bad.
“Mostly an F10.929, but not a F10.922.”
She laid her hands on his shoulders, fake-shaking him. “Chief Marin, that is not a direct answer. ICD10 codes are not communication.”
“Intoxication unspecified is 929. Perceptual disturbance skirts 922. I’m only intoxicated. No altered perception,” Roan licked her neck. “Lesson learned. No more drinking with Tank.”
Her phone, as if it heard them, began to vibrate. She twisted around and saw Tristan's phone number. “Why is he calling me? He never calls me.”
Her ronin, not quite as masterless, had the grace to look ashamed. “He found your mitten. I might have implied I was dating your roommate Willow.”
“What?” The phone vibrated again and she opted to answer it in a completely different brighter tone. “Hi there, big stupid brother.”
“Hey there,” Tristan drawled. “What're you doing today?”
“The usual. Spending my day off working on medical lectures. Boring life and all. What do you want?” Clarissa was going to make him work for the information he sought.
“I'm your brother. I can't call just to call?”
“No. I haven't heard from you since Christmas. Are you in jail? I love you, but you should call Dad for that,” she suggested, sweet as sugar.
Dad and Tristan had a fraught relationship since Tristan had turned down the family financial advising business.
It would be a much colder day in Hell than today when Tristan asked their father for help.
“I'm not in jail. If I were, I'd call Roan... who I saw today.”
“Oh, you did? How's he doing?” Clarissa shook her fist at her lover, who was smart enough not to try to strip her clothes off at this second.
“Well, turns out, after I waterboarded him for a while, he mentioned that he's seeing your roommate Willow. I need details. Dates. Times. The usual.”
“Ah, the deep enduring love of Roan and Willow,” Clarissa said dryly, wondering if Tristan believed she was capable of sarcasm. “Truly a love of the ages. Also not my business. Ask him yourself.”
“Wrong, guppy.” Tristan used her despised nickname. “The man doesn't tell me how he's feeling about the weather, and I've been his bestie for two decades.” Their fifteen year age gap had reduced him to popping in and out of her life—usually trying to destroy any chance of her dating.
“Well, I expect your ‘bestie’ would find it unnecessary to tell you Ohio is cold and snowy.” While she was less than excited with what corner Roan had painted them into, Tristan was trying to act like he was a regular feature in her life and deserved her confidence.
“Seriously? Blood is thicker than water. Help me out.”
His blatant attempt to sway her to his side only ticked her off more. She was almost tempted to swear a blue streak at him, except that—from his perspective—would be out of character for her and probably make him push harder.
“Not a chance. I am staying out of this. Simone made us watch Pearl Harbor, and getting between two best friends never works out well.”
The movie comparison wasn't the best, especially since neither woman in this non-triangle had any interest in dating Tristan.
“You watched Pearl Harbor? How could you? If you want a real World War II movie, watch Fury.”
Clarissa had chosen her movie well. Tristan hated awful war/fighting movies.
He'd crashed a date of hers once to the relatively innocuous Edge of Tomorrow and spent twenty minutes complaining that Tom Cruise was way too old to be a major of any army.
Also, he threatened to murder her date if he tried to kiss Clarissa.
“Tell it to Simone, my other roommate. She picks the movies. Rambo First Blood Part 2 was amazing.” Clarissa failed to mention the most amazing part of Rambo First Blood Part 2 was the dirty encounter she’d had in Roan’s SUV after the MetroGen Halloween party when he’d been dressed as Rambo and she’d been a very naughty nun.
“She sounds fun. Why didn’t Roan pick her instead of Willow? What does Willow look like? How old is she? I'd take info on her criminal record.”
“Well, N-CSI, you can’t get into med school with a criminal record.” His single-minded pursuit of information made him avoid logical conclusions.
“Wow, residency did make my little guppy cranky.”
“I spend thirty hours awake in the hospital every four days trying to save lives. Simone does the same. Willow too. So, I barely know my schedule, let alone hers.”
“Come on! I’m on my way to Hopkins to catch a flight to Portland—”
“Have a nice time. Bye.” Clarissa hung up and set her phone to ‘do not disturb.’ She gave Roan a glare and climbed off his lap, wavering between screaming and crying.
This was the last thing she’d expected from him—to weave a web of lies about her roommate!
He watched her warily. “Tell me what you’re thinking, Lissa.”
“I—why? Why did you lie?” Her hands were shaking. “You had us fill out the official MetroGen dating forms, and then you make this up about Willow—who is actually dating an ER resident. If you wanted to lie, couldn’t you have an actual imaginary one-night stand with an imaginary woman?”
“Because the best lies are the ones with a kernel of truth. She’s a real person with attributes and characteristics you can supply me with until I ‘break up’ with her.”
He wasn’t wrong. Many patients—and their parents—exaggerated, disassembled built on a skeleton of truth. Still, it didn’t make it a good thing.
“More lying to cover the lies? You said we’d just keep it on the down low from him. Not say anything because it wasn’t his business.”
“Clarissa, what did you expect to happen if my best friend got wind of me in a relationship? No guy keeps his one-night stand’s pretty pink mitten.” He stood with his arms crossed in front of his bare chest. “Are you mad because I lied to Tank or because I lied at all?”
“Because you tell me we’re real. The ‘us’ is real and honest. Everything. Being who we are, our true selves to each other. And this…”
Roan had her in his arms in a split second, enveloping her as he whispered into her ear. “This is what had to be done to have you.”
Her anger was fading with the strength of his words. “To have me?”
His low chuckle hummed through her body, his words just as dangerous.
“I’m possessive as fuck. Okay. Not proud, but it’s who I am.
As the ronin, the only rule is that you are mine.
That means I’d do whatever it takes—to anyone at any time—to keep you.
Official papers for MetroGen, done. Lying to Tank, done. ”
Her indecision and frustration faded at the haggard expression on his face.
It likely wasn't the healthiest way to express devotion.
Nor was it necessarily a good thing that she found his possessive confession unbelievably sexy.
Had logic dictated her response, she ought to be considering a restraining order.
He was older than her, held more power—physically, professionally, and he had stated outright.
He wasn't joking when he said he would destroy anyone who kept them apart.
A more jaded soul would suggest he was using her strictly for sex. Only, that same logical part reminded her, he’d touched no one else since they’d met, and he’d actively resisted her advances until Valentine’s Day.
Adding the fact he had come to terms with betraying his best friend, it meant this was a lot more than sex. He was committed, and she should excuse a lapse by lying if it kept her brother away.
“I don’t like it, but I do understand,” she decided, relaxing into his embrace.
“Me neither. I’m sorry.” He tucked her head into the crook of his neck, lending his strength into her smaller body. They could push off the future explosion of Tristan finding out the truth for another day.
Again.
Good dirt on top of bad. Passion over logic. Desire over duty.
She snorted. “I had to hide mostly naked in the study, and you created a fake girlfriend from my roommate. Sorry isn’t enough, Daddy.”
He turned her to face him, relaxing as he noted the humor and growing hunger in her words. “I’d better make it up. Tell me what you want, buttercup.”
Clarissa twisted her mouth to the side. Their games and kinks aligned well, though they each had a particular bent.
Roan tended toward subversive situations where he pressured her into giving in—older man with the babysitter, student-teacher dynamics on the seductive side.
While she enjoyed those, her taste ran more physically intimidating when she picked the play.
Spankings, threats, binding—nothing over the top domineering but certainly more aggressive.
He seemed to shy away from suggesting them himself because they required such a high level of trust on her part.
Trust that he wouldn’t hurt her. Trust that he could stop. Trust that he would listen. Trust that she would tell him if it became too much.
“You’ll like this one.” She whispered her request into his ear.