Sunday, April 17th
Cat
I’m already emotionally exhausted. No surprise, I guess, considering the last year, the last months, and particularly this last week and the devastating, soul-shattering evidence that has already come to light.
Rica Soult’s trial officially kicked off last week. It commenced with a full day and a half of jury selection. I’ve never watched a trial before. I thought I’d have to testify when Adam was charged with assaulting me last year, but he took a plea and I never even saw the inside of a courtroom. But I vowed to attend every day of Ronan’s mom’s trial—from the jury selections, through every single day of witness testimony, until the jury comes back with a verdict.
Tori, Vada, Summer, my mom, Penny, and me. Each day we’ve sat there, silent, taking it all in. Ronan hasn’t been there for any of it. Even though he would have been allowed to be there during the witness testimony, he made it clear to his dad and the attorney that he had no intention of being in the courtroom longer than absolutely required. A couple of weeks ago he began picking up shifts at Murphy’s, so he’s been working to keep himself, and probably mostly his mind, occupied as the trial commenced.
It's a good thing, too, because when I first walked into the courtroom last week, I was dismayed to find some of the benches occupied by complete strangers. There were even a couple of cameras set up in the corner and journalists perched in the back two rows. I had no idea why they were there, but I knew the presence of news crews and people who weren’t at all connected to the trial would make Ronan more apprehensive.
I had no trouble spotting Ronan’s mom. She was seated behind a large oak desk, and if I didn’t know what torment she had inflicted on Ronan, I would have felt bad for her. She looked tiny, frail sitting in her chair to the left of her lawyer—a lanky bald man with glasses and a dark-gray suit.
I scanned her profile, hating that she shares so many of Ronan’s beautiful features, and especially his gorgeous green eyes. I’d only ever seen Rica with her hair braided or in a ponytail, but these last days she’s worn her hair down. It makes her look even younger—more like a girl than a grown-ass woman who viciously beat her son. She’s looked beautiful in her light-pink and white outfits, her skin smooth, youthful, rosy, her nose delicate and her lips full like Ronan’s. I’m still unable to reconcile the way she looks on the outside with what I imagine her soul to be like. If the way one treats people would affect someone’s appearance, Rica would be nothing more than a shriveled, wart-ridden, hunch-backed old hag.
It dawned on me that, perhaps, the way she’s dressed for the trial, the way her hair is down, the way she sits in that chair, making herself look younger, smaller, is all part of the defense strategy. Looking at her compared to Ronan—who’s over six feet tall with a beautiful, muscular frame that he had to work so hard to regain after losing so much weight and muscle—a jury might think Rica wouldn’t be capable of inflicting such horrific injuries on her son. It makes me angry just thinking about the possibility of her getting away with what she did to him. But I keep reminding myself that there’s video. This isn’t just a he-said-she-said situation. We have real, tangible evidence of the unprovoked violence Ronan had to endure.
Another person who immediately stood out was a well-dressed woman in her late fifties. She looked regal in a navy-blue pencil skirt and matching jacket, a large black leather purse on her arm and Louboutin pumps on her feet. Her blonde hair was in a perfectly coifed bun. It didn’t take long for us to conclude that she must be Rica’s mother when she made her way to the front row right behind the defense table and patted Rica’s shoulder. Rica turned around, her eyes briefly resting on me, and greeted the woman with a curt nod before facing forward again.
I was relieved to find that Rica’s mother doesn’t share any of Ronan’s features. Her eyes are a steely blue instead of green, and her lips are pencil-thin, lacking the fullness and softness of Ronan’s perfect lips.
The trial started out harmless enough once everyone got settled. It’s a fascinating process. Jury selection, I mean. And it was likewise interesting to hear two of the police officers testify about their arrival at the scene, their descriptions of Rica’s demeanor, her statements to them. I was able to stay surprisingly level-headed. Even when Ronan’s surgeon testified about the horrific injuries Ronan’s mom inflicted last year and the obvious signs of past, untreated injuries, it felt more like I was watching a movie, or maybe a true-crime documentary. It didn’t really feel like they were all talking about Ronan. I just felt so removed from it all.
I’ve gotten to know Ronan’s dad better since Ronan left for Montana, and especially once my mom and Penny reconnected. Yet the things I learned when Frank was called to take the stand were fascinating and devastating at the same time. He gave so much insight into his background, his upbringing, and his relationship with Rica and his sons. And I think if there’s one thing that connects each and every one of us—my friends and Ronan’s dad—it's that overarching sense of guilt, like we should have known, should have done more to prevent the abuse or at least stop it.
Shane’s testimony, too, was manageable. It was heartwarming to hear him talk about his deep friendship with Ronan—I never realized how much the two have been through together—and it’s clear as day how much love they have for each other. They’re like brothers in a way. Things took a turn, however, when Shane began talking about bruises he’d notice on Ronan, black eyes, abrasions, broken bones, and random injuries for which Shane couldn’t find an explanation. And when he recollected the day he finally figured out what was going on, this entire trial suddenly began to feel real.
When Steve took the stand and started talking about that day, that morning—about how he went to pick up his brother, about how he heard Onyx barking in the backyard as he and Zack made their way into the house, about seeing his mother kick the life out of Ronan, I could barely contain my sob. I had tried to imagine it before—the moment Ronan’s life almost ended. I had heard accounts of it from Steve and Zack at the hospital and during the weeks that followed, but my brain wasn’t able to form a picture this shocking until Zack took the stand and I finally saw it with my own eyes.
The prosecutor requested the lights be turned off in the courtroom and the curtains drawn as a large screen was lowered. My body tensed in anticipation of seeing, for the first time, what Steve and Zack saw when they found Ronan, and my stomach was queasy.
The prosecutor clicked on a video, the still of which depicted Steve and Zack in Steve’s car, a smile on their faces. The date and time displayed was August 28 at 11:57 in the morning. After confirming that this was in fact the correct video, the prosecutor hit play. For a minute it was just Steve driving as he chatted with Zack, music playing softly in the background.
It was so surreal to watch the boys laughing, knowing that at that exact moment Ronan was already fighting for his life. In the footage, Steve came to a stop and honked his horn. My heart hammered furiously in my chest. It was like watching a scary movie, the music, the imagery preparing the viewer for a jump-scare.
Steve honked again. “Motherfucking Ran, hurry the fuck up.” He turned his head to look out the window, presumably to see if Ronan was emerging from the house.
“Let’s just go inside and get him. I need to take a piss anyways,” Zack said in the video.
“Why didn’t you just go at your own damn house?”
“I didn’t have to go then, Mommy.” Zack grabbed his camera from the dash, then got out of the car and followed Steve up the short walkway and the five steps to the familiar dark-green front door. As they approached, Onyx’s bark was clearly audible in the video. It made my hands clammy.
I know it wasn’t, but it sure felt as though the video was recorded in slow motion when Steve opened the front door and the boys stepped into the narrow hallway. I strained my ears and immediately heard the thudding sound Steve had described earlier in the day: “Relentless, like someone was kicking something.” I was sick to my stomach.
In the video, Steve turned to Zack, a crease on his brow. “What the hell?”
Steve moved into the living room, Zack just steps behind him. And then I choked on my own breath.
“What the fuck,” Steve shouted in the video just as Zack stepped out from behind Steve, and the camera’s angle brought into view an absolute horror scene.
I wasn’t the only one who gasped the moment Ronan could be seen on the floor by his mother’s feet. Rica, dressed in her light-blue hospital scrubs, was kicking her son so forcefully, so relentlessly that he had no chance of protecting himself. My eyes brimmed with tears, though I refused to blink as I watched the scene: Ronan’s body, already so visibly broken, on the floor, curled up on his right side, his right arm draped over his face and head.
“Mom! Stop!” Steve yelled at his mother.
She paused her rampage to look at Steve, then lifted her shoed right foot and violently stomped on Ronan’s side—his completely unprotected rib cage. The sound of his ribs breaking echoed through the courtroom as though amplified by a megaphone. It was horrific, though not nearly as devastating as the sound of Ronan gasping for air as he writhed in pain, his right hand over his broken ribs.
Steve pushed his mom away from Ronan, then dropped to his knees in front of his brother. “Ran, you’re alright. It’s okay.” He attempted to roll Ronan onto his back, but abandoned his efforts when Ronan cried out in pain.
“Fuck.” Steve was frantic as he looked Ronan over. “God, fuck, there’s so much blood. What the fuck did you do?” Steve screamed at his mother as Ronan struggled to breathe, coughing violently between gasps. “Zack, call 911!”
Zack, who was standing frozen to the spot, set his GoPro down with the scene squarely in view of the camera, then stepped toward Steve and Ronan.
“Call 911 now!” Steve yelled again as he hovered over Ronan, whose coughing didn’t let up in between his desperate attempts to get air into his injured lungs.
“I’m calling!” Zack said, his phone already to his ear.
“Shit, Ran. Just breathe! You’re going to be okay, I promise. What the fuck did she do?” Steve’s voice cracked at his helplessness. “What the fuck, Mom!”
He was obviously freaking out, unable to figure out what to do, how to help his little brother. He made to reach for Ronan but pulled back knowing that any movement would hurt him further. There was a sickening amount of blood. It was all over Ronan’s face, hands, and shirt, the rug, and the hardwood floor. Glass and splintered wood lay scattered on the ground underneath Ronan, his fractured hockey stick just inches away from Steve.
Rica sat on the floor, unemotional, unmoving, watching her sons like a passive observer, an uninvolved spectator of a horrific scene.
Zack could be heard speaking with the 911 operator, providing basic information about what had transpired, Ronan’s name and age, his status. “He can’t breathe; he’s coughing up a lot of blood. Yeah, he’s bleeding a lot. No, he’s on the floor; I don’t think he can get up. It’s bad.” Zack went silent for a second or two. “Steve; he’s eighteen,” he said, then, “Ronan. He’s seventeen. Okay, hang on.” Zack kneeled behind Ronan, facing Steve, then put the phone on speaker.
“Steve?” the operator said.
Steve didn’t take his eyes off his little brother. “I’m here.”
“I am going to ask you some questions. Is your brother breathing?”
“Barely,” Steve said.
Ronan fought for air but was overcome by more coughing, his body tight, almost convulsing with the pain the violent coughs brought on. Blood ran down Ronan’s face as he coughed up more of the crimson substance, already pooling on the floor.
“Is he conscious?”
“Yeah, I mean…”
“Are his eyes open?”
“No.”
“Try to get him to open his eyes and tell me if his pupils are the same size,” the operator said.
“Ran! Ronan! Look at me. Please. Just open your eyes,” Steve said. “Please, Ran!”
Ronan struggled to look at his brother before coughing again. “Uh, yeah, I think his pupils are about the same size, but the white of his left eye is blood-red,” Steve said. “Are they almost here?”
“They’re about four minutes out,” the operator said. I wondered how she managed to sound calm with such a stressful job. “Steve, where’s your mother right now?”
Steve turned his head toward his mother. “She’s just sitting right here. She’s not a threat,” he said with a warning growl obviously meant for his mother before he redirected his attention to Ronan.
“Shit, Ran!” Steve suddenly shouted.
It was then that I noticed Ronan’s sudden stillness. Just a second before he’d still been grabbing his broken ribs, fighting to breathe. Now there was nothing. No movement; no gasping.
“Ran! Ran! Ronan!” Steve placed his hands on Ronan’s chest, then his cheeks, tapping him. “Ran, please. Breathe! They’re almost here, I promise. Please wake up,” Steve choked out. “He’s not breathing!”
The operator jumped into action, asking Steve if he was able to detect a pulse.
I watched Steve move his fingers to Ronan’s neck, then his wrist, and shake his head before finally putting an ear to Ronan’s battered chest. He forced back a desperate sob. “No.”
It hit me then that right there, in that exact scene—on Saturday, August 28th, at two minutes after noon, Ronan was no longer with me. I had been sitting at the beach laughing with my friends, oblivious to the fact that the boy I loved had died.
“Steve, you will need to perform CPR,” the operator said.
Steve’s face was anguished. “I don’t know how.”
“I’ll walk you through it. We don’t have much time,” she said calmly but sternly, then gave Steve step-by-step instructions to roll Ronan onto his back and not to worry about hurting him.
“Place the palm of your hand right in the middle of his sternum, right in the middle of his chest, then put your other hand on top of the first.”
“Okay,” Steve said again after he positioned himself over Ronan’s lifeless body, hovering as he moved his hands to pump Ronan’s heart.
“I’m going to count to thirty, and with each count you’re going to push down hard on your brother’s chest. Don’t be afraid of hurting him; you need to get through the bone to his heart. I promise he won’t feel anything.”
Zack kneeled by Ronan’s side, frozen, as Steve began pumping Ronan’s heart in rhythm with the operator’s count. Steve did chest compressions again and again, each time checking for a heartbeat, each time shaking his head more hopelessly before beginning a new set of compressions followed by two puffs of air through mouth-to-mouth.
Steve was right in his description that it felt like he was pumping Ronan’s heart for an eternity before the EMTs showed up. Though a glance at the continuously ticking timer in the top right corner of the video showed that from the time Steve and Zack pulled up to the house to when the sirens began wailing in the background, a mere eight minutes had passed.
Zack disappeared from view only to return seconds later followed by three armed police officers and two EMTs. One of them approached Steve, urging him off Ronan’s lifeless body. “We got him from here,” the EMT said. “You did great.”
Steve didn’t leave Ronan’s side as the EMTs got to work cutting off Ronan’s blood-soaked shirt and sticking things onto his severely bruised chest. Frank’s voice could be heard in the background as he walked in on the scene, and then we all watched as the EMTs shocked Ronan’s heart once, then twice. And even though I knew the outcome, knew that Ronan was alive, I still held my breath, then sighed in relief when the EMT finally confirmed a pulse. “Got him back,” he said with a nod before he and the second EMT lifted Ronan onto a stretcher and moved him out of the house.
It was dead quiet in the courtroom while the prosecutor asked to have the curtains opened and the lights turned back on. The audience and jury alike were reeling from what they had just watched. We had only heard descriptions from Steve, Frank, the EMTs and officers, and the reality of what had happened was so much more horrifying than words alone could possibly express.
My mom’s knock on my bedroom door snaps me back to the present. “I just got off the phone with Penny.” She takes a seat next to me on my bed. “She said the D.A. is still there; he got there at nine and has been talking with Ronan alone for the last four hours, but she thinks they’re almost done. She thought it might be good if we all went out to dinner tonight. What do you think?”
“I think that’s a good idea.” Tomorrow is the day everyone has been dreading, but no one more than Ronan. He’ll be forced to face his mother, to talk openly to complete strangers about all the abuse and trauma he’s suffered. I’m sure he’s on edge, especially if he’s already had to speak with the attorney for hours. It might be good for Ronan to get out of the house for a little bit.
***
My mom and I leave half an hour later to walk the ten minutes to Ronan’s house. I note his car in the driveway and smile to myself. I’m still so elated to have him home. We’ve seen each other every day since his return. We spend our weekends and evenings together after school and when Ronan is done at Murphy’s, relishing each minute we get to be with each other.
Penny bids us into the house. She’s usually a chipper, positive individual, but even her mood is somber today. She hugs us before we follow her into the living room where Steve is standing, chatting with his dad.
Steve smiles at me. “Hey.”
“Are you leaving?” I ask him.
“Yeah, I’m going to go hang out with Zack for a while,” he says, then looks at his dad. “I’ll see you guys later.”
Frank sighs. “It’s been a day.” He runs his hand over his scruffy jaw. “Darren has really tried to demystify this whole thing for Ran. He warned us again that he’s going to show the surveillance footage I have of every time Rica hurt Ran, no matter how small the incident, and he’s going to ask Ronan to recollect every single one of them.” Frank makes a pained face.
“The defense attorney knows about the surveillance footage, right?” my mom asks.
Frank nods.
“I guess I don’t understand why they’d want to go through with the trial at all,” my mom says. “Seems dangerous to face a jury when there’s such damning evidence, or is it just me?”
“That’s what I thought.” Frank takes a seat in the armchair, running his hand across his face again. “The defense is going to assert that Rica had her own pervasive childhood trauma, which I know to be true.” I listen intently to this conversation. “Her father is a high-ranking military official; really strict, no-nonsense type, and he apparently very much believed in corporal punishment. I don’t really know the details, but from what I’ve learned, the abuse mirrored what Rica did to Ran. Very similar M.O.”
“So really,” my mom says, “she was continuing the cycle of abuse. She parented the way she was parented, is that what they’re going to say?”
“Yes. They’re going to argue that she suffered from mental health issues, that she was physically abused by her father, which caused her to do the same to her own son.”
Penny moves to Frank, caressing the back of his neck. “Darren said he doesn’t think it’ll get Rica completely off the hook, but it may sway a jury a little bit and might affect her sentencing if she’s found guilty. Darren was trying to make a deal with the defense, to spare Ran from having to testify, but the defense attorney thinks he can get a better outcome at trial.”
I sigh deeply. “I’m so anxious for Ran. I wish I could be up there with him tomorrow.”
Frank smiles at me appreciatively and stands. “Thank you for being good to my boy,” he says, and pulls me in for a one-armed hug.
“He’s good to me, too.”
“Well, he said he’s not really up for going out to dinner tonight. Maybe we should just eat in?” Frank asks. “I don’t feel comfortable leaving him alone right now.”
I’m not surprised Frank is hesitant, given Ronan’s history and dark thoughts. He’s only been back a month, and I can understand why Frank is still trying to gauge Ronan’s mental state, especially as Ronan’s testimony approaches.
“Why don’t I stay behind and hang out with him here?” I ask sheepishly, trying hard to maintain a neutral expression. “Maybe just bring us back some dinner?”
I’d love to spend some alone time with Ronan; it’s still a rarity. We’re usually surrounded by one or more of our friends or at each other’s homes where parents are always lurking. Those moments when it’s truly just him and me are a stolen few, though we definitely take advantage of them.
“I mean, that would be great,” Frank says, raising his dark eyebrows at me. “Are you sure?”
“You’re asking me if I’m sure I want to hang out with Ran? Um, let me think about that for a second. Yes, of course I’m sure.”
Frank chuckles. “Of course you are. Why did I think you would choose food over your boyfriend,” he laughs. “Ran’s upstairs. He should be right back down.”
I wait until my mom, Penny, and Frank drive off in Frank’s Tahoe, then make my way up the stairs and to Ronan’s room. It’s empty, though I notice the door to the Jack-and-Jill bathroom Ronan shares with Steve is closed. I can hear the shower running.
I stand for a second, unsure of what to do and if he even knows I’m here.
There’s something tantalizing about the knowledge that he’s under the shower right now, naked. My pulse increases with images of his hands and mouth roaming my body, feeling and tasting me. It would be a shame to let this unsupervised hour go to waste.
A split-second decision later, I pull off my shirt, then undo my bra, dropping both to the floor by Ronan’s bed before kicking off my shoes and unbuttoning my jeans. My heart positively gallops in my chest at what I’m about to do. I’ve never walked in on a boy, never ever put myself out there like that. But I want this; I want Ronan. Right now.
I walk to the bathroom and turn the doorknob. My throat is dry, and I swallow hard as I slowly pull the door open. I’m hyper-aware of my near-complete nakedness, and even though Ronan has seen, tasted, felt all of me, I nonetheless feel exposed and vulnerable.
I almost back out of my seductive little plan, close the door, and put my clothes back on, but then I spot him. My eyes are glued to his perfect body, dripping wet, beads of water running down his neck, his back, his legs. His head is dipped down, eyes closed, the palms of his hands resting against the wall, supporting him.
I stand for a few seconds, admiring him. It’s clear that Ronan has regained every ounce of strength he lost after waking from his coma, not only from the manual labor he performed in Montana but the daily workouts he’s been putting himself through since coming home. Bless that muscle memory of his. Ronan’s lean muscles are beautifully contoured, the ridges deep and well-defined. I watch him reach for his bodywash, the scent of which always mingles so perfectly with his natural masculine scent.
“Can I help you with that?” I ask more confidently than I feel.
His head snaps in my direction. “Cat! What are you…” His eyes instantly darken at my state of undress, and I start to walk toward the shower. He watches my every move intently. “Are you doing what I think you’re doing?” he asks, his voice husky. His breathing is already picking up.
I drop my panties, pull open the glass shower door and step close to him, letting the warm water run over my body. “Surprise,” I breathe.
Ronan looks around as though expecting to see our parents walk in on us any second now.
“They all went to dinner, and Steve’s hanging out with Zack. I told your dad I’d keep an eye on you.”
“Did you tell him you’d be keeping that eye on me in the shower?” he asks with a nervous chuckle.
“Not exactly.” I take the bottle of bodywash from him and squirt some on my hand. “Let me get your back.” I motion for him to turn around.
His eyes move from mine over my wet, naked body before he turns his back to me.
I begin washing him, my hands gliding from his neck over his shoulders and to his upper back, lathering his smooth skin with soap. I marvel at the feel of him, the hardness of his muscles, how defined they are, even on his back—between his shoulder blades, his lats. I feel the temperature rising in my stomach, aware that it has nothing to do with the warm water.
I work my way down to his low back, then lower myself onto my knees. My hands follow my downward movement, gliding slowly over his firm backside, then down his hamstrings to his calves. Ronan doesn’t say a single word, but I can hear his breath deepening with my caress.
“Other side,” I whimper, unable to control my voice. My heart is hammering so hard in my chest, I feel out of breath.
Ronan turns around slowly, and I try to concentrate on working the soapy suds from his shins up to his knees rather than the fact that he’s already rock-hard. I press my lips to the three-inch-long scar on his right knee, then glide my hands carefully up to his muscular thighs and massage them.
A desperate groan escapes him when my hands continue their upward movement, coming unbearably close to his hardness without giving him the satisfaction of touching him there. Instead, I stand, squeeze some more bodywash into the palm of my hand, then begin to massage his chest and stomach, my hands memorizing his hard lines, like riverbeds carved into the earth.
His eyes are lidded, his lips slightly parted with lust when I finally reach for his erection.
“Shit,” he breathes and closes his eyes when I rub him, feeling the wet, silky skin of his manhood with my soapy hand, drawing small circles on his tip with my thumb. I love making him feel this way. I love being adventurous with him, testing my own boundaries, knowing I don’t have to be afraid and that I can trust him completely. I step closer, still stroking him, and his arms immediately come up my back while he kisses me deeply, massaging my tongue and carefully biting my bottom lip until it feels swollen. Our bodies are slick with water, making my nipples hard as they brush against his chest, and I let go of him, unable to focus on what my hands are doing to him.
He scoops me up, his hands firmly under my butt, and backs us against the shower wall, pressing my back against the cold tile. I shriek, but Ronan moves his lips to my nipple, drawing it deep into his mouth. The chill from the tile is replaced with heat and undiluted want spreading through my body. I wrap my legs tightly around his waist and begin grinding against him when his lips travel between my breasts, giving undivided attention to one pebbled nipple, then the other.
He moves his left hand around and under my thigh, then begins to softly stroke the perfect spot between my legs. “You’re so wet,” he breathes before continuing to worship my breasts with his tongue. Judging by the slickness of his fingers gliding against my sensitive flesh, I know he isn’t referring to the water. Ronan slips two fingers inside me, causing my resultant moan to echo through the shower enclosure. He stays right there, stroking, sucking, feeling me, forcing the tension to build within my core until it peaks and I come.
“I love you,” I moan and tighten my legs around him, grinding hard as I clench and unclench around his fingers.
He lets me ride the waves—watching me with hooded eyes—long enough for the most intense part to pass before he lowers me slightly, steps forward, and thrusts deeply into me. But he’s unable to maintain a good grip on my slippery skin, unable to keep his footing solidly on the wet tile floor.
He pulls out of me, and I frown at the sudden loss of our physical connection.
“No, don’t stop,” I plead.
“Fuck, I love how badly you want this. Don’t worry, I’m not done with you yet,” he growls.
With his right arm firmly under my butt, he turns off the shower, pushes the shower door open, then resolutely marches us out of the bathroom and to his bed, not bothering with towels or the fact that we’re both dripping wet.
Ronan lays me back against his pillows while positioning himself between my legs. “God, so fucking perfect,” he groans, sitting back on his knees. He puts a hand on each of my hips and pulls me toward him, slipping into me, thrusting so deeply it takes my breath away.
He immediately stops moving. “Baby am I hurting you?” he breathes, concern in his glossy eyes.
“No, keep going,” I beg, grabbing onto the bedsheet tightly. “You feel amazing.”
He begins to move again, thrusting slowly at first as he watches me intently, breathing hard. My eyes are equally glued to him. The muscles in his chest, shoulders, arms, and abs are tightly wound, flexed so beautifully I can’t resist the urge to grab on to his flesh and run my hands all over them.
I dig my nails into his skin and drag them down his beautiful pecs, leaving angry red trails in their wake. For a moment I think I’m hurting him, but judging by the look on his face, his hooded, glazed-over eyes, his wide pupils and heavy breathing, I can tell the pain mixed with the indescribable pleasure of our bodies melting together actually drives him further toward the edge.
He moves my right leg onto his left shoulder, and I moan with his additional depth. He’s reaching parts of me that cause stars to burst, a blinding pleasure making me feel as though I’m floating on clouds.
He groans, his head dipped, eyes shut tightly. “Fuck, I don’t think I can last.” His breathing is hectic, thrusts fast and shallow, and his face carries an almost pained expression as he tries to recenter himself.
“It’s okay. I already got mine; let me give you yours,” I whimper, a deep love blooming in my chest at the sight of him unraveling with my touch. This is what I want; I want to be his source of pleasure. Never pain. Only ever ecstasy.
As if he was seeking my permission, his body tenses and I gasp when I feel him lose himself to me, feel him come undone as he thrusts hard again and again, his fingers delving into my hips until his body relaxes and he releases a quiet, sated groan. He gently slips out of me, then lowers my hips to the mattress before dropping to his hands at either side of my shoulders.
I study his gorgeous face. His cheeks are flushed, his full lips slightly parted as he steadies his breathing, eyes closed, giving me the perfect view of his long lashes. Why do guys always have the most beautiful eyelashes? I lift my hand and stroke my thumb underneath his left eye and over the scar there, wishing I could erase it and everything that caused it in the first place.
He opens his green eyes and looks at me, his lips tugging into a smile. “I was not expecting you to walk in on me taking a shower,” he says. “But feel free to do that more often.”
“I figured you could use a pick-me-up today.”
He frowns and rolls onto his back next to me. His body heat radiates off him and despite our nakedness, I’m perfectly warm. “You figured right,” Ronan groans.
I follow suit and roll onto my side, hitching a leg over him before resting my head on his chest. “We’ll get through this,” I say softly, my index finger tracing little patterns on his chest. “I love you. Just let me know what you need.”
“I need you,” he says in a low voice. “In every way. I just… Before you, it felt like I didn’t know who I was or where I was going or what the fucking point was to any of this. I still don’t really know, but for the first time ever I want to find out. I don’t expect you to save me. I wouldn’t put that kind of pressure on you, it’s not fair. I’m just happy with you walking beside me while I do this.”
I kiss him then, deeply, letting him know that I will have his back, will shield him, and walk beside him all at once.
We stay in his bed for a long while, talking, kissing, neither of us willing to leave the comfort of the other’s arms.
“You want to know something?” he suddenly asks me, his left hand lazily grazing my left arm, causing goosebumps to erupt on my skin.
“Uh-huh.” I nod against him, my eyes closed, feeling content in his arms.
“I’d never had sex in this bed until you,” he tells me with a low chuckle.
I lift my head and search his eyes. “Really?”
He nods. “Really.” I smile at him, then lower my head back onto his chest and inhale him. He smells so good. “Guess this means my bed was finally christened,” he says cockily, making me giggle.
“So, where would you have sex, then? Shane’s?”
“A lot of the time, yeah.”
“Where else?” I look up at him and notice a mischievous grin on his face.
“All kinds of places.”
I giggle. “Tell me the weirdest place you’ve ever had sex.”
“Uh… I mean, I hooked up once under the bleachers during a football game.”
“Oh, I remember Zack saying that. During the homecoming game, right?”
“Yep. Jesus, if we had gotten caught…” he huffs.
“Who was this with?”
“Candace Bell. She was the cheer captain.”
“Wasn’t she cheering during the game?”
“Yeah, she was,” he laughs. “She just took a quick break, I guess. And skirts are really convenient.”
“Jeez, Ran.” I join in his laughter. The thing about Ronan is that, even though he’s sinfully hot, he doesn’t come across as arrogant or a player. I understand why girls—including me, obviously—are so drawn to him. He’s beautiful inside and out. “Where else?”
“Shit, uh…”
“Have you ever done it… like… at school?” I ask him, feeling naughty.
His grin gives me my answer before the words even make it out of his mouth. “Twice.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Twice?”
“Yeah. Once in the guys’ bathroom and once in the library.”
“Same girl?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I know the answer.
“No,” he says ruefully. “Does this bother you?” he asks, worry in his voice.
“Not really,” I say and shrug. “It’s a part of your story. I care that you always used protection and that you’re with me now.”
“And both of those things are true.”
“So, is there a place you’ve always wanted to have sex but haven’t yet?”
He gives me my favorite sexy half smile. It still makes my head go all mushy. “Well, I had never thought about it before you brought it up, but the hood of my car sounds like a pretty good place, honestly,” he says, his voice low.
“Oh, yeah?” I giggle.
He nods. “Yeah.”
The sound of voices travels up through Ronan’s window, and we sit up abruptly.
“Oh shit, they’re back,” he says at exactly the moment I hear the front door open downstairs. We clamber out of his bed and get dressed.
“Where’s my underwear,” I whisper, looking around his room.
Ronan chuckles. “The bathroom, remember?” He retrieves it. “Are you sure you need to put these back on, though?”
“You’d have a hard time keeping a straight head if you knew I wasn’t wearing underwear the rest of the evening,” I giggle, already stepping into my jeans.
He nods. “One hundred percent, but I’d be willing to give it a really solid try.”
I pull my shirt on, then escape into the bathroom where I fuss with my messy, damp hair. “Oh man, there’s no way they’re not going to notice my hair is wet.”
“So, just tell them you took a shower,” Ronan says, appearing behind me and putting his hands on my hips. He’s still not wearing a shirt. “We don’t have to tell them I was in there with you.” He grins.
“Right, because they won’t put two and two together, especially with you refusing to put a shirt on.”
He chuckles. “Here’s the plan. I’ll put on a shirt, head downstairs, and let them know you’re in the bathroom. You can decide what you want to tell them about why your hair is sexy and wet, and I’ll go with whatever you say. I’ve skirted dangerous situations all my life, I can handle a little shower lie.” He winks at me and walks out of the bathroom.
I mess with my hair a while longer, combing my hands roughly through the damp strands, then simply gather it atop my head and wind it into a messy bun. It satisfactorily hides the fact that my hair is not completely dry.
I make my way downstairs, where Ronan immediately locks eyes with me, a grin tugging so hard on his lips that he has to turn away from his dad, Penny, and my mom so as not to give himself—or us—away. I blush like an idiot, but steadily make my way into the kitchen where Ronan is retrieving a couple of plates. Frank is leaning against the counter and my mom and Penny are sitting at the small table with a bag of takeout between them.
“We brought you back some Italian,” Penny chirps, her voice bright, and my mom smiles at me.
“Thanks for keeping an eye on this one,” Frank says and nods in Ronan’s direction.
“Yeah, thanks for keeping an eye on me, babe,” Ronan says, his voice neutral, but his eyes are anything but as his gaze flits to my lips and immediately darkens with lust.
I give him a tiny shake of my head and press my lips together, warning him, but he only chuckles under his breath. He turns to grab some utensils from the drawer before reaching for the bag of takeout, then beckons me to come and eat with him.