2. Roll For Surrender
Chapter two
Roll For Surrender
Cameron
When I leave the kitchen, both Griffin and Micah know where I’m going—straight to Ronan’s bedroom.
I knock, which I don’t do on many of the doors in this house anymore.
“Yeah?” Ronan answers.
“It’s me,” I respond quietly.
“Cami?” he asks, his voice rough as he swings the door open. “Are you o—”
I don’t let him finish—my arms are around his neck, and my mouth is on his before he can complete the word or even shut the door behind me.
Before I can even register the movement, his hands close around my wrists. He pulls them from around his neck and locks them behind my back as he breaks the kiss.
“Cameron.”
It’s a warning.
My eyes burn, emotion crowding my throat so fast I can barely get the words through it.
“Please, Ronan.”
The first tear spills over before I can blink it back.
He studies my face. His eyes dart back and forth between mine and then drop to the tear on my cheek.
He shifts both wrists securely into one hand before he reaches up to cup my face, brushing the tear away with his thumb.
“Please,” I repeat in a rasp as more tears fall.
His face changes. Barely. But I know him well enough now to see it. The hard line of his mouth softens, his grip on my wrists loosening for half a heartbeat before tightening again.
Then he nods once and backs me into the door.
I feel it give and click shut behind me, my arms still pinned behind my back in the strong grip of his hand.
Tears on both my cheeks are wiped away with his thumb and the back of his knuckles.
His voice is calm when he speaks. “I want to make sure you really want this, Cami. This isn’t just a reaction to what happened tonight or something you think I want?”
More tears fall, and I sniffle.
“Ronan, I have wanted you for months.” My voice breaks, but I don’t look away. “I’m done waiting.”
The pad of his thumb grazes over my bottom lip and his eyes drift to watch the motion. The grip on my wrists tightens as he presses his body to mine.
I gasp when the hard length of him presses into my lower belly, heat shooting straight through me and settling somewhere much lower.
He secures my jaw with a strong hand, and his lips are on mine.
The kiss is not tentative or careful—it’s wild and desperate and so fucking hungry. He chases my tongue and then lets me chase his. I can barely breathe between the pressure on my chest and how hard his mouth is pressed to mine.
Whatever hesitation existed between us dies the second his mouth meets mine.
Kissing him feels like it lasts forever and not long enough when he breaks it and meets my eyes again.
“Stoplight system?” he asks quietly.
“Yes, and very green,” I answer with a smile.
His lips are on mine again, and then he’s trailing kisses down my jaw and neck. I gasp as he finds the sweet spot near my pulse point, and I feel the goosebumps materialize on my skin. I rise up on my toes, trying to chase his mouth as he pulls away.
Those eyes find mine again.
“Sweetheart, I didn’t want our first time to happen before we had a conversation.” His voice has a rasp to it I’ve never heard before. “But I don’t want to stop long enough to have it right now. I need you to keep your hands to yourself. Can you do that?”
I’m sure a flicker of curiosity crosses my face, but my voice is steady and sure when I reply, “Yeah, I can do that.”
He lets my wrists go, and a flat palm at the small of my back holds me against him while he kisses me again and turns me so my back is to his bed.
Every instinct tells me to reach for him—to slide my hands over him, pull him closer, finally feel everything I’ve only imagined.
But he asked me not to.
And I trust him enough not to know there is a reason and not to need it yet.
So I leave my hands loose at my sides.
“Stay,” he commands playfully as he steps away from me.
I miss the heat of him instantly as he crosses to his dresser. He opens the top drawer and pulls out two neckties, wrapping them around his hand as he walks back over to me.
He tosses the ties on the bed and then holds my eyes while he reaches for the hem of my shirt.
It reminds me of the basement—the same almost reverent patience as he undresses me. His fingers slip beneath fabric, dragging it away piece by piece.
He watches every inch of skin he uncovers like he’s committing it to memory.
By the time I’m completely naked, being looked at by him somehow feels almost as intimate as being touched.
He wraps me in his arms again. One hand on my ass and one on my waist as he kisses me again.
Instinctively, I raise a hand, but the second my fingers brush his arm, he pulls back.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“It’s okay, Cami.” There’s no frustration in his voice, only reassurance. “Get on the bed, arms above your head.”
“Yes, Sir,” I tease, because apparently some part of my personality is still operational.
His mouth finally curves, and it settles me.
I do sit on the bed and then slide up before I rest my hands above my head. Ronan looks at me, his gaze lingering as it trails from the hands above my head all the way to my feet.
He leans over and grabs the neckties.
“I need you to remember you can stop this anytime,” he reminds me as he starts to wrap one of the neckties around my wrists.
He’s quick and practiced as he knots them together. It’s not too tight, but tight enough I can’t slip out of them.
“I remember,” I assure him.
Then he grabs the other tie and wraps it around the first one and secures it to the opening at the top of his headboard.
I should feel ridiculous lying here naked with my hands secured over my head while he’s almost completely dressed.
Instead, the way he looks at me makes my skin burn.
The way he looks at me turns the vulnerability into something else—like every inch of me deserves his full attention.
I watch him as he undoes the top few buttons on his shirt and then pulls it over his head, draping it on the back of his desk chair.
My eyes take him in.
I’ve never seen this man in less than three-quarter sleeves, much less shirtless, and apparently that has been a fucking crime against me and everyone else living in this house.
The chest hair doesn’t surprise me. Neither does the softer strength of him—broad without being carved into ridiculous proportions, solid in a way that is so completely Ronan it almost makes me laugh.
Instead, I bite my bottom lip.
His quiet, uncomfortable laugh tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
It’s almost ceremonial—the way he steps out of his khakis, drapes them over the chair with his shirt, then removes his socks.
Of fucking course Ronan still handles his clothes properly while I’m naked and tied to his bed.
The boxer briefs stay on as he climbs on the bed with me.
More lightning ignites my body as his hand grazes from my hip, up my side, his thumb brushing the side of my breast before he cups my neck and kisses me deeply again.
“Still green?” he asks quietly as he pulls back and meets my eyes.
“Very,” I reply quickly.
He smiles before he kisses down my neck. When he reaches my very hardened nipples, he looks up at me and checks with his eyes before he takes one in his mouth.
And fuck.
He doesn’t just play with the nipple—he latches on to my breast in a sensation I don’t think I’ve ever felt before. Tingles go down my spine as he rhythmically sucks the whole peak of my breast in his mouth.
I writhe under him.
My pelvis rises as my needy cunt chases friction.
He pins my hips to the bed with one hand, and I whimper.
There’s a dark chuckle that escapes him as he releases one breast and moves to the other. He does the same thing there, and I don’t think anyone playing with my nipples or breasts has ever felt like this.
Maybe I just want him that much.
Pressure gathers low and fast, building with every pull of his mouth. I can’t move my hips, but I can flex, so I chase it.
“Ronan, fuck, don’t stop,” I manage to rasp seconds before my body convulses under him.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasps against my skin, and then his mouth travels further down my body.
He savors the skin between my breasts and my pussy like he has all day to spend there.
I can feel myself getting wetter and wetter. I can feel arousal dripping down my ass and pooling on the bed under me.
I want to run my hands through his hair.
I want to beg him to just fuck me already.
But I know Ronan. More importantly, I know what I gave him when I agreed to this.
Control.
I don’t get to hand it over and then snatch it back just because I’m impatient.
So I leave the ties alone and let him take his time, even while every nerve in my body is screaming for more.
As his mouth trails closer, his hand runs up the inside of my thigh.
I gasp in both relief and shock as his fingers trail through the seam of my folds.
“So fucking wet, sweetheart,” Ronan groans. “Does this sweet little pussy need attention?”
He asks the question as he toys with the lips.
My only answer is a gasp and then a whimper.
I half expect Ronan to tell me to use my words, but he doesn’t.
He grips the underside of my knees and pulls up, spreading me open—and then he licks the full length of me.
“Fuck, you taste good,” he rasps.
One of his arms wraps around my thigh, and his fingers part me, while the fingers on the other hand enter me and begin to curl. He feels me for a few breaths, different angles. When he finds a spot that makes my hip rise, his fingers brush it over and over again.
Then, his mouth is on my clit. He sucks it into his mouth. The rhythm of his mouth matches the movement of his fingers inside me. Suddenly the hand holding me open moves and is pushing down on my lower belly, and it is only a breath after that when I don’t just come, I fucking detonate.
The orgasm crashes through my body. My thighs try to squeeze closed, and I pull on the restraints.
And, fuck, I knew Ronan would be good at this. Of course he would be. The man probably researched female anatomy and orgasms with the same intensity he uses to build a campaign.
Knowing that and being on the receiving end of it are apparently two very different things.