Chapter 15
Ronan
By the time I pull up outside Francesca’s flat, my pulse is already a slow, deliberate thud in my ears. The city’s quiet for a Friday night, but inside, I am anything but calm.
I don’t know why I’m this keyed up. Maybe because I spent the rest of the gala pretending Amelia’s chatter was remotely interesting while counting down the minutes until I could get here.
Or maybe because the last time I touched Francesca, it was in a locked bathroom with both of us one breath from tearing each other apart.
I kill the engine and sit there for a beat, running through the same useless questions: What are we doing? Is this just sex? Do I even care if it’s more?
The truth is, I want to see her and that won’t happen sitting in the car.
I knock twice and hear a muffled sound from inside, then the click of the lock, which sends my heartbeat out of control.
It very nearly arrests when she opens the door wearing a barely there negligee in midnight blue.
My eyes roam over her body and fuck me if she doesn’t wear that a little too well.
My body immediately reacts over those perfect curves and bare skin. It’s a Herculean effort to drag my eyes back to hers.
“Barnes.” Her voice is cool, but her eyes—fuck, they give her away.
“Accardi.” I lean one shoulder against the doorframe, trying for casual. “You going to let me in, or are we doing this for everyone to see?”
She huffs out a laugh and steps aside. “Wouldn’t want to give the neighbors a show.”
The door shuts behind me, and for a moment we stand in the low light of her flat, the air between us charged. “Thought you said you’d be naked.”
“Figured I’d give you a little challenge to work through,” she says, giving a sashay of her hips. It’s sexy and adorable at the same time. In all my life, I’ve never been charmed by a woman and yet, it’s one of the things that attracts me to her the most.
I reach for her, catching the hem that sits at mid-thigh and tugging her closer. That quick hitch of her breath is all the invitation I need. She looks up, lips curving like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me in that slip of a nightie.
I don’t bother with small talk. I brush her bare leg and yank her into me. The move earns a quiet gasp, but her eyes—golden and lit with recklessness—don’t waver. For a beat, I take in the defiance of her chin tilt and the faint flush at her throat.
She’s fucking stunning.
I lean down, brushing my lips over hers. It’s barely contact, just enough to taste her. The permission I didn’t ask for but need all the same.
She makes the choice for us both, looping a hand behind my neck and pulling me in. Her mouth opens and I take advantage, sliding my hands to her waist, anchoring in place so she’ll never dare leave.
She makes a low sound into my mouth—half sigh, half challenge—and that’s when I let one palm drift lower, cupping the curve of her arse to press her flush against me. My cock thickens and she tempts it further by rotating her pelvis.
Christ, she feels good. Too good. It’s dangerous, how easily she gets under my skin.
I break the kiss before it swallows us whole, my forehead resting on hers, and she utters a protest. She continues to rub against me, keening softly.
I grip her hips to still her. “If you don’t stop that, I’m going to lose whatever control I’ve got left, Accardi.”
Her fingers trail lazily along the back of my neck. “Maybe I like the idea of you losing control.”
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head. “You’re trouble.”
Her grin widens. “Takes one to know one.”
We trade another slow kiss, then she pulls back just enough to tease, “Are you here to stand around and talk, Barnes, or are we doing this?”
“Doing this,” I murmur and lift the silky lingerie right up and off her body.
She stands before me in nothing but a scrap of lace that’s more suggestion than underwear. Her breasts rounded, belly flat, and I know the heaven that’s beyond that scrap of material covering her pussy.
I lift her easily, her legs wrapping around my waist, but I don’t take her mouth again. Not yet. I bury my face at her collarbone, tasting skin, dragging my teeth lightly until she shivers.
I make the same trek I made last night, straight to her bedroom.
City light filters through the blinds, casting shadows over her body as I lie her on the bed.
I take a moment to remove my clothes and then I cover her, mouth back on hers and my fingers skimming the lace between her thighs.
The heat I find there punches a groan from me, and I slide my fingers under, testing her slickness.
Her hips shift against my hand, and she catches my mouth again, kissing me like she’s starved for it. I flick my thumb over her clit and the ragged moan that rumbles out of her shreds what little restraint I had left.
I strip the lace down her legs and settle between them, because there’s no way in hell I’m skipping this. The first taste of her is pure addiction and so goddamn perfect, I have to brace a hand against the mattress to keep from grinding against it.
She’s responsive to every flick of my tongue, every shift in pressure, until she’s tugging at my hair, breathless. “Ronan—please—”
I move up her body, catch her mouth, and while she’s distracted with the kiss, I reach for my wallet on the nightstand where I dropped it, tearing open the condom I stashed. With hooded eyes, she watches me roll it on, one brow lifting.
“I like that you’re always prepared,” she teases.
“Always,” I mutter. “Though nothing could’ve prepared me for you.”
Her answering smile is slow and wicked. “Show me, then.”
She scoots back and parts her legs, and then I’m sinking into her in one deep thrust that has both of us groaning.
The fit is perfect—tight, hot, like she was made for me—and for a moment I can’t move, can only take in the sensation of being buried inside her.
But we’re two people who live on adrenaline, so we quickly find a rhythm. We move faster, harder, chasing the inevitable. She comes first, clinging to me, crying out my name, and I follow seconds later, the release tearing through me so hard I see white.
After, I stay where I am, both of us breathing like we’ve just taken the checkered flag. My hand finds the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair, and I press my mouth to her temple before rolling to my back. She comes to rest like a comforting blanket across my torso.
I don’t have words, but I have a message for her. It’s found in the way I hold her, in the way I’m already thinking about the next time.
Francesca shifts to rest her chin on my chest. She drags her nails along my ribs, slow, lazy, enough to keep my pulse in overdrive.
“So…,” she says, her voice heavy and sated, “are you ever going to tell me what it was like for you growing up? Before all this—before the paddock, the podiums, the attitude?”
I let out a low huff of amusement that isn’t really amusement at all. “You already know enough.”
“That’s not an answer.” She lifts her head to peer at me through the dim light. “I really want to know more about you.”
I’m tempted to give her the standard Ronan Barnes deflection—to be glib about how boring I was off the track—but she’s watching me like she’ll know if I lie.
And part of me is in awe that she wants to dig deep with me. Women don’t usually look past the fame and money.
“Busy,” I say finally, and she settles back onto me.
My hand absently glides along her spine.
“That’s what it was like. School during the week, karting every spare second.
My dad handled the schedule. My mum… she showed up when she could.
Which usually meant when she was sober enough not to cause a scene. ”
Her breathing shifts. “She… made scenes?”
I give a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Awards dinners, qualifying days, school events. You name it. Always a surprise what version of her I’d get.
Eventually, I told her to stop coming to races altogether because it was easier for us both.
For everyone. I didn’t have to worry about being embarrassed and she could stay at the house and drink without anyone judging her. ”
Francesca offers a sympathetic hum and at once, I regret letting her in that deep.
Pity isn’t an emotional response I’ve ever been able to take.
I shift, propping myself up on an elbow.
“It wasn’t all bad. I learned to stay in my lane—literally.
Driving was the only place I could control the variables. ”
“That sounds… lonely,” she says softly as she looks up at me.
I don’t answer right away. Lonely is not a word I like, even if it’s accurate. “It made me good at being alone. There’s a difference.”
She studies me for a moment longer before a small, almost wistful smile tugs at her mouth.
“That’s so different from me, it’s hard to understand.
My family’s… well, they’re loud, opinionated and competitive as hell.
But they’ve always been there. Every race they could make it to, every phone call, every decision. I’ve always felt very loved.”
It’s a life I can’t even picture, one where unconditional support isn’t something you have to earn. “They sound amazing,” I say, a bit jealous that I will never have that.
“They’re not perfect,” she admits with a laugh, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead. “But they’re mine. And I know how lucky I am.”
“Yeah.” My thumb finds the curve of her cheekbone. “I can tell you do.”
She leans into the touch, and for a second, I forget the rest of the world exists. But then I remember a name I’ve been trying to shove aside since earlier tonight. “Speaking of people in your corner… you and Carlos.”
Her head comes up, golden eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “Still on that, huh?”
“Not on it,” I say, even though the twist in my gut betrays me. “Just… clarifying.”
Her smile blooms, slow and smug. “Carlos is one of my best friends. That’s it. No secret romance, no unresolved tension. You can stop scowling every time he’s within two meters of me.”
I let my gaze drift over her face, and I can tell she means it. More importantly, I trust her. “All right,” I murmur. “You’re convincing.”
“Convincing?” She swats at me, laughing. “I told you the truth.”
I bite back a smile because the faint pink in her cheeks is fucking adorable. I don’t say that. Instead, I let my fingers trail down the line of her arm, slow enough to feel the goose bumps rise.
She quiets after a moment, eyes searching mine. “I saw you talking to Posey tonight.”
I roll onto my back again, exhaling through my nose. She stays propped on her elbow. “Yes… told her I regretted the way I handled things. She didn’t throw a drink at me, so I’m counting it as progress.”
Francesca’s expression softens, the teasing gone. “That’s not just progress. That’s… you trying.”
The words settle deep within me, and I’m not sure if I feel pride or discomfort. It’s definitely strange. “Don’t make a thing out of it.”
“It is a thing,” she says simply and then rests her head against my shoulder like she’s staking a claim.
I curl my arm around her, the quiet stretching between us in a way that’s grounded.
I could get used to this if I’m not careful.