Chapter 17
LEILA
The words hang in the air between us, and I feel my breath catch in my throat.
Consummate the marriage.
It sounds so formal. So impersonal. Cold, for three words that make me feel as if my insides are suddenly molten.
But this is impersonal, isn’t it? This isn’t about desire.
This isn’t about the climax of what happened between us in the library that night; this is about making sure that what we’ve done today is, ironically, bulletproof.
I nod. I can’t manage to speak. Ronan swallows down the rest of his whiskey and pours another splash into the glass; oddly, that makes me feel worse. Does he have to be drunk to go through with this? But surely a man like Ronan would need to pound more whiskey than that to even catch a buzz.
"I..." I start, then stop, not sure what to say. My hands instinctively touch the bodice of my wedding dress.
Ronan's expression is unreadable. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do," he says quietly, taking another sip. "But legally, if this marriage is going to hold up under scrutiny, if it's going to protect you the way it needs to..."
He doesn't need to finish. I understand. We’ve talked about this before.
A marriage that exists only on paper won't be enough, especially now that we've made such a public statement, especially after the attack.
De Luca will be looking for any weakness, any reason to question the legitimacy of what we've done.
"I know," I whisper.
“I know this is your first time,” Ronan continues. “Obviously. I’ll try to make it—” He clears his throat. “Good for you.”
The gentleness in his voice almost undoes me.
This morning, I was a single woman who'd never been with anyone, and now I'm married to one of the most dangerous men in Boston, about to give him something I've never given anyone else.
I thought this moment would be something different.
I never needed it to mean something, but I thought it would be more of my choice.
Ronan is offering me one, but it isn’t really one at all, just as the marriage wasn’t. We’ve come this far, and we have to finish it.
"Okay," I whisper, my voice barely audible.
He studies my face for a long moment, and I wonder what he sees there.
Fear, probably. Uncertainty. But also something else, something I don't want to examine too closely. Because despite everything—the circumstances, the danger, the fact that this is supposed to be temporary—I still feel what I felt that night that he kissed me in the library. Desire, mixed up with curiosity, a need that I don’t understand.
I want him, but this is so much more complicated than that, and always has been.
"We can wait," he says, finishing off the whiskey and setting the glass down. "If you need more time—"
"No," I interrupt, surprising myself with the firmness in my voice. "No, I… I want to. I mean, I want to get it over with. For the legal reasons." I fumble the words, my cheeks heating. Something flickers in his eyes—disappointment, maybe?—but he nods.
"Okay."
The room suddenly feels very small. Ronan runs a hand through his dark hair. For the first time since I've known him, he looks uncertain.
“You can’t get out of that dress on your own, can you?” he asks, and a shiver runs down my spine.
I shake my head nervously. “No,” I manage. “I—I do need help.”
For the first time, it registers with me that not all of Ronan’s tux is still on him.
His tie is off, the jacket gone. The shirt is dusty and blood-spattered.
I watch, frozen, as he undoes the cufflinks at his wrists, setting them down next to the whiskey glass as the cuffs hang open at his wrists.
I catch a glimpse of black ink, and my stomach flutters, turning over with a nervous anticipation.
Slowly, as if he’s trying not to spook me, he walks toward me. Behind me, his hand reaches to brush loose pieces of hair from my neck before he reaches for the first button.
That touch of his hand sends goosebumps prickling over my skin. I suck in a breath of air without meaning to, and I feel Ronan go very still behind me for a moment before he flicks open the first button.
And then another, and another, and another. One button at a time, my new husband begins undressing me, until my dress is open to just below my shoulder blades.
And then I feel his knuckle drag, slowly, down the back of my spine, to the top of the bustier I’m wearing beneath the dress.
“You’re beautiful, Leila,” he murmurs softly.
“You think so?” I whisper, hating the crackle in my voice. Ronan chuckles, the sound low and deep in the back of his throat as he flicks open another button.
“Yes, milséan,” he murmurs. “So beautiful I nearly got hard in church, watching you walk toward me, knowing I’d see what was under this dress tonight.”
The admission strikes me like lightning, making my lungs tighten. I feel like I can’t breathe as he opens the back of my dress, the realization that I turn him on making me feel as if this entire night has been turned on its head.
“I thought this was just about necessity for you,” I whisper, and Ronan pauses, the dress open nearly to my waist now.
“It is,” he says quietly, and I feel a flash of disappointment, despite everything we’ve said, everything I know to be true. “But I have eyes, Leila. And I’d be a fool not to want a woman as lovely as you.”
His hand slides beneath the bodice of my dress, against the bustier that lies between him and my skin.
“I’ve wanted to touch you since the first morning I walked in and saw you in my guest bedroom.
I’ve been fighting it every day since. I knew I couldn’t have you.
That there were a dozen reasons it was wrong.
But we’ve been pushed into a situation where I have no choice but to lay claim to you. ”
That hand slides up, over the curve of my breast beneath the strapless silk, his fingers gliding against my ribs. I feel the heat of his touch as if it were against my skin, my body shivering with desire, and I wonder what it will feel like when there are no barriers left.
“I’d be a fool not to let myself enjoy it, milséan,” he murmurs. “I’ll give you pleasure tonight, Leila, and take it from you. I’ll make sure that you think of this night as a good one.”
My knees feel weak. What does that mean?
I know all of the mechanics of sex, of course.
I’ve watched porn. I’ve touched myself. I’ve gossiped with Alicia about the guys she’s slept with.
But I can’t quite imagine what it would feel like for a man to make me feel the things I’m told that sex should feel like.
I can’t quite imagine Ronan doing them. But I feel his hands against the bustier, feel him open my dress down to the base of my spine, and then his hands are on my shoulders, his palms broad and warm as he slides the sleeves down.
The bodice slips down the curves of my breasts, leaving them only encased in stiff satin.
The sleeves slide down, and I feel Ronan’s hands fall away as I slip my arms out of them, the dress suddenly hanging from my hips as I hear a rustle of fabric behind me, and realize that he’s taking his shirt off.
“Don’t move, milséan,” he instructs in that same rasping tone. “Stay just as you are.”
I want to see him. I hadn’t realized how much until he told me not to move, and my fingers curl into the fabric of my skirt, forcing myself to stay still.
I hear the soft sound of his shirt hitting the floor, and then his hands touch my back, the row of hooks and eyes that make up the back of my bustier.
One by one, he undoes them, baring the smooth line of my spine to his eyes. I can feel every touch so much more intensely than I imagined, my heart racing as he plucks them open, my lungs so tight I can barely breathe.
And then the bustier falls open, and I feel Ronan push it all down, letting it and my dress fall away from my skin, down my hips, into a pool of fabric on the floor as I stand there in only my thong, bare in front of a man for the first time.
His fingers touch my waist, and I draw in a sharp breath.
His hands slide around, flattening over my stomach, dragging up over my ribs, and I can’t breathe, I can’t move, can’t do anything but feel.
My body is a riot of sensation as his hands glide further up, over my breasts, his palms brushing over my stiff nipples, and then as his hands close over my breasts, I feel him step closer, pressing against my back as he starts to pluck at my nipples with his fingers.
His chest is hard against my back—so much of him is hard.
I feel hot skin and the soft rasp of hair on his chest, his hips meeting the curve of my ass, and I gasp as I feel the thick length of his cock pressing against me.
He’s still wearing his suit pants, the fabric sliding against my bare skin as I feel him rock gently against me, letting me feel that he was telling the truth—that he’s impossibly hard for me.
“Feel that, Leila?” he murmurs, his voice low and thick. “That’s what you do to me. That’s what you’ve done to me every day since you woke up in my home.”
His breath is warm on the shell of my ear, his words thrumming over my nerves, plucking them like strings, arousing me to the point that I’m breathless and needy already.
I can feel how wet I am, the thin fabric of my thong soaked through, and I wonder what he’ll think of that. If it will turn him on, or…
Ronan turns me slowly toward the bed, his hands still caressing my breasts, before he pulls them away. I let out a soft mewl of protest, and he chuckles low in his throat, one hand against the small of my back as he urges me toward the bed.
“Lie back on the bed, milséan,” he murmurs, and my heart trips in my chest, nerves and anticipation tangling together until I don’t know whether I’m fearful or desirous of what happens next.