Chapter 11 Ronan
ELEVEN
Ronan
I head to my office to get some work done, my body still humming with adrenaline from what just happened in the bedroom. The feel of her lips sealed around my cock. The image of her flushed and tied up. How wet her pussy was as I punished her.
All of it’s seared into my brain for good.
As it turns out, my beautiful little wife enjoys exploring in bed; she’d never admit it, but I’m excellent at reading reactions from people.
She was getting off in her own way.
I drop into the leather chair behind my desk and prop open my laptop. There’re some emails about business deals I’ve got to read through. Someone knocks at the door only seconds into my scrolling.
“Go ahead and come in.”
Oona enters, her expression tight. She’s wearing her usual cardigan and sensible shoes that are easy on her feet, her gray-blonde hair pulled back in a bun. She stops mere feet inside the doorway, folding her arms across her chest.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Yes.” I lean back in my chair, tapping a pen against the desk. “My wife will require some cleanup.”
Oona bristles. I see it in the way her shoulders stiffen and her mouth presses into a thin line. Her eyes narrow at me.
“What did you do to the poor girl this time?”
“Bedroom fun,” I say flatly.
She scoffs. “Jesus, Ronan. You can’t be treatin’ her like some whore off the street. She’s your wife, not a toy to be played with.”
“Simone determines how she’s treated,” I answer dismissively. “She still hasn’t learned to behave herself.”
Oona simply shakes her head again, disappointment written across her face. “Aye, well. That’s a funny way to go about it.”
Then she turns and walks out without another word.
I scowl to myself in the dim office lighting. The only sound is the ticking of the clock on the wall. Some antique from my late Grandpa Finn.
It felt good to teach Simone a lesson after what she pulled tonight. Going out without permission. Dancing with another man. Letting him touch her. She needed to understand who she belongs to.
And I knew the limit.
I knew how much she could handle. I watched her carefully the entire time—her breathing, her body language, the way she responded to every lash of the belt and my cock down her throat and the tiny plug.
I emptied an entire fucking bottle of lube just to make sure the penetration was as easy as possible for her.
Certainly it was easier than taking my cock back there. That’ll require more time. More preparation.
But she thoroughly enjoyed herself the entire time.
She was dripping wet. Her pupils were dilated, widened by lust. She had a flushed look about her, like she was completely turned on. The sounds she made—the whimpers, the moans, the heavy breaths—weren’t faked.
We have a deep sexual attraction to each other. That much is undeniable. But it’s intensified by our shared hatred.
The anger, the resentment, the constant power struggle—it all feeds into it.
Which only means we’re enemies. Not a loving husband and wife.
Just enemies who fuck, yet happened to be married.
Fine by me. I’ve never wanted nor asked for a real wife.
Dad appears in the doorway without knocking, sweeping into the room in his usual serious mood.
He’s dressed in a wool sweater in the same pattern as our family tartan, his white hair neatly combed, a cigar clenched between his teeth despite his recent cancer remission and explicit orders to avoid all tobacco.
He takes the seat across from my desk, folding one leg over the other at the ankle. He looks at me with his sharp green eyes—the same eyes I inherited—and I know this isn’t a social visit.
“Nice of you to come by, Dad,” I say with a hint of sarcasm. “What can I do for you?”
He grunts before plucking the cigar from his mouth. “Is there any wonder? This alliance between us and the Langstons… it’s still not satisfactory. It’s not panning out how it should.”
“As in?”
“As in,” he goes on stonily, tapping ash into the tray on my desk, “so far, we’re getting the short end of the stick.”
“We’ve got shipments coming. One in December.”
“Three whole bloody weeks from now,” he says, his old Irish lilt emerging as his temper rises. “Meanwhile, we’ve already started providing Malcolm protection from the Albanians. We’re landing ourselves in conflict we didn’t have. We’re doing all the work, and they’re reaping the benefits.”
The warning from earlier today comes to mind. Dren’s enforcer that had turned up to give us a message from him.
“One of Dren’s men came to The Banshee. His enforcer Amar. He made it clear they’re not happy about the alliance.”
“That’s to be expected. Dren thought he’d be able to crush Malcolm in the black market. With our protection? Not so much,” Dad says, blowing smoke. “But the Albanians are nothing to us. They can kiss my flat, wrinkly arse. It’s the principle of the matter. We’re essentially working for free.”
“And the possibility they might have friends in other places. Probably the Italians. Possibly the Bratva.”
Dad nods, leaning back in the chair. “Now you’re thinking like a true Clan Chief. By the way, we’ll be providing Malcolm cover for the upcoming NYPD Widows Charity Gala at Cipriani Wall Street.”
My brows lift in surprise. “Any particular reason why?”
“For starters, he asked. Part of this arrangement. But otherwise, I said yes for obvious reasons—you know who shows up to that sort of event, don’t you? Every politician and bigwig worth his salt. Including the crime families. Best believe the Albanians will have someone there. As will we.”
I assume he means himself. But then he continues.
“I expect you to go. You and Simone, since it’s a high-visibility charity gala.” He taps ash again. “Lochlan used to go. But since… well, he’s not available anymore.”
I exhale slowly. “I’d rather not.”
“It’s not optional, Ronan,” he snaps. “We must continue ingratiating ourselves into these circles. Your marriage to Simone helps do that. Malcolm Langston and the police commissioner golf together. It opens up doors for us that’ve been closed.
Show up and play nice. Keep her under control and acting the part. You’re in charge, not her.”
On that note, he gets up and strides out of the room, leaving a trail of cigar smoke in his wake.
I sit in silence, staring at the doorway and running a hand through my hair.
I’ll have to act in public again with Simone. Pretend we’re a happy couple. Smile for the cameras. Play the part of the dutiful husband.
Something I’m not at all looking forward to, considering how much we can’t stand each other.
Simone refuses to look at me when I finally return to our bedroom.
She’s already in bed, facing the opposite wall, keeping to the far edge of her side as if to put as much space between us as possible.
Her body’s rigid, her breathing shallow and steady, like she’s trying to convince more than just me that she’s asleep.
I don’t bother her, simply stripping down and climbing into my side of the bed.
She’s gone in the morning when I wake up. Already downstairs, avoiding me further.
Perfectly fine with me. I have no use for her except when my sexual needs have to be met.
It becomes the pattern we establish over the next couple days. I spend as much time as possible out of the house, and when I do come home, we avoid each other like we’re invisible. She can’t see me, and I can’t see her.
No words are spoken. No eye contact is made. We damn sure don’t touch each other.
We ignore the ever growing tension by pretending the other doesn’t exist at all.
It’s not ’til the next Saturday that we’re forced to play nice. It’s the night of the NYPD charity fundraiser and there’s no way we’ll make it through the night without pretending to be the happy, in love, married couple the public thinks we are.
We ride in the back of a towncar, soaking up the last few moments where we can be ourselves tonight—we can outright ignore each other.
The silence is tense and uncomfortable, thick enough to choke on. She glares out the window at the passing city lights, her jaw tight and posture rigid.
I fiddle with my phone, scrolling through emails I’m not really reading just to have something to do during the drive.
But there’s one truth I can’t deny.
Simone looks every bit the part tonight. She’s luminous in a draped gown that looks like liquid gold and hangs off her body like a piece of art.
The fabric clings to her curves while the shimmery golden shade highlights how bronze her skin is.
Oona’s pinned her hair to one side in large, loose curls that cascade over her bare shoulder, and her makeup reflects the gold dress with metallic eyeshadow that makes her hazel eyes more amber than usual and glossy lips painted a nude shade.
She looks gorgeous. A damn goddess in the flesh.
It turns me on, though I stubbornly remind myself it doesn’t matter how fucking good she looks. I still can’t stand her. She’s still the spoiled princess who defied me, who danced with another man, who makes every day we’re married a battle of wills.
I break the silence, my tone light and mocking. “You gonna behave yourself tonight?”
She merely folds her arms across her chest and sniffs, still refusing to look at me. The gold fabric shifts with the movement, emphasizing her cleavage and how round and fucking perfect her tits are.
My cock twitches in my pants as the urge to tear that dress off her and take a peak in my mouth strikes me.
I shake my head instead and mutter under my breath, “Always gotta do things the hard way.”
Her jaw tightens, but still she says nothing.
We arrive at Cipriani Wall Street to a spectacle of wealth and power. Black-tie attire everywhere—men in tuxedos, women in extravagant gowns, media correspondents ready to capture any and everything on camera.
Simone begrudgingly takes my arm and allows me to escort her inside. Twinkling classical music fills the air, combined with the hum of polite conversation and clinking of champagne glasses.