Chapter 12 Simone
TWELVE
Simone
I rush onto the terrace at the NYPD charity event in desperate need of fresh air. The glass doors swing open and a chilly breeze welcomes me outside. My eyes close as I gulp it down like I’ve been drowning.
To say I’m confused would be an understatement. I’m so deeply confused I can barely think straight.
I’d been fine ignoring Ronan all night. Pretending he doesn’t exist even as I was forced to be on his arm, playing the role of his dutiful wife for these politicians and socialites. Smiling when expected. Nodding politely. Standing beside him like some decorative accessory.
When I was chatting with Heath, I was even happier pretending Ronan didn’t exist. Heath was safe.
Familiar.
He made me laugh and reminded me of simpler times when my biggest worry was what restaurant we’d go to for dinner.
But then I glanced over. I saw Ronan with Byrdie Shanahan.
She had her hands on him—trailing one of her taloned fingers down the length of his tie as she smirked and spoke intimately with him.
Everybody in Manhattan knows about her. A party girl through and through, she has a reputation for bedding famous—and infamous—men, collecting them like trophies. Some bachelors. Many others married.
But even worse, I’m well aware of the rumor that she and Ronan Callahan once had a thing.
They were involved less than a year ago. I’m not sure when things ended… or if they ever did.
Seeing her touch him triggered something inside me.
It served as an immediate reminder that my husband has no allegiance to me; he doesn’t love me and won’t hesitate bedding other women (if he hasn’t already).
For all I know, that’s who Ronan has been with these past two weeks. He hasn’t exactly denied sleeping with other women or the idea he’ll take a mistress. The thought makes my stomach churn.
…but why the hell should I care? Why do I?
I hate him. I hate this marriage. There’s nothing about being Mrs. Ronan Callahan that I don’t hate.
Yet the thought of him with another woman still disturbs me. It rocks me to my core as if he is my real husband and I do really have feelings for him.
It’s just another confusing aspect of this fucked up marriage. I still haven’t processed the other night where he bound my wrists with his tie and used his belt on my ass. He used an anal plug to “open me up” back there, then made me deep-throat him.
I protested. Kicked and squirmed and jerked against him. All while my pussy throbbed and became sopping wet.
No man had ever turned me on like that before. It wasn’t even something I thought I’d respond to; I’ve never pictured being tied up by my husband and spanked.
I’ve always been the romantic type. The girl who imagined rose petals and candles. I was never someone who thought I’d get off at being called a whore. Having my husband make me choke on his dick as my ass ached from the plug he’d slicked inside me.
But… ever since I’ve experienced these things—ever since our wedding night—a growing part of me has started to crave him.
Crave the rough way he touches me. The unapologetic way he takes control unlike vanilla guys like Heath. The explosive way he makes me feel.
As if I’m burning alive and can’t get enough.
My hand comes up to my brow as I inhale a deep breath and whisper, “What is wrong with me?”
“Lost on your way to the little girls’ room?”
I whip around.
Ronan’s standing in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the warm light from inside. His hands are in his suit pockets, his expression unreadable. His emerald gaze twinkling even in the night.
I fold my arms and glare at him as he approaches. “I needed some fresh air. Is that against the rules too? Will I be punished again?”
A slow grin spreads across his face. A low chuckle rumbles from his chest as he joins me at the railing, standing close enough that I can smell his cologne mixed with the spice of whiskey.
“No, princess,” he says simply. “You’re allowed fresh air. The question is, why would you need it? You upset about something?”
I scoff, turning away from him to look out over the city. The lights glimmer below us, cars moving at a sluggish pace through the streets.
“You would probably love to hear me beg you for information about the other women you’re with. But I won’t be doing that. If you want to fuck other women—”
“What other women?” Ronan interrupts.
I glance at him, my jaw tight. “You know exactly what other women.”
He laughs, producing the thick and broguish sound that feels like a taunt in and of itself.
“Byrdie?” he asks. “That’s what this is about?”
My frustration boils over. I’ve had enough.
I move to walk off, desperate to get away from him and this conversation that’s making me feel things I don’t want to feel.
But he grabs my arm, holding me back. I’m forced to meet his gaze as he looks me in the eye, and any trace of amusement is suddenly gone from his face.
“No, princess,” he says, voice suddenly huskier. “If the question is whether I’m fucking Byrdie, the answer is no. Hell no, in fact. That’s been done with for a long time now.”
I stare at him, searching his face for any sign he’s lying. But his piercing green eyes only reflect honesty.
He’s serious. He’s telling the truth.
“Your pussy is the only one I’ve been in since I put that ring on your finger,” he goes on, stepping closer ’til our bodies brush.
’Til his husky voice sends a vibration down my spine and his gaze drops to my lips as if he’s about to kiss me.
“And you know what? It’s probably going to stay that way.
You could even say I’m a little obsessed. ”
Heat flames my cheeks. Arousal burns inside me, immediate and undeniable. My breath catches, yet I find I can’t look away. His grip on my arm tightens, his thumb brushing against my skin in a way that feels both possessive and intimate.
There’s some kind of chemical component in the air that’s circling us. It’s intense and visceral and blazes hot like fire. His deep green eyes bore into mine, our faces inches apart, our hearts practically beating in sync, and it’s as if only for a moment, the rest of the world disappears.
It’s just him and me and this unbearable tension that’s been building since the day we met. Tension that’s not going away anytime soon.
That’s begging for release like on our wedding night. The other night where he punished me.
It’s only going to grow ’til we both recognize the truth we’ve tried our damnedest to avoid. We’re both drawn to—
Suddenly, applause erupts from inside the banquet room. The moment between us flips, and we’re sent back to reality by the thunderous applause.
Ronan releases my arm and takes a step back. “We should head back inside.”
I nod, not trusting myself to do anything else.
We walk through the glass doors together, side by side, but the heat between us lingers like a brand on my skin.
Right where Ronan was touching me seconds before.
I lay awake in bed as early morning sunlight slips through the curtains. My mind is too restless, so full of contradictions it’s enough to drive me crazy.
Ronan’s asleep next to me, his breathing deep and steady. I turn my head on the pillow to study him, something I’d never do if he were awake.
Even in sleep, he comes across as an alpha male. A true predator.
His face is made up of hard angles—wide, chiseled jawline shadowed with stubble, aquiline nose, those heavy auburn brows that furrow even in rest like he’s dreaming of battle. His lips are slightly parted, reminding me of how warm and pleasant they feel on my skin.
The sheets have slipped down to his waist, exposing his bare chest. He sleeps shirtless, every ridge and plane of muscle in full view.
His shoulders are broad, his chest solid, his abs defined in a way that suggests hours of physical labor—or violence.
There’s a scar on his ribs, pale and jagged, that looks like an old stab wound.
Another on his shoulder. This one puckered like a gunshot wound. Evidence of a life I don’t fully understand yet.
He has more than a dozen tattoos. I count them up, admiring the ink in a way I never have either time we’ve had sex.
He has the Callahan family crest on his left pec.
A fierce-looking lion on his bicep. Other marks that come up to his neck that I don’t know the meaning of but seem to delineate something.
Normally, I hate tattoos. I’ve always said I’d never get one myself—why ruin a Lamborghini by slapping a bumper sticker on it?
That was what Dad always said about them.
I guess… I formed my opinion based on his. It’s why I’ve always preferred clean-cut types like Heath.
The kind of guy that’s clean shaven and well put-together enough for a Tom Ford ad.
But Ronan couldn’t be more different. He’s rough and craggy, with hair he runs his hand through a hundred times a day and a lopsided grin that shouldn’t be as sexy as it is.
I hate how attracted I am to him.
Hate that my body responds to him even when my mind screams that he’s the enemy. That he’s controlling and possessive and everything I never wanted in a husband.
My body doesn’t seem to give a damn about any of that. She and my pussy want what they want…
An hour later, we both get out of bed and start our day. The silence between us is heavy but not as hostile as before. Almost… aware.
I notice he watches me the same way I watch him—furtively, when he thinks I’m not looking. His gaze follows me as I move around the room, selecting clothes from the closet, unwrapping my hair at the vanity.
It’s not all I notice; there’s the tent in his pajama bottoms. I only catch a glimpse before he shifts to adjust himself then disappears into the bathroom.
When he emerges minutes later, his hair is damp from his shower and he has a towel wrapped around his waist.
“Killian’s handling your security today. He’ll be taking you shopping.”
I glance up from where I’m seated at the vanity table. “Shopping?”
“You need to buy a new outfit for a family event. The holidays are coming up.”