Chapter Five — What Happens Behind Closed Doors
ELLIOT
The first thing Elliot did when they got home was lock the door.
The second was watch Ronan notice. The deadbolt slid into place with a heavy metallic click that seemed louder inside the quiet carriage house than it should have.
Behind Elliot, Ronan dropped both motorcycle helmets onto the narrow bench beside the entrance and shrugged out of his leather jacket.
The ride home had left his dark hair windblown and flattened in strange places, and the cold had reddened the tips of his ears.
Elliot remained beside the door. Ronan looked at the deadbolt. Then at him.
“No.”
Elliot blinked.
“I haven't said anything.”
“You locked the door like it personally offended you.”
“That's generally what locks are for.”
“Not the way you did it.”
Elliot smiled. Ronan hung his jacket on one of the hooks beside the door.
“I'm serious.”
“So am I.”
“About what?”
“Locking the door.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Ronan walked toward the kitchen. Elliot followed.
The carriage house felt especially warm after the motorcycle ride.
The heating system hummed somewhere beneath the floorboards.
A lamp they'd forgotten to turn off before leaving cast a low amber glow over the living room, illuminating the rumpled throw blanket on the couch and the books Elliot had left stacked on the coffee table that morning.
Everything looked exactly as they'd left it.
Elliot liked that. He liked the quiet more.
No music loud enough to vibrate through his ribs.
No strangers leaning across him to reach alcohol.
No Dylan Price touching Ronan every time he found an excuse.
Just them. Ronan opened the refrigerator.
“You hungry?”
“No.”
“Want anything?”
“No.”
Ronan looked over the refrigerator door.
“You're hovering.”
“I'm standing.”
“Two feet behind me.”
“Small kitchen.”
“It isn't.”
Elliot leaned against the island. Ronan pulled out a bottle of water. Elliot watched his throat move when he drank. Ronan lowered the bottle.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You've said nothing approximately twelve times tonight.”
“Have you been counting?”
“I've had nothing better to do.”
“You could have talked to Dylan.”
There. Ronan closed his eyes.
“Are we seriously still doing this?”
“I asked a question.”
“No, you made a statement with a question-shaped attitude.”
Elliot laughed.
“That's not a thing.”
“It is with you.”
Ronan screwed the cap onto the bottle. Elliot's gaze moved to his hands.
There was something about Ronan's hands that had always irritated him.
Not because Elliot disliked them. Quite the opposite.
Long fingers. Rougher palms than anyone would expect from an architecture student because Ronan insisted on building physical models himself instead of sending them to the fabrication lab.
Black ink from one of his tattoos disappeared beneath his sleeve.
A thin scar crossed the knuckle of his right index finger from some stupid accident with a utility knife.
Dylan had touched that hand once. Elliot remembered.
Months ago. Before Elliot had any right to care. He cared anyway.
“Did you ever bring anyone else here?”
Ronan stared at him.
“What?”
“Besides Dylan.”
“No.”
The answer came quickly. Elliot's shoulders relaxed before he could prevent it. Ronan noticed.
“Unbelievable.”
“What?”
“You actually needed to know that.”
“I was curious.”
“You were going to spend the entire night imagining a fucking parade through my bedroom.”
“I wasn't.”
“You absolutely were.”
Elliot smiled.
“Maybe a small parade.”
Ronan laughed despite himself. The tension changed. Elliot felt it immediately. Ronan did too. His smile faded first. Neither spoke. Elliot pushed away from the island. Ronan watched him approach.
“You're still pissed,” Ronan said.
“Not really.”
“Liar.”
“Maybe I don't like people thinking they can have you.”
“They don't.”
“Dylan does.”
“No.”
“He wants you.”
“You don't know that.”
“I have eyes.”
“So does half the planet.”
Elliot stopped directly in front of him.
“That's not comforting.”
“It wasn't supposed to be.”
Ronan's mouth twitched. Elliot hated how attractive he found that particular expression. The one that said Ronan knew exactly what he was doing and intended to continue anyway.
“You enjoyed it,” Elliot said.
“What?”
“Making me jealous.”
Ronan didn't answer immediately. Elliot smiled.
“You did.”
“A little.”
“Asshole.”
“You're cute when you're pissed.”
“I'm not cute.”
“You're wearing a cream sweater.”
Elliot looked down.
“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”
“You look like you should be selling expensive coffee.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don't.”
Ronan stepped closer. The distance disappeared. Elliot could still smell the night outside on him. Cold air. Leather. A faint trace of smoke from someone standing near them on Dylan's porch. Underneath it was Ronan. Familiar enough that Elliot could have identified him blind.
“You've been staring at my mouth for thirty seconds,” Ronan said.
“Have I?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe there's something on it.”
“Is there?”
Elliot lifted one hand. His thumb brushed Ronan's lower lip.
“No.”
Ronan caught his wrist. Elliot's pulse jumped beneath his fingers.
“Behave.”
The word did exactly what Ronan knew it would. Heat moved low through Elliot's body. He looked into Ronan's eyes.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep not doing it.”
“Maybe your expectations are unreasonable.”
“Maybe you're a brat.”
Elliot smiled.
“Maybe you like me that way.”
Ronan tightened his grip.
“Unfortunately.”
Elliot kissed him. There was nothing hesitant about it.
The restraint they'd maintained for the last two hours disappeared the second Ronan's mouth met his.
Elliot grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him closer, needing the contact with an urgency that embarrassed him enough to make him want more of it.
Ronan's free hand caught his waist. Elliot tasted beer.
He hated that Dylan had been drinking the same thing.
The thought arrived unwanted. His teeth caught Ronan's lower lip. Ronan pulled back.
“Don't start.”
Elliot looked at his mouth.
“Start what?”
“You know exactly what.”
“No idea.”
“Bullshit.”
Elliot bit him again. Harder. Ronan inhaled sharply. His hand moved from Elliot's waist to the back of his neck.
“That.”
Elliot smiled.
“You told me jealousy looked good on me.”
“I didn't say you should weaponize it.”
“Too late.”
Ronan stared at him. Elliot could see the moment his patience changed into something else.
Good. He wanted that. Ronan pushed him backward.
Elliot's lower back hit the edge of the island.
The impact rattled the empty glass sitting beside the sink.
Ronan's mouth returned to his. Elliot grabbed him.
Closer. Never close enough. His thoughts were still too loud.
Dylan's hand. Dylan's smile. Friday. Don't bail again.
Elliot wanted all of it gone. He wanted Ronan to make it impossible to think about anyone else.
When Ronan pulled back, Elliot followed. Ronan caught his jaw.
“Look at me.”
Elliot did.
“Who's here?”
The question sounded ridiculous. Elliot understood it anyway.
“You.”
“Who else?”
“Nobody.”
“Then stop thinking about him.”
Elliot swallowed.
“I wasn't.”
Ronan's fingers tightened slightly.
“Liar.”
Elliot stared at him. Something uncomfortable shifted beneath the jealousy.
Fear, maybe. Not that Ronan wanted Dylan.
That wasn't quite it. The possibility that Ronan could want anyone who wasn't Elliot seemed fundamentally wrong in a way Elliot couldn't explain without sounding exactly as unhinged as Ronan occasionally accused him of being.
He didn't want to share. Not Ronan's attention.
Not his body. Not the particular expression currently fixed on Elliot and nobody else. Nothing.
“You're mine,” Elliot whispered.
Ronan's gaze hardened.
“We've talked about that.”
“I know.”
“You don't own me.”
“I know.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
Elliot didn't. Ronan waited. Elliot smiled instead.
“Make me.”
The room went silent. Ronan's expression changed. Elliot knew immediately he'd won. Or lost. With them, the difference had become increasingly difficult to identify. Ronan kissed him again. The kitchen lights were low, the house still carrying the faint thrum of distant music and the leftover heat of the party. Elliot’s back hit the edge of the island hard enough to rock the empty glasses still sitting there. Ronan’s mouth was already on his, but it was Elliot who bit first—sharp, deliberate, catching Ronan’s lower lip between his teeth and dragging until he tasted copper.
“You’re mine,” Elliot growled against the blood-slicked flesh, voice low and rough.
Ronan’s hands tightened on Elliot’s hips, fingers digging in.
He pulled back just enough to speak, breath hot.
“You don’t own me.” Elliot’s eyes were dark, pupils blown.
He leaned in again, lips brushing Ronan’s as he spoke the challenge like a dare.
“Make me.” Something snapped. Ronan’s mouth crashed back onto his, harder, claiming.
He spun them so Elliot’s spine pressed fully against the cool marble of the island, then hooked his hands under Elliot’s thighs and lifted.
Elliot’s legs wrapped around his waist on instinct.
The hard line of Ronan’s cock pressed against the seam of Elliot’s jeans, thick and already straining.
Elliot rolled his hips, grinding, and Ronan answered with a low sound that vibrated through both of them.
Hands worked fast. Ronan shoved Elliot’s shirt up and off, then his own.
Skin met skin— hot, flushed. Elliot’s nails scraped down Ronan’s back, leaving faint red trails.
Ronan’s mouth found the hinge of Elliot’s jaw, then the soft place just below his ear, sucking hard enough to mark.
Elliot’s head tipped back, a broken noise escaping.