Chapter Twenty-Two — Good Boys Don’t Bite #2
Ronan laughed. Then Elliot smiled. For half a second, Ronan saw the version of him everyone else knew. Sweet. Pretty. Perfect. Then he remembered blood on a shard of broken glass downstairs. The mask beneath the stairs. Five names. He looked away. Elliot noticed. Of course.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Fuck that word.”
Ronan laughed.
“Asshole.”
“You taught me.”
They fell quiet again. They returned upstairs at 1:57. Elliot shut the bedroom door. Ronan sat on the edge of the bed. Neither spoke. Then:
“That went better than expected.”
Ronan looked at him.
“You expected execution?”
“Possibly.”
“Dramatic.”
“Says you.”
Ronan smiled faintly. Elliot sat beside him. Not touching. Again. Ronan looked at the space between their thighs. Two inches. It felt like miles.
“You can touch me.”
Elliot went still.
“What?”
“I said you can touch me.”
“I heard you.”
“Then why are you looking at me like I proposed?”
Elliot’s mouth twitched.
“Because I don’t know what the rules are anymore.”
Ronan’s chest tightened. Neither did he. That was the problem. He reached across the space and took Elliot’s hand. Elliot stared down at their fingers. No violence. No sex. No desperate kiss designed to make either of them forget. Just a hand. Elliot squeezed. Ronan let him.
“I meant what I said downstairs,” Elliot whispered.
“What?”
“Very.”
Ronan looked over. Elliot stared ahead.
“How serious.”
Ronan swallowed.
“Yeah.”
“I wasn’t lying.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
Silence. Then Ronan said:
“I still might turn you in.”
Elliot’s fingers tightened.
“I know.”
“Tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“Next week.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Sorry.”
Ronan laughed softly. Elliot did too. Then the laughter died. Ronan looked at their joined hands.
“Are you scared of me doing it?”
“Yes.”
“Would you stop me?”
Elliot didn’t answer. Ronan turned.
“Elliot.”
His face had changed. There was the answer. Ronan’s stomach tightened.
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would you hurt me?”
“No.”
Immediate. Certain. Ronan believed it. That frightened him for an entirely different reason.
“You’ve hurt people you cared about?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“No.”
“Then what would you do?”
Elliot looked at him.
“Beg.”
Ronan froze. The answer was so unexpected he almost laughed. He didn’t.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“You’d beg me not to tell?”
“Yes.”
Ronan stared. Elliot looked uncomfortable now. Embarrassed. Almost.
“I’d ask you to choose me.” Ronan’s chest tightened. The watcher’s words returned. *He’ll choose the monster he knows.* Fuck.
“You already did.”
Elliot frowned.
“What?”
“You asked me to choose.”
“When?”
“Every time you lied.”
Elliot looked away. Ronan continued.
“Every time you gave me enough truth to stay but not enough to leave.”
“That wasn’t—”
“It was.”
Silence. Elliot nodded.
“Maybe.”
Ronan squeezed his hand.
“I’m not saying that to hurt you.”
“I know.”
“I’m trying to understand how we got here.”
Elliot looked at him.
“Do you regret us?”
The question came quietly. Ronan hated how quickly the answer arrived.
“No.”
Elliot’s expression changed.
“That’s probably fucked up.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Ronan laughed. Then Elliot smiled. For half a second, Ronan saw the version of him everyone else knew. Sweet. Pretty. Perfect. Then he remembered blood on a shard of broken glass downstairs. The mask beneath the stairs. Five names. He looked away. Elliot noticed. Of course.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Fuck that word.”
Ronan laughed.
“Asshole.”
“You taught me.”
They fell quiet again. Ronan’s thumb traced the inside of Elliot’s wrist, slow, deliberate.
The pulse there jumped under his touch. Elliot’s breath shifted—barely, but Ronan felt it.
The two inches between their thighs disappeared when Elliot turned toward him.
Ronan closed the rest of the distance. The kiss started soft.
Careful. A question more than a demand. Elliot answered by opening for him, tongue sliding against his, tasting of the night’s tension and the sharp edge of everything unsaid.
Ronan’s hand rose to the back of Elliot’s neck, fingers threading into dark hair, holding him there while the kiss deepened.
Elliot made a low sound against his mouth.
The same sound that had once changed the air in a kitchen.
Ronan’s body answered instantly—heat pooling low, cock filling against the seam of his jeans.
Clothes came off in pieces. Ronan’s shirt first, then Elliot’s, skin meeting skin in the dim light from the hallway.
Ronan pushed him back onto the mattress, following him down, knees bracketing Elliot’s hips.
He kissed the hinge of Elliot’s jaw, the soft place beneath his ear, then lower, open-mouthed and wet along the column of his throat.
Elliot’s head tipped back, offering more.
Ronan’s teeth scraped the tendon there. Soft at first. Then harder. Elliot’s breath hitched.
“Good boys don’t bite,” Ronan murmured against the mark already forming.
Elliot’s laugh was dark, almost broken.
“Then don’t be good.”
Ronan bit down. Hard enough to leave a bruise.
Elliot arched beneath him, hips rolling up, the hard line of his cock dragging against Ronan’s through the remaining layers of denim.
The friction was perfect and not enough.
They stripped the rest with impatient hands.
Jeans shoved down, underwear kicked away.
Naked, Ronan settled between Elliot’s spread thighs, their cocks sliding together— hot, slick with precome, the drag of skin on skin making both of them groan.
Ronan wrapped a hand around both shafts and stroked once, slow, watching Elliot’s face.
Elliot’s eyes were half-lidded, lips parted, the careful mask nowhere in sight.
This was the version only Ronan got to see.
Ronan reached for the lube. Slicked his fingers.
Pressed two against Elliot’s entrance and pushed inside with deliberate care.
Elliot’s body opened for him, tight heat clenching around the intrusion.
Ronan curled his fingers, found the spot that made Elliot’s cock jump and a raw sound tear from his throat.
“Fuck—Ronan—”
“I’ve got you.”
Three fingers by the time Elliot was rocking down onto them, chasing the stretch.
Ronan withdrew, slicked his own cock—thick, flushed, the head already wet—and lined himself up.
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt and they were breathing the same air.
Elliot’s hands mapped Ronan’s back, nails digging in.
“Move.” Ronan did. Deep, controlled thrusts that dragged over every sensitive place inside him.
The wet sound of their bodies meeting filled the quiet room.
Elliot’s legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him harder.
Ronan gave it—hips snapping forward, the angle shifting until every stroke punched a punched-out sound from Elliot’s throat.
Elliot’s mouth found Ronan’s shoulder. He bit down, hard, teeth sinking into muscle the way he always did when he needed to claim something.
Ronan growled low and answered with a sharper thrust, burying himself deeper.
“That’s it,” Ronan breathed against Elliot’s ear. “Mark me. My good boy.”
Elliot’s cock throbbed between them, leaking steadily onto his own stomach.
Ronan wrapped a fist around it and stroked in time with his thrusts—tight, twisting, thumb circling the slick head.
The dual sensation pulled Elliot apart. His body clenched hard around Ronan’s cock as he came, thick pulses striping his chest, the force of it dragging Ronan over the edge with him.
Ronan buried himself deep and spilled inside him, heat flooding in long, pulsing waves.
They stayed locked together while the aftershocks faded, foreheads pressed, breath shared and uneven.
Elliot’s fingers traced the fresh bite mark on Ronan’s shoulder—dark, private, theirs.
Ronan kissed the corner of his mouth, soft.
“Still no regrets.”
Elliot’s smile was small, real.
“Good.”
They lay quiet for a long minute, skin cooling, the world outside the door still holding its breath. Then Ronan’s phone vibrated. Both stared. Neither reached for it.
“No,” Ronan said.
Elliot nodded.
“Agreed.” The phone vibrated again. Then again. Three messages. Ronan sighed.
“Fuck.”
He picked it up. Unknown number. First message: Good.
Second: You lied beautifully. Ronan’s stomach dropped.
Elliot leaned closer. Third: Now do something harder.
A photograph loaded. Ronan stared. It showed Detective Vance.
Walking alone across the police department parking lot.
Timestamp: 12:53 A.M. Less than an hour ago.
Ronan’s blood went cold. Another photograph.
Vance unlocking her car. Another. Vance driving. Taken from another vehicle.
“They’re following her.”
Elliot’s voice had changed.
“Yes.”
The next message arrived. She knows too much. Ronan stopped breathing.
“No.”