He’s owning me body and soul, and I have no way to stop it or to put it on pause. All I can do is ride it, let him take me, float with me.
And it’s the most freeing sensation I’ve had in my entire life.
Do I even want to stop this? What if, all those times I’ve been thinking about belonging, I’ve been approaching it the wrong way? What if this — this overwhelming pounding — is all I’ve been waiting for?
“Oh, Ronan…”
“You don’t get to come yet.” He bites the lobe of my ear and I shriek. “You get to feel this, feel us, so the next time you say I’m not your type, you’ll think about this exact fucking moment of me owning every inch of you.”
My nails dig into his back as I gasp for air and find the potent smell of him, of us, mingling and intensifying and taking me to newer heights.
When the wave hits me, it’s different from the orgasms he’s wrenched out of me thus far. This one beats under my skin before attacking me out of nowhere.
I’m falling hard and fast, and the only abyss is Ronan.
Just Ronan.
It’s the best abyss I didn’t know I needed.
He isn’t finished. Not even close. He keeps powering into me over and over as if he’ll never be done with me.
As if he can fuck me until eternity.
His thrusts turn longer and faster and more painful. They’re so painful; it’s delicious and a turn-on.
I’ve never been this aroused in my life. It’s like he touches me and I’m a goner.
I’m shattered.
I’m empowered.
He reaches a hand between us and flicks my clit. “Now fall again with me.”
I do.
I just do.
I come at the same time his back turns stiff and his thrusts come to an abrupt halt.
“Mine. Only fucking mine,” he growls before he claims my lips in an animalistic kiss.
22
Ronan
Greed is just that — greed.
You never get enough no matter how much you get. You never stop, as if all your brakes have disappeared.
It’s being submerged and finding no way out.
It’s being asleep with the girl you never thought you wanted anywhere near you, let alone wrapped all around you.
Teal’s lids closed soon after the second — or was it the third? — round. The second, definitely the second. I like to believe I’m above necrophilia, so let’s leave it at the second.
Although my boundaries do seem to blur when this girl is involved.
Her hair partially covers her face as she rests her head on my chest and her fingers splay on my abdomen — her tiny, black fingernails.
With her long lashes fluttering on her cheeks, she appears younger, vulnerable, nothing like the Teal everyone knows — and is secretly envious of.
Secretly, because everyone wants to be as unaffected as she is, as confident as she is, but they never actually reach her level. In their cases, it’s either an image or forced. She does it so well because she really doesn’t care about societal standards.
Her care extends to a few people — Ethan, Knox, Elsa, and that fucking Agnus — and she doesn’t even show it that much.
I trace a finger over her cheek and brush the black hair from her face to get a better view of her and commit her to memory.
No idea why there’s this need to box her up somewhere, maybe reach inside her and have first viewing rights to what lurks in her pretty head.
I’ve always hated other people’s secrets, but hers are that forbidden fruit I can’t ignore, whose temptation I can’t resist.
I want to claw into Teal’s skin, and not only physically — I want to invade her head and see past it, inside it, everywhere in it.
Fucked up? Probably, but that’s how I become around this girl.
That’s what the great Ronan Astor is reduced to.
Even my dick, Ron Astor the Second, agrees with any idea that involves being inside her.
I haven’t been flaccid since she showed up in front of me and I thought she was a ghost, a vision, or anything that would keep me company.
Like a good creep, I spend most of the night watching her sleeping face. Ron Astor the Second wouldn’t have let me sleep anyway. The fucker is more than awake, as if he’s high on Viagra.
I inhale her in, letting my lungs expand with everything about her. It’s weird how she doesn’t have those certain scents like other girls. She doesn’t smell of Chanel or Dior. She doesn’t even use any fruity or flowery soaps or shampoos. There’s only this faint lime fragrance that comes off her, and it’s not noticeable enough to be considered a perfume. It’s almost as if she’s trying hard to go undetected.
But she’s not. Not even close.
The scent that invades my nose is more than lime and more her. A bit unhinged, a bit innocent, a bit…secretive.
Teal is the closest thing I’ve seen to fog. She’s there, but when you touch her, it’s almost as if she doesn’t exist.
She mumbles something in her sleep, and I stroke her hair, my fingers getting lost between the silky strands. It’s like they can never get dishevelled.
I wonder how she’d feel waking up to an orgasm. After all, she’s slept for long enough.
It’s not fair that she gets to sleep while Ron Astor the Second and I suffer in silence.
One way to find out.
I shuffle a little, and the leather sofa creaks in protest. I reach between us and twist her nipples. A mumble escapes her lip as my hand falls down and I rub her clit in tiny circles.
Unlike what I expected, she doesn’t buck against my hand and remains completely still, her eyes shut tight and her brows furrowing. I think it’s because of the pleasure she’s trying to contain, but then she whispers unintelligible words. Another mewl falls from her mouth and it soon turns into a sob.
The sound is so haunted and raw it hits me straight in the chest.
“P-please…” she sobs quietly. “I-I’m sorry…so sorry…M-Mum…Mumm…I’m sorry…please.”
I remove my hand as if I’ve been hit with a bat.
What in the actual fuck?
Teal’s eyes snap open, and for a second, they appear like obsidian black holes. They’re filled with tears, but there’s nothing there, a blank, deep hole.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her cry, and it’s the most haunting scene I’ve ever witnessed. It’s almost as if she’s not feeling her own tears, as if she’s not here.
As if she doesn’t exist.
Or maybe she exists, but it’s in a different dimension with different people and a different state of mind.
“Teal?” I call her name when she doesn’t show any sign of recognising her surroundings.
She hasn’t blinked in long seconds, her gaze still a void with no life inside.
I grip her hair a bit tighter. “Look at me, Teal.”
Slowly, too slowly, her eyes slide back to me. The glint seeps into them, but it’s almost as if she’s not seeing anything.
It takes her a few seconds to somehow come out of whatever trance she’s been in.
“R-Ronan?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened…?” Her gaze gets lost between us as if she’s trying to conjure up a memory.