It’s not a fucking phase. It’s a state of being.
And sometimes, it acts out.
Sometimes, you can’t control it even with carefully developed coping mechanisms.
I never let anyone see me when it’s about to come out. I run and hide.
I purge.
The moment I feel it coming close, I just leave.
The only people who’ve seen me at my lowest are Knox and Ronan.
And now, I’m seeing him at his lowest, too.
The fact that I could be the cause of this creates a black hole in my chest.
What have I done?
The only reason I did this was because he always said it’s his fantasy. He begged Kim to wear it, and I was secretly green with envy whenever he asked that of her, and not me.
Today, I wanted it as a gift after his win. I never meant for it to turn into this.
His fingers stop at my sides. Both his hands grip me, his fingers digging into my flesh as he lowers his head, breathing harshly.
Damn it.
It’s the guilt. It’s catching up to him, and that shit fucks you up.
I know because even now, I feel it. Even now, I feel those hands digging their way into my skin.
“R-Ronan…” My voice trembles, and I hate myself for it.
I hate that I can’t be a solid rock for him like he was for me that night at the Meet Up and every night he spent with me, pretending he didn’t witness my nightmares.
He just held me and whispered soothing words into the top of my head until I fell back asleep.
Why am I so broken that I can’t do that? Why does it sound like I’m the one who’s asking for help instead of offering it?
“Stay like this,” he says quietly, so quietly, I suspect I heard him right.
“But…”
“But what?” His head is still lowered, and I hate that too. I hate that I can’t get lost in his rich brown eyes and have them invade me, own me. They can even shred me apart, as long as they look at me.
“I hate this,” I confess.
“Hate what?”
“Not looking at you. The fact you’re not looking at me.”
I make a bold move then, something I’ve never done before. I hop over him so I’m straddling his lap, my knees on either side of his seat, and I fumble with his belt.
“What are you doing, ma belle?” There’s a slight amusement in his tone, and I nearly jump to the ceiling because of it.
“I was promised Ron Astor the Second, and I still haven’t seen him yet,” I joke.
“Does that mean you only want me for my dick?”
“Of course. You thought it was you?”
“That sounds as if I’m your whore.”
“You are, just like I’m yours.” I finally manage to free him of his boxers after so much stupid fumbling. He doesn’t even attempt to help me, the dickhead.
“You’re mine, huh?” He grips me by the hip as his other hand clutches my jaw.
This time, he’s the one who’s making me stare at him, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
As long as he looks at me, I pathetically feel like maybe everything will be okay. No, maybe not pathetically, but magically. So…magically.
I never believed in magic, but I also never believed in feelings or in people. Now, I believe in Ronan.
Maybe it’s because I now know he’s probably not Edric’s son and his origins aren’t what I thought.
But would that have made a difference?
It’s Ronan.
He didn’t ask for permission when he invaded my life, and he certainly won’t be asking for it now.
My thighs shake when he brings me down on his dick, sheathing himself whole inside me. My eyes roll to the back of my head as he fills me to the brim.
Oh. God.
“Fuck, belle. You feel so good and tight and fucking right.” With my breasts in his face, his breaths tickle my sensitive skin when he speaks.
I’m about to thrust them more, demanding attention, but Ronan doesn’t need that. His mouth latches onto a nipple, making me moan then whimper as he runs his tongue over it. He pounds with his hips from the bottom, driving into me deep but slow. It’s like he wants to feel me, to engrave me in his memory.
And that, the fact that he’s memorising me instead of the usual rough pounding, flutters my heart.
It’s a strange type of sensation, something that makes my own hips jerk in reaction.
My fingers dig into the material of his jacket as I go up and down his length with a pace that matches his.
He releases my nipple with a pop and stares up at me with that gleam in his eyes — the gleam I lost a few minutes ago, the gleam that comes from pain and trauma. Deep-seated trauma.
I seal my mouth to his.
His lips claim mine in a raw passionate kiss that robs me of breaths, thoughts, and logic. It’s almost as if I never existed until this moment.
When I’m joined with him this way in all senses of the word, it’s as if nothing else is here with us.
No broken parts, no nightmares, no wars to wage.
But that’s a lie, isn’t it?
I can pretend it’ll never happen, but it will.
I can pretend I won’t hurt him, but I will.
Sooner or later, it will come to pass.
It fucking will.
That thought makes me hug him closer and kiss him harder and faster, committing him to memory, taking him all with me.
For the first time in my life, I have doubts. I’ve plotted this for so long, but now, those doubts won’t leave me alone.
“Thank you for existing, ma belle,” he whispers against my mouth, and I come then.
I fall willingly, knowing there’s nothing that will hold me.
But I’m wrong, there is something — or rather someone.
Ronan’s hands surround me like a vice as he pounds into me some more before warmth fills my walls then drips between my thighs.
Oh God.
He grabs my nape with a strong palm and drags me closer so he rests his forehead against mine. We’re breathing each other’s air, but it almost feels like it’s not enough — like I’ll never get enough.
And that’s dangerous.
No — it’s more than dangerous. In my case, it’s fucking deadly.
He’s an Astor. So what if he could be Eduard’s son, not Edric’s? He’s still an Astor.
And the problem is, the more time I spend with him, the more that fact blurs. Everything blurs, and he’s the only thing remaining.
Ronan.
Just Ronan.
My chest squeezes at the thought. I don’t want him to be just Ronan. He can’t be just Ronan.
What have I done?
This is what happens when you’re addicted. You don’t realise the heights of your addiction until it’s too late, until it’s the only thing flowing in your veins and you can’t get rid of it unless you fucking bleed out.
I can’t bleed out.
I’ve bled out before.
Now, it’s his turn, not mine.
I push off Ronan and scramble to the passenger seat. My sweaty stiff fingers fumble for my dress and then pull it over my head, ignoring the remnants of the stupid bunny outfit.
Just a few breaths. Just a few. If I do that, I’ll be able to control whatever jumbled mess is going through me. I’ll ignore the feelings and everything that comes with them.
“What are you doing?” Ronan tucks himself in, appearing nonchalant, but his jaw ticks.