movement outside of his approval.
I’m a marionette in his hands, a wanton, willing marionette who can’t get enough.
His shoulders become rigid and his head tilts slightly back. I can’t help staring up at his masculine beauty and complete control as he stops powering into my mouth. Something salty hits the back of my throat then drips on my chin, mixing with the drool and tears covering my face.
Ronan grunts, watching me intently, almost as if in a haze himself as he pulls out of my sore mouth. He gathers his cum with his thumb and coats my lips with it, smearing it all over, as if he doesn’t want to miss an inch, doesn’t want to waste a drop.
When he nudges my mouth open, I don’t hesitate to take his thumb inside and suck it clean. He laps his single digit against my tongue, groaning deep in his throat.
The sound does something to me. I feel pride, because I’m the reason behind that. I’m the reason his godlike features crease with satisfaction.
I feel lust, because even after two orgasms, I’m greedy for more. I want his hands all over me again. His strong, lean hands that know how to wrench me out of my self-imposed fortress.
There’s another emotion I can’t quite pinpoint, one that snaps my shoulders together and makes me want to run and never return.
“Ronan?” Charlotte’s voice comes again.
The spell breaks as he pulls up his boxers and trousers, and just like that, he appears normal, not like someone who just fucked up my entire universe.
He throws me one last quizzical glance and motions for me to stay quiet before he heads to the door.
I remain slouched by the bed, my heart almost beating out of my chest as I watch his back disappearing around the corner.
For the first time in my life, I feel used, and yet so utterly pleased.
That’s when I take the time to finally admit I’m in so much trouble.
15
Ronan
The upside of pretending since the day I was born is that most people can’t see the real me.
Hell, even I can’t see that bastard sometimes. It worked just fine for years, and we’re talking about a lifetime subscription.
The difference between me and, say, someone like Teal — who’s currently glaring at me from the top of the stairs at her house — is that she can’t hide.
She’s too real, too raw, even if she has this ‘fuck off’ aura. She can’t fake or say things she doesn’t mean, and it’s why she’s never fit in the hypocritical game of RES’s halls.
When girls did everything to fit in, she just followed what she liked. She never once laughed or smiled because it was expected. She’s a socially awkward bean with a twist. Most socially awkward people don’t want to be in that category, whereas Teal likes it — if anything, she might even take pride in it.
Her glares are real, too. They’re probably the most real thing about her, the way her thick brows scrunch and her skin reddens with pent-up anger. Without words, she communicates that she hates having me here. She hates my guts and my existence, basically.
Get in line, belle.
For the past week, I’ve been picking her up for school, despite her protests and jabs and attempts to throw me under the bus like a mechanic every time an adult is around.
She tries to brush past me, ignore me, pretend I don’t exist. When that doesn’t work, she attempts to make me look bad.
Teal still doesn’t understand that she can’t win against me in the peopling game. I’m way too loved, too approachable, and I don’t give off the deceptive calm façade like Cole. For that reason, people like me and naturally gravitate towards me.
It’s not a gift. It’s a commitment I made to myself when I decided I’d never be alone.
Not for one second.
Not even for a blink.
To accomplish that, people needed to take a liking to me. Before I knew it, I was becoming the epitome fantasy of any person looking to socialise.
Teal and I are opposite that way. She’s a loner by choice, never by force. She wasn’t bullied into it, because even when people called her a social outcast and Satan’s worshipper, she didn’t give them the time of day. She just rolled with it and gave them the middle finger.
So how come someone like her, someone who doesn’t fit in my image of peopling, can consume my thoughts?
I haven’t stopped thinking about her. After the day she