by L.H. Cosway
It was in the bath that my thoughts invariably turned to Ronan. I wondered where he was, what he was doing, when he would be back. I also realized the ramifications of the single-bedroom suite and the single king-sized bed.
A surge of anxiety at the thought of sharing the bed with Ronan was followed by a surge of something else, something altogether more pleasant and dangerous. This, of course, made me think about Ronan undressing me as I slept this morning, his large, powerful hands pulling down my jeans as I lay limp beneath him….
I closed my eyes, indulging myself in the fantasy of Ronan undressing me completely; in the fantasy I was still limp, but I was awake. I touched my breasts lightly as I imagined him slowly slipping the straps down my shoulders, unhooking the clasp at the front, and revealing the expanse of my skin to his eyes. I imagined him lowering his mouth to me while the back of his fingers caressed a light path from my ribcage to my stomach then lower, into the waistband of my pink lace underwear.
My hand served as a substitute for his, and I touched myself, enjoying the slippery softness of my skin, feeling myself and knowing that this was what he would feel, wondering if he would be pleased with the slopes and curves of my body and all its secrets. I imagined his eyes on me, devouring the sight of my nakedness as he left a trail of wet kisses between my breasts, lower to my belly button, until finally—
My musings were cruelly interrupted by another knock on the door. I yanked my hand away, splashing water and some of the miraculous bubbles onto the marble floor then sat upright in the tub.
I glanced at myself; everything below my shoulders was still neatly hidden beneath a layer of white foam. “I—uh—come in. I’m nearly finished.”
My exhale was unsteady, my heart beating excitedly, and I knew I was flushed with the evidence of my almost orgasm. Hopefully, Patricia would assume the blush was caused by hot water and not hot thoughts.
But it wasn’t Patricia at the door. It was Ronan.
And he wasn’t exactly dressed. He was wearing a towel around his narrow hips, a glimpse of swim trunks visible, and nothing else.
I gawked at him—this being my first time seeing his body live, in person, and not in the static pages of a magazine or pixelated on the Internet—and knew nothing virtual or imaginary could come close to the reality of that chest and torso. He was all rigid muscle and sharp angles. A tribal tattoo of some sort snaked up his hip, originating from beneath the towel and spiraling up to his ribcage and chest. I wanted to trace it with my fingers, the curling lines. I wanted to press my mouth against it and taste his skin. He looked like he’d be hard to the touch, but I knew he’d also be warm.
“Annie?”
I blinked, startled and mortified to realize I’d been staring, and snapped my mouth shut. With an effort, I lifted my gaze to his and set my jaw, fighting the urge to return my attention to the perfection of his body and the mystery of his tattoo.
“I—um—yes?”
Ronan shut the door behind him and stalked closer. His eyebrows lifted as he drew near, and his gaze moved over my face, dipped to my shoulders, detoured on my mouth.
“Enjoying your…bath?”
His eyes reminded me of chocolate in that moment, velvet dark chocolate, the kind used in succulent desserts, hot and silky, the kind you dipped strawberries in and savored as the juice from the berry and the sweet bitterness of the chocolate danced a euphoria over your tongue and down your throat….
I squirmed, my breath coming short, my arousal making me feel unsteady and lightheaded.
“Yes.” The word emerged as a breathless whisper, drawing his attention back to my eyes.
“You look uncomfortable. Is the bath too hot?”
I shook my head.
He hovered for a moment, surveying me—him and his epic torso—then sat at the edge of the tub and dipped his fingers into the water.
“What—what are you doing?” Again, my voice was breathless.
Part of me hoped he was going to say, Finishing what you started.
Another part of me hoped…oh, hell. Who was I kidding? Every part of me hoped he would say, Finishing what you started.
Instead he said, his lips twitching with poorly hidden amusement, “Just checking the temperature. You look flushed.” The back of his fingers brushed against my thigh, and I jumped, an inelegant squeak escaping my throat.
This was met with the rumbling sound of Ronan’s laughter and a rather obnoxious smirk. “You need to relax. Maybe you should take a nice, long bath.”
I glared at him and his grin, bringing my legs to my chest and wrapping my arms around my calves. Nothing of my body was visible besides my shoulders, but I felt suddenly quite seen. “I was…I am perfectly relaxed.”
“I could help, you know.” He nodded at this assertion, his hand still in the water, his fairytale body and warm, silky chocolate eyes filling my vision. “I could give you a massage…or a rubdown.”
I gritted my teeth and shook my head, but I said nothing. Because if I spoke, I would undoubtedly say yes.
He thought he was so clever. And he was. He was entirely too clever. I could see that he knew exactly what I’d been doing, or about to do. Doubtless he’d even realized that he was the sole inspiration for my dirty daydream.
“It would be no trouble at all. I promise you’ll like it.” His hand in the bath moved to my shoulder, and he brushed the back of his fingers against my collarbone, leaving a wet trail of sliding bubbles from the top of my sternum to my shoulder.
I rolled my lips between my teeth to keep from panting.
“Loosen your arms, and open your legs for me,” he said, his voice growing both solemn and soft; it was a command. His fingers slid down my arm to my knee, and he covered it with his palm, squeezing gently.
My eyelids drooped, and I half blinked, my heart hammering and hopeful. Everywhere he touched went lax. My arms fell to my sides, and my legs relaxed, opened as he nudged them apart. Then he skimmed his light caress between my thighs, and I held my breath.
His chocolate gaze grew fierce and demanding, a contradiction to the feather-light ministrations of his middle finger at my entrance. He stroked me, opening me, entering me. As well, his words were serene and hypnotic.
“Spread your legs, all the way. Let me touch you; let me help you feel good…that’s it. Oh, Annie dearest, you’re so fucking soft and tight. You feel like heaven.”
I swallowed the building thickness in my throat and instinctively reached for him, gripping the towel at his waist. My other hand moved to my breast, and my head fell back against the rim of the tub. I moaned.
“Shhh….” He leaned forward, briefly covered my mouth with his to silence me, and then whispered against my lips before pulling away, “Your Miss Patricia is in our room unpacking your things. You have to be quiet.”
My breath hitched, and I nodded, whimpering a little but not loud enough to be heard. His index finger joined his middle finger, stroking me while his thumb danced little rhythmic circles over my clitoris. I bit my lip to keep from moaning, and I squeezed my eyes shut.
“No, no. Look at me,” Ronan demanded, his voice still calm and commanding. “Look at me when you come.”
I opened my eyes and found that he was skimming the top of the water with his free hand, pushing the bubbles out of the way so he could see me, where he entered me, where I cupped my breast. His eyes, avaricious and focused, moved over my body.
“You are magnificent.” His tone was dispassionate and removed as he studied me, as though he were an observer and not a participant.
My lungs were bursting with fire, and I couldn’t seem to breathe deeply enough, my inner walls grasping covetously as he moved in and out, filling me. But it wasn’t enough; his movements were too temperate. I needed him. I needed more than his tender fingers. I needed him to be harder, firmer. I needed him everywhere.
“Ronan,” I panted, reaching for his wrist between my legs, pushing his hand more firmly against my center. “Ronan, I want yo
u. I need…. Please, please.”
“Hush,” he said, his touches still lithe and gentle, far too gentle. They were teasing. He was driving me crazy, and he sounded like he knew it. Looking at him, at the set of his jaw and the brutal gleam in his eyes, I had the distinct impression I was being punished.
I whimpered again.
He tsked, his fingers leaving my body to spread my arousal over the lips framing my clitoris, more teasing. “Such a greedy girl.”
“Please, please,” I begged, mindless, desperate.
“Are you going to leave me again, Annie? Are you going to walk away? Rip me open? Make me beg?” Though his tone was tender, his words stabbed at my heart.
“Ronan….”
“Do you trust me?”
I nodded and spoke the truth. “Yes. Yes.”
“Are we together? Are you mine?”
I bit my lip, and despite his earlier command, I squeezed my eyes shut. I wasn’t too far gone to make promises I didn’t know if I could keep. Without the carved perfection of him filling my vision, I was able to gather several sobering deep breaths. I reached again for his wrist, stilling his movements and pulling him away—though it felt like I was removing a part of myself—and I closed my legs and twisted them to the side, away from him.
I let go of the towel around his waist and used my arms to cover myself. I was shaking, though the water was still hot and so was my body, my insides molten with unfulfilled longing.
I heard the faint splash of his hand leaving the water and then nothing. I pressed my lips together to keep my chin from wobbling. I was such a mess. I wanted him; but I didn’t want to lie to him, and nothing had changed. I knew he was watching me, waiting; I felt his eyes sure as a hand sliding over my body.
At last he said, “I see.”
The air shifted. I knew he’d moved. I dared to open my eyes into slits and caught sight of his back just before he opened the door.
“I’ll be back to pick you up. You need to be ready at five.” His tone was unruffled, verging on bored. It did terrible things to me, like force two tears past the barrier of my eyelids.
And then he was gone.
Chapter Sixteen
New York’s Finest
Blogging as *The Socialmedialite*
March 29
You know what I both love and hate about New York? Toplessness.
In case you didn’t know, going topless in New York City (for both guys and gals) is a-okay. That’s right—New York is all for equal-opportunity torso ogling. Last week, Marta Duvall and her fiancé Eric Harper, went topless while hanging out (pun intended) on the chilly lawns of Central Park.
Even though I’ve blacked out both Marta and Eric’s nipples in the picture above, I fully support NYC’s topless policy…except for the unavoidable tattoos of regret which are often revealed.
Take the following picture, for example. This is a shot of Eric’s back. As you can see, because of how I’ve enlarged the area and added the helpful red arrows and circles, Eric has a very awkward caricature of his ex-girlfriend (actress Temaya Garrison) on his right shoulder blade. Ironically, in the tattoo, Temaya is also topless.
Perhaps instead of paying for the removal of Temaya’s hooters, Eric is planning on donating the saved money to today’s highlighted charity! All donations received today will go toward “Tit for Tat,” a program that helps breast cancer survivors (with breast reconstruction) by providing expertly tattooed nipples.
<3 The Socialmedialite
*Annie*
I was on my fourth glass of champagne when Ronan came back. Granted, I’d had four glasses over the course of an hour and a half, but it was four glasses nevertheless.
I was sitting on the least comfortable chair in the suite, all trussed up and trying not to move for fear I would wrinkle or smudge or flatten something. My afternoon of beauty treatments was…interesting. The entire team had been women. I’d never had a facial or a massage before. Both were actually quite nice, soothing, especially after my frustrated fantasy and bathtub encounter.
The hair and nails and makeup portion, however, was aggravating. I didn’t like being poked, prodded, and painted. Patricia, who I suspected was my fairy godmother, must have noticed my grimace because she was the one to suggest and pour the champagne. It helped.
She was also kind enough to fill the silence with tales from her past. She’d been a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall for four years before joining a traveling Broadway company. Her past was colorful and shocking, and she was completely engaging. Her stories, plus the champagne, went a long way toward taking my mind off what had happened earlier.
But Ronan never completely left my mind, how he’d touched me with such gentleness and care yet looked at me with an unforgiving harshness, like I’d betrayed him.
And now I was sitting on the wooden chair at the desk, trying to concentrate on work emails and checking the comments on my blog, all the while trying to ignore the constant throbbing ache between my legs and how I missed his smile.
He entered the suite, and I glanced up, found him wearing a tux that looked custom cut for his frame. I swallowed a mouthful of lust. He didn’t look at me as he entered. Instead, he strolled to the bedroom, opened and closed a few drawers, and then reemerged. His attention was on his watch.
“We have to go,” he said, opening the closet in the entryway and pulling out my coat and an umbrella. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, all set.” I was proud that I sounded so completely normal because I didn’t feel normal. I felt jumbled and unsteady and saturated with self-doubt.
“Okay, then let’s go.” He glanced at me and indicated the door with a tilt of his head. I felt something bend and then snap painfully behind my ribs as his eyes met mine. His were flat, disinterested.
He looked distracted.
He’d never looked at me that way before. Never. I was anyone and everyone. I didn’t matter.
I nodded, tearing my eyes from his and closing the programs on my computer, hiding the shaking of my hand by gripping the mouse tighter.
I was being stupid.
We weren’t together.
How many times of my pushing him away did I think it would take before he’d stop pursuing me? This was what I wanted.
I closed my laptop and stood carefully in the stilettos. Patricia had helped me practice walking once she realized I was a high-heel novice. I felt almost proficient, except for the fact that my stomach was a mass of tangled unhappiness knots. I didn’t want to see the ambivalence in his eyes, so I kept mine averted—to the floor, to my bag on the table by the door, to my coat as I took it from him and shrugged it on.
I lifted my hair out from the collar and preceded him out the door without further instruction or discussion. I felt him behind me, heard his steps echo mine as we neared the elevator. Silence and melancholy were my companions on the ride down.
As we neared the lobby, Ronan fit his hand in mine and pulled me closer. I glanced at our joined hands then at his profile. He was watching the display count down the floors. He almost looked nervous.
“There will be photographers in the lobby and on the street. Stay close, okay?”
I nodded and actively held his hand rather than passively allowing my hand to be held.
He misinterpreted the tightness of my grip and slid his eyes to mine; they flickered over my face. “Don’t worry—they won’t get close this time. I’ll keep you safe.”
“I know.” I gave him a little smile, nodded again. “I trust you.”
His gaze hardened, and he flinched; it was almost imperceptible, but I saw it.
I frowned at his reaction to my words and blurted, “Ronan, I am so sorry.”
He glared at me until the doors opened, his jaw ticking as he withdrew inside himself, and I heard him mutter as we left the elevator, “So am I.”
***
He was right.
There were photographers in the lobby and on the street. Everyone knew my name and called to m
e. It was disconcerting, but he shielded me with his body until we were in the limo. We sat on the two sides of the bench, Ronan putting the length of the back seat between us.
He spent the entire time on his phone, his knee bobbing up and down in an uncharacteristic display of nerves, and I stared out the window, thinking about the irony of the situation. The first time we’d gone out to lunch together—which felt like a lifetime ago but was really just over month—he’d scolded me for checking my phone.
When we arrived at the event, there were even more photographers. But this bunch was more professional and obviously present to document the comings and goings of the sporting elite.
Ronan exited first then held his hand out to help me from the car. He then tucked my hand in the crook of his elbow and led me to the red carpet.
Once we were clear of the limo—flashes going off in every direction—Ronan leaned down and whispered in my ear, “If you can manage a smile, that would be great. Also, we’re about to meet a few of my mates. You’ll want to look them in the eye as you shake their hands, say hello—you know, talk to people. Otherwise, they’ll think you’re a stuck-up American bitch.”
I glanced at him as he retreated, and he held my gaze, smiling at me like he’d just said something charming and expected me either to laugh or blush.
His words were nasty, mean, unlike him. He seemed…off.
And again, the irony of the situation struck me. Ronan was giving me advice on how to behave, what to do, what to say. This was the real world, his world of beautiful people and fame. My world was the virtual world of avatars and words. My currency wasn’t traded in this forum. Nevertheless, his words were condescending and unnecessary, and his aim was perfect.
I smiled at him, as big and brilliant as I could manage. Then I punched him in the shoulder with all my might, hoping it looked like a love tap.
His grin doubled, and he laughed, though it sounded a bit sinister. “Ouch, darling. Trying to hurt me?”
“Of course not.” I shook my head in a playful manner, my smile plastered on my face. “I would never assume hurting you was within my power.”
