Page 9 of All We Want

My gaze flicks over him. He is right, they could be simply extensions of each other, more alike than simply bothers. I knew they almost looked similar enough to be triplets but they aren’t. They all looked far too handsome for their own good. Ronan’s hair was much longer than Declan’s and currently tied back at the nape of his neck.

His clothing was a complete contrast to Declan. He wore tight black jeans, a black shirt, leather jacket and biker boots. In the dim light I can’t make out where the USB hides in his clothes.

He chuckles again, the gun still steady in his hand. “Oh, binneas, don’ bother. I no longer ‘ave the drive, Aid collected it before ya even stepped onto dat balcony.”

Fury once again flares inside of me. “So what was that then, just him playing with me?” I spit the question at him.

Ronan's chuckle reverberates in the room, his grin unwavering. "Playing with ya? Oh, lass, you misunderstand." He lowers the gun slightly, the glint in his eyes revealing a different kind of game. "Declan wasn' playin' with ya. He was about to, but not in the way ya thinking."

Confusion and anger wrestle within me as I try to decipher his cryptic words. The air thickens with tension, and the weight of the situation settles around me like a suffocating shroud.

"Now, Scarlette," Ronan continues, the grin on his face undeterred. "Ya still wearin' dat pretty red dress. I suggest ya start makin' yourself more comfortable."

The combination of his casual tone and the firearm in his hand has my heart racing. My breaths quicken, the dress clinging uncomfortably as I process what he said.

The dim light casts shadows on Ronan's face as he stands there, a formidable presence, his grin resembling a predator eyeing its prey. The urgency to comply clashes with my instinct to resist, but the cold reality of the gun kept any protest at bay.

"I don't take orders from anyone," I retort, defiance lacing my words, though the bravado feels feeble in the face of the gun-wielding Blackstone.

Ronan's laughter rings through the room. "Ah, Scarlette, we're pas’ the point of defiance. Ya see, this is a different kind of dance."

He advances, the gun still a menacing presence. My mind races for an escape plan, but the options seem limited in the confined space of my office.

"Remove da dress," he commands, the mirth replaced with a stern edge that brokers no disobedience.

Fury and the edge of heat collide within me, but I start to comply, fingers fumbling with the fabric. The room echoes with an unsettling silence, disrupted only by the sound of the zipper sliding down.

The dress falls to the floor with a soft rustle, pooling around my feet, leaving me standing confidently in my lingerie. I lock eyes with Ronan, refusing to show the vulnerability churning beneath the surface. His appreciative gaze lingers on the view before him, a silent acknowledgment of the power play unfolding.

"Now, that be a sight," he remarks, the low timber of his voice laden with a mixture of amusement and desire. The room seems to shrink, the air thick with tension.

The shadows flicker over my exposed skin, and I can feel the weight of his gaze intensify. His next command cuts through the charged silence. "Now, the lingerie, lass. Leave da heels."

I hesitate for a moment, the resistance still simmering within me, but the gun's presence reminds me of the precarious situation. Slowly, I comply, peeling away the lingerie, piece by piece, until I stand before him in only the heels. The dim light casts a subtle glow on my exposed form, and Ronan's eyes drink in the scene with a predatory hunger.

His tone remains steady, almost casual, as he instructs, "Cailín maith. Now, binneas, take a seat in one of them chairs, facin’ me."

"Why?" I ask, a mix of stubbornness and confusion lingering in my voice.

Ronan smirks, the gun now resting casually in his hand. "Last night, ya gave us quite da show. I reckon I deserve a better one, don' you think?"

My eyes narrow at his words, the realization sinking in. "You watched me?"

"Aye," he admits, unapologetically. "And tonight, I wanna front-row seat."

I raise my eyebrow at the implication. “You aren’t going to touch me?”

He chuckles again, his voice low. “I would break you, binneas. And though he hasn’a said anythin, my brother wants to be the first to touch tha’ pussy. Now. Sit. Down.”

The cool leather of the chair contrasts sharply with my overheated skin as I take a seat, facing Ronan. The air in the room is charged, the intensity of his gaze making it difficult to maintain a facade of composure.

"Spread ya knees," he commands, the casualness of his tone at odds with the explicit demand. My reluctance shows in a subtle hesitation, but the glint of the gun serves as a stark reminder. Slowly, I comply, feeling the weight of his scrutiny intensify.

My body flushes hot at being on display for this man that I don't even know, that I have only read about.

He gives a soft groan as his eyes darken at the sight of my exposed pussy. “Such a good girl.”

I shift my legs further apart in response to the praise, my hips shifting closer to the edge of the seat and making my back arch further.

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