Page 86 of Edge of Unbroken

He exhales. “Yeah. You know, I wasn’t that eager to go anyways. I’ll probably just be at Shane’s, too.”

Another yawn distorts my words. “’Kay. I hope you have a good night, Drew. Tell your sisters I said hi,” I mumble, then drift off to sleep seconds after hanging up the phone.

***

“Come dance with me,” Drew says, holding his hand out for me to take as a spotlight illuminates only us, our surroundings black like we’re floating in space.

“Uhh, I really don’t want to,” I say, and turn to walk down the narrow walkway to the sidewalk. I turn left in the direction of Julie’s house. Perfect beach weather, although it’s a bit warm for my coat. Why in the world did I decide to even wear it?

The interior of the car smells clean. He obviously just got it detailed. Adam gets his car detaileda lot. His parents have someone come to their house and detail all the cars. Makes total sense that the Mallards take pride in their vehicles since Mr. Mallard owns a Mercedes dealership in town. The crimson smudge on the passenger window matches the red leather interior of the car. I bet he regrets shoving my head against the glass now. My bloody lip stained his perfectly pristine car. Serves him well. Oh shoot, I have to go. I have to go see Ronan. Right now.

My heart flutters in my chest, want coursing hotly, swirling in my core, pooling between my thighs.

“Ran,” I whimper with the feeling of his fingers as they softly graze against my skin, slowly dragging their way down my neck and shoulder to my breast. My nipples are already taut, tingling in anticipation of Ronan’s touch. It’s not his hand that meets my craving for his caress, but his warm mouth as he moves his lips over the stiff peak of my breast, then carefully takes it between his teeth, nipping before he draws it deep into his mouth, sucking hard.

I’m high, intoxicated, aching for him as my hands roam his body, feeling his warm, smooth skin—bare and masculine and flexed with his lean muscles. My eyes must be closed because I can’t see anything; I can’t see Ronan. He’s a feeling, an emotion, wholly consuming my mind and body.

I grind my hips against him, so aroused, so desperate to feel his touch, to hear his voice. I wish he’d say something, would tell me how much he loves me. But he doesn’t speak, can’t speak as he continues to devour me, his tongue circling, swirling, laving my nipples with his warm, soft lips.

I rise quickly, that ache between my thighs growing at a frustrating pace. I need release. I need him to touch me, to stroke that tiny but mighty bundle of nerves until I come apart, then fill me with himself so I can finally feel whole, can finally be complete again.

God, I’m already so close. I can feel it—the need, the want, the climax building. I know it won’t take much for Ronan to make me lose myself to him. A few soft sweeps of his fingers over my slick, swollen flesh and I’m sure I’ll dissolve into a mess of whimpers and moans and hot, wet arousal. And I’ll be simultaneously appeased yet desperate for more of him, because that’s how it’s been each of the three times I got to feel all of him. I’d reach climax with Ronan’s hands and mouth skillfully edging me on, getting me to the highest of highs, only for me to realize that it wasn’t the orgasm I needed. It was him. Only ever him. All of him. Every piece. As much and as close as possible.

God, why doesn’t he understand that? Why doesn’t he make short work of things?I’m ready, sweet boy. Can’t you tell? My body is screaming, aching, throbbing for you.

“Please!” I beg out loud. The sound of my voice breaks through the quiet of the night, rousing me from sleep. I blink my eyes open, still unable to see Ronan, and a deep sadness crashes into me at the realization that Ronan—his hands on my skin, his mouth on my body—was nothing more than a dream. But that feeling of him—that emotion—remains, my body electrified from my wet dream.

I shift in bed, tuning in to myself, noting how stimulated my body feels. I realize that even though Ronan’s physical presence was a dream, the sensations my dream caused, and my body’s response, were very,veryreal.

I recall Ronan’s words from a few weeks ago:“Touch yourself how you’d want me to touch you.”

I hesitate for only a moment, then let my eyes fall shut and slowly move my right hand underneath my blanket. I wasn’t lying to Ronan when I told him I only slept in his t-shirt and nothing else, and I smile to myself when I glide my hand up underneath his t-shirt and to my breast. I do what I imagine Ronan would do, how I recall him touching me, and softly graze my index finger over my pebbled nipple, circling it, sweeping over it, flicking it. My self-caress causes an electric current to grow deep in my stomach and between my thighs. It’s not as strong or as urgent as it feels when Ronan touches me, but it feels good nonetheless. I think I just might be able to reach that release my body is yearning for, that intoxicating high I’ve only ever felt with Ronan.

I’ve obviously touched myself before, have explored my body and what sensations I could elicit by caressing myself a certain way, but I never managed to reach orgasm. It was Ronan who finally got me there only a few months ago. It was like he knew exactly how to touch me, how to tease my skin, how to talk to me, and I allowed myself to fall for and into him, to trust him like I didn’t even trust myself.

I withdraw my hand momentarily only to wet my index and middle fingers with my tongue, then resume touching my breasts—first the left, then the right. My breathing picks up again, that hunger within me reawakening as I work myself up, edge myself on.

“You just have to try yourself out,”Ronan said.

I picture him, visualize his gorgeous face, his incredible body, his erection when he stands in front of me naked and hard and so unspeakably arousing, and I move my left hand to my breast while my right ventures south. I feel my own body, trace my curves—the little dip down from my ribs to my abdomen, over my belly button and to the sensitive, ticklish skin just below it. I pause when I reach my Venus mound, just like Ronan does whenever he explores my body, like he’s teasing me and maybe himself, building the anticipation in both of us before he finally begins to caress my most sensitive flesh.

I gently glide my hand over the soft rise, edging myself, not yet allowing myself to touch my clit, which I know to be swollen, slick with wetness, even though I haven’t yet felt it with my fingers. But I can feel how turned on I am. That achy pressure between my thighs is a dead giveaway, and I know that if I dipped my fingers lower, they would be met with warm wetness.

“God, Ran,” I moan quietly into my room. I wish so badly it was his hands on my body rather than my own. “I miss you.”

I barely make contact with my sensitive flesh when I slowly slide my hand lower, the length of my middle finger gliding over that tiny little nub. My hips come up, pressing into the palm of my hand, seeking more—more pressure, more speed, more touch. So I give in to myself, focusing on that sensation of aching need as I stroke my middle finger up and down, back and forth over my clit. I circle my hips in rhythm, feeling myself climb, want building deep in my core. I dip my finger lower, circling my entrance before I slip a finger inside myself. I note how tight I feel, squeezing around myself, and I briefly wonder how Ronan manages to fit. He’s long and thick, and I recall the wave of ecstasy that washes over me whenever he first enters me. The way he stretches and fills me is so intoxicating, and the want grows as heat gathers in my stomach. I pull back only to resume stroking myself.

The wetness coating my fingers intensifies the sensation, my skin slick and slippery against my throbbing flesh as I rub myself, my pace and pressure increasing the tiniest bit, and only seconds later I reach the peak. I hold my breath and plunge into the void of pleasure. I let it wash over and through me, existing for a moment in only that feeling as my orgasm pulses through me, my stomach clenching and releasing with each shockwave.

Breathy moans burst from my lips, impossible to contain as my hips buck and tiny golden specks of light glimmer before my mind’s eye. “Ran,” I moan again quietly. Maybe the vulnerable intimacy of my thoughts of him will carry the sound of his name through the night and into his ear, sweetening his dreams, cutting through the darkness that has been blanketing his world.

I don’t open my eyes even once the pleasure subsides, reveling in the feeling of contentment, my body relaxed, temporarily satisfied, even though my heart continues to ache for him. I picture Ronan again, imagine him smiling at me, his bright-green eyes half-lidded, glossy with his own need, but filled with pride at his ability to make me come apart like that, to get me to give myself to him so readily—without question or hesitation—because he has earned my trust, my love. And it’s to the vision of him in my head that I allow myself to drift off to sleep, hoping to meet Ronan again in that place that exists between dusk and dawn, between light and dark, on the edge of consciousness. If I can’t have him with me in person, maybe I can have him again in my dreams.

Sunday, January 23rd

Ronan

I woke up in pain this morning. My knee, which had been feeling better and better lately, was hot and swollen. I knew I had overdone it yesterday, pushed myself way too hard when I helped my grandfather and Thomas corral some calves. I was already pretty sore, but it wasn’t until Colin accidentally left the gate to the large corral open and several young bulls escaped that I actually hurt myself.

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