Page 24 of Ronan
“Of course. Their buffalo chicken rolls are better than sex.” I pause, thinking about everything I just did. “Well... better than most sex.”
Eyeing me suspiciously, Ronan pulls out his phone to order the food with his bottom lip between his teeth, but I’m happy he doesn’t ask me to elaborate. “Ordered. And you’re not going to pay, what kind of big brother would that make me?”
“The kind who is having his night ruined by his annoying, smelly little sister,” I laugh, regretting not showering before I came over. Sitting on his couch right now would feel like some sort of sexual vandalism. “Thank you, though. I’m glad you were home.”
“You smell good, what do you mean?”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Really? Because I just got fucked raw in a truck stop bathroom.”
Dark blue eyes lock on mine, his jaw slack for the briefest of moments, but he blinks the shock away. “Raw? In a truck stop bathroom?”
My cheeks heat up, but his reaction was hilarious. “Yep. I should probably take a shower before I sit... anywhere.”
He’s tense as hell, but I swear there’s a wild glint in his eyes. “Did you bring clothes?”
Opening my mouth to say yes, I realize with a jolt that I was so thrown by Nightbreed’s text that I didn’t grab anything at all. “No. I can run back home though and probably just shower there.”
“Nah,” he rushes out, his voice making me do a double take. “You can use mine.”
My stomach twists at the thought. “Are you sure? I’m really failing at this whole ‘don’t be a burden’ thing.”
If I wasn’t staring at him unblinkingly, I would have missed the way his eyes travel all the way up my frame. “You’re never a burden. Never have been. I’ll get you one of my shirts and some socks.”
He’s down the hallway before I realize underwear was not one of the things he listed, and I don’t know what the fuck to do about that. I’ve already asked for too much, so I don’t say a word when he comes back with a towel, a washcloth, a light grey tee and a pair of black socks. I’ll just... put the ones I’m wearing back on.
It’s a good idea in theory, but as I take them off, I realize I’d rather light myself on fire than put them back on — so I’ll just have to hope that Ronan’s shirt is big enough to keep me covered. And if it’s not... well, I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.
His shower is pretty well stocked so I’m not too worried about finding what I need, but not having a hairbrush is going to be a problem. I’m hopeful there might be one under his sink, maybe from a past girlfriend or maybe one Emma left here one night, but as I open the vanity doors I see nothing but extra tubes of deodorant, two bottles of cologne, and some cotton swabs.
Curiosity gets the better of me and I sniff the first bottle, recognizing it immediately as Ronan’s signature scent. It makes me smile to myself until I pick up the second bottle, one that looks brand new, and nearly drop it all over the grey tile flooring.
It’s the same scent Nightbreed wears. I recognize it from both the shirt he sent me, my memories from earlier, and the faint scent of it still on my skin.
What the fuck are the odds? A wild, deranged part of my brain is screaming that Nightbreed is Ronan, Ronan is Nightbreed. The cologne, the hair, the eyebrows, thevoice, the height... they’re fucking doppelgängers if they’re not the same person.
But the more rational part of my brain reminds me that Nightbreed knows my name, he’s seen my face. There’s no way Ronan wouldn’t have hung up immediately if he realized it was me, and less than no chance he’d have fucked me. I’ve subtly hit on him enough that if he was interested, I’d know.
So these things are just coincidences, and I need to take an ice cold shower before my imagination gets the better of me.
I’ve already done one stupid thing today.
11
Ronan
She’s here and I’m about to fuck all of this up if I can’t get my head together. What does it say about me that I want to fuck her again right now so I can claim her as mine over Nightbreed?
I am him, he is me, and that means it’s my cum dripping out of her pussy. I really cannot think about that right now. Not her mouth, her cunt, that prepped ass, not even her moans. None of it.
Fuuuck.
There’s no way I survive not taking her if she walks out of that bathroom in my clothes. I don’t think my heart is cut out for it, and I don’t mean in the sappy way. I mean full-on cardiac arrest at 26 years old, and all the evidence of what I’ve done on clear display downstairs in my basement.
I wonder what they’d put on my headstone?
When the door opens and she tiptoes her way to the couch, I have to remind myself to blink and not stare, because she looks so good like this the urge to spill all my dirty secrets is overwhelming.
“Do you have any blankets?” she asks, tucking my shirt around her ass — telling me one thing and one thing only. She didn’t put her underwear back on.
