I don’t know how I get home.
One moment I’m running out of the club, and the next I’m hiding under my covers.
My breathing is choppy and harsh even though it’s been an hour since I arrived at my room. Even longer since his hands were on me, and yet that’s the only thing my body thinks of.
The way he took control of me, how he brought me to orgasm.
God, I can’t believe I came by just the teasing of my nipples. Shouldn’t there be a natural law against that or something?
I wish all my arousal had disappeared when I saw his face — his stupid symmetrical face — but it didn’t.
Not even close.
Those aristocratic features were nowhere near boring at that moment, or ordinary. All I saw was the one person, the first person who made me feel.
Really feel.
I felt so much it was unbearable. That’s why I still can’t come down from that high even now.
Then he grabbed me, trapping me, and although the signs of an attack nearly swept me over the edge, they didn’t.
They freaking didn’t.
Usually, I’d have an episode if someone as much as tried to cage me. It brings back dark memories, thoughts, and smells, but at that moment? When he took all my will against the wall, I felt a strange sense of awareness. My nipples hurt even more than when he touched them.
They still do. They’re sensitive, throbbing, and sending tingles down to my core.
A shiver snaps through my spine and I curse myself, throwing the covers off and breathing heavily. So what if he touched me and it somehow didn’t suck? So what if he’s more than his gigolo image and has more depth? And he does have depth. The moment his smile disappeared — which is rare as hell — it was almost as if a different person altogether emerged.
A person who finds sick pleasure in trapping me, subjugating me to his will and mercy.
Still, that doesn’t change anything.
Ronan Astor is only a pawn in my game, a domino. That’s it.
That’s all.
He took that picture of me, and he’ll use it to threaten me to end the engagement and my damn plan. If anything, he’s my worst enemy now, and I’ll deal with him as such.
I retrieve my phone, determined to read an article or two then go to sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll deal with the mess that is Ronan Astor.
I won’t allow him to step on me even if it’s the last thing I do.
Of their own accord, my fingers hover over the Instagram app. I don’t even use Instagram — or any social media, for that matter — but the other day, I made an account. It has zero followers, is following one, and lacks any profile picture.
The only reason I started it was to see what he posts in my quest to read him.
Ronan’s Instagram is a translation of his bubbly, energetic personality. It’s filled with pictures of him and his friends half-naked. Most of the shots are in pools with bikini-clad girls, and he always showcases that signature sickening smile.
A smile that hides more than it shows.
I hover over a picture of him from the side taken without his notice. It’s after one of the games and he’s wearing the team’s blue uniform. The stadium’s lights shine on him as he throws his head back in deep, radiant laughter that glows on his entire face.
How can he fake that? Even I fell for it, and I don’t understand human emotions all that much.
How could someone be so carefree and yet bottling up so much inside?
It doesn’t make sense.
Either you’re on this side or that — it can’t be both.
I scroll down below and find a picture of him leaning down to hug his mother’s shoulder. She’s smiling at the camera, and his grin in this one is almost too boyish, softer than the others.
The caption says: Her ladyship. A woman after my own heart.
Interesting. I keep that information for later use.
I’m about to exit when he posts a picture. I click on the notification so fast I’m scared I actually alert him to my presence.
It’s a selfie of him lying on a bed, half-naked as usual, as he places a hand on his stomach — the same stomach I wrapped my legs around not long ago. The same stomach I rubbed myself on so he’d release me while having a crazy thought of What if he doesn’t?
The caption says: In the mood for some debauchery.
Swallowing, I click on the picture to study his messed-up hair and the slight smile on his face.
It’s like we’re still in that room. He’s pinning my wrists against the wall as my nipples brush against his naked chest and my core is sticky with arousal on his stomach.
My hand snakes under my pyjama shorts and cotton underwear to find my folds — my wet folds.
It’s still such a weird sensation to be wet. I have a toy and I touch myself, but it’s felt so bland, so uninteresting, even, that I started to wonder if I’m somehow asexual.
Right now, though? As I stare at his face, at his hand on his stomach where I was not long ago, there’s no asexuality whatsoever.
I rub my fingers over my clit and my lids flutter closed. Rich brown eyes invade my thoughts, and I moan then hide my face in my pillow to muffle the sound.
He’s gripping me by the wrists, pinning me, making me helpless as he dry-humps me over and over again.
He’s kissing me hard and fast and he’s touching me, flicking my clit, twisting my nipple —
I come.
I don’t even know how it happens, but my body shakes and I free-fall into a feeling so addictive I want to restart all over again.
My eyes snap open, and I find his face in that picture.
What the hell is he doing to me? Why am I letting him?
I pull my hand from between my sticky legs, feeling disgusted that I let him, a pawn, get to me this way.
He won’t.
Absolutely won’t.
I start to tuck the phone away then notice I clicked like.
Oh no.
No, no, no.
I remove it immediately. He probably receives a thousand notifications, so surely he didn’t notice it.
Just when I’m about to throw my phone to the ground, it vibrates with a text. I startle, my heart nearly jumping into my throat when I make out his name.
Ronan: Hey, stalker *winking emoji*
He noticed. Oh, god, he noticed.
What is wrong with me today?
But fuck him, really. I won’t reply.
When I ignore his text, he sends another.
Ronan: How-about-no98 is an interesting username, by the way.
I glare at the phone as if I can wrench him out of it and punch him in the face.
Ronan: Also, your scratch still hurts. Want to come kiss it better?
Teal: I should’ve scratched you harder.
I curse myself as I hit Send. Why the hell am I even indulging him? I broke so many of my patterns today, and it’s all because of him. I should stay the hell away from him to avoid any other disaster.
Ronan: Pain. Yum.
My legs clench, and the orgasm from earlier feels like it’s rising to the surface all over again. Just how can he elicit this reaction from me?
But if he thinks he can get me out of my element and receive no retaliation, he has another thing coming.
Teal: You’re not my type. Get over yourself.
Ronan: And what’s your type, ma belle?
Teal: My type is at least fifteen years older, experienced, and doesn’t smile the entire time like a gigolo on crack. In short, not you.
I feel a weight slide off my chest as I send that text. I needed to remind myself of that fact as much as letting him know, because that’s what’s bothering me about the whole thing — the fact that he, someone not even close to being my type, is invading my thoughts this much.
There’s a long pause before he sends his next text.
Ronan: And yet you came when I only touched your tits.
Teal: That’s because I didn’t know it was you.
Ronan: Is that why your arousal still coats my stomach?
My cheeks heat and I curse him all the ways to Sunday.
Ronan: It’s all dried up, but it’s there. You saw it on that IG pic. I’m not washing it off.
Teal: You’re sick.
Ronan: I like to think I’m not sicker than you, ma belle, but I love the competition.
Ronan: Cancel the engagement and I might fuck you.
I might fuck you? Might? As in he’s gracing me with his damn cock? The arrogance of this bastard.
Teal: As if I would ever want to fuck you.
Ronan: I think we should both agree that you did tonight.
Teal: I did not.
Ronan: Sure. Whatever helps you sleep better at night.
I can almost imagine his smirk, and I want to smash his face and this stupid feeling of embarrassment with it.
Ronan: Night, ma belle. I’ll dream of your orgasm face.
I throw my phone to the side, seething, my heart beating so hard it’s nearly dangerous.
He thinks it’s fine to play with me? He’ll see what playing means.
