Chapter Fifteen

Ronan

I feel her surrender.

Feel her ease down on the table, offering her body for me to take as I want.

And do I take, plowing into her, leaning down to press my lips to her ear. “Yer—”

Whack.

Stars explode in front of my eyes as she rears back and connects her head with my nose. Stunned for a second, I let go of her hair, and the minx twists away. But not for long.

Grabbing her by the waist, I push her against the wall, then press my front into her back. “Yer like playin’ rough, do yer?”

Her breath pants in and out of her lungs. “I like playing by my own rules.”

That’s funny, and I chuckle into her ear before taking the lobe between my teeth. Her hands clench into fists on the wall. Taking her wrists in my hand, I hold them over her head. With my free hand, I reach down and begin to touch her again. My fingers sink into her wetness, her body clamping down as I stroke. She tries to fight back but I stroke her harder, deeper. Faster.

“What are yer rules, Savie? What is this savage game yer play?”

She moans, and I feel the sound vibrate into my fingers. “I want you to kiss me. My breasts. My stomach. There.”

I freeze for a second. There? There where?

Unable to comprehend her words, I pull her from the wall, turning her until I can look into her eyes. “Yer are a strange woman, Savie Starr.”

She lifts her chin. “Are you going to talk all day, or are you going to make me come?”

The challenge in her eyes is interesting, exciting. “Mayhap I’ll do both.” She squeals as I take her back to the table. Bending her over it, I pin her upper torso down with my hand. “Here, there are nay rules but me own. Do yer understand?”

With a growl, I kick her feet farther apart, then wipe some of her hot wetness onto my cock. I wait for her to answer, and smile when she doesn’t. I’m a patient man, but from the sound of her breathing, patience isn’t one of her virtues.

I close my eyes when she finally submits again. “Please.”

Twist my hand in her hair again, I demand, “Please what?”

“Fuck me.” The words are low, raw. They make me smile.

“By whose rules?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Yours. Only yours.”

Savie Starr wails as I slam into her, and I watch her pussy devour me as I enter her again in one smooth motion, my hips smacking her smooth arse cheeks.

Her gasp echoes through the room, and my heart hammers in my skull, pounding in my temples. God, she feels good, those tight muscles tightening around me like a fist.

I began to move in earnest, watching my cock slide in and out of her. I surge forward, my core and arse clenching and releasing with each profound stroke. Pulling her head back, my mouth finds hers.

This is strange. Kissing comes before fucking but not during the act. Never during. But I seem to be pulled to her lips, twisting her body until our mouths meet more fully.

Disconnecting our bodies, I flip her over until we’re face to face. Then we re-connect. Our mouths re-connect, our tongues dancing together. And I realize the rules have fallen away.

A loud groan fills the room, and I realize it came from me. Or maybe her. I don’t care, and it doesn’t matter. All that matters are her lips and eyes, and the way she’s looking at me as I pleasure us both.

“Ronan…” My name on her lips nearly pushes me to the edge, but I hang on with the tightest control of my will. Her legs begin to tremble, her core pulsing all around me…and she comes. Funny, seems I’ve never really noticed a woman’s clenching before this moment.

As she leaps into the depth of pleasure, she drags me with her, my body slamming then fusing to hers as my legs, balls, and gut are seized by my own climax.

Through my own release, I feel her coming. Hear her coming. Watch her coming.

Nothing has ever been so explosive in my life.

Finally, still panting, I ease down on top of her, supporting my weight with my elbows. Our lips touch, but we don’t kiss. Not exactly. We just stay together as close as two people are able.

“I like yer rules,” I whisper against her lips.

She smiles. “Oh Ronan, I haven’t even begun to bend you to my rules.”

I laugh and pull her up off the table to carry her to the bed. “Tis good ‘tis early yet. Yer can show me some of yers while I show yer some of mine.”

* * *

I’d rather have my fingernails pulled out with a pliers than do fecking laundry.

So, she better damn well appreciate it.

I rummage through my bedroom collecting items for a load when a flash of something sparkly peeks out from the opened zipper of Savie’s suitcase. Damn thing is made of leather and has some kind of symbol etched into it over and over again. Never seen the like. A warped curiosity drives me forward. After our night together, my mind lies in shambles and it’s like I can’t know enough about her and her strange ways.

What kind of man licks a woman’s pussy because he wants to? I’ve never even heard the like. Around here, my cock is worshiped as if it’s a statue of the virgin mother. I’m confused by her view of sexual relationships, and it’s not that I’m completely opposed. I just don’t understand it and want to know more. At least I think I do.

I lean against my bedroom wall and take a deep inhale. What I’m about to do is probably frowned upon, because I’m invading her privacy. But she’s a woman who walks around with sparkled knickers in her suitcase. That bears investigation. And furthermore, why does she have case upon case of them laying on my bedroom floor?

I nudge the suitcase with my foot, hoping that the top will dislodge more than an inch, and I can assuage my warped curiosity without moving anything and being accused of acting like a thief. Acting like a fecking chancer, I reach down and flip the leather over, exposing the colorful wardrobe of Savie Starr to my fascinated view. I’ve heard of sunglasses from my much more modern sister, and if I believed in them, I’d slap a pair over my aching eyes. There isn’t one thing in the fecking suitcase that isn’t bedazzled in some way. I’ve heard of that word from my worldly sister too.

“Savie!” I roar.

After a few tortured moments, I hear her booted feet trotting toward me.

“What is it, Ronan?” she asks, out of breath. “Is that damn bear in the house?”

The moment her gorgeous and flushed face pokes itself into the room, I point at the offending luggage. “What is that?”

She looks at me as if I’ve gone mad. “That’s my suitcase.”

I shake my head. “Nay. Not the suitcase. What’s inside it? What the feck is inside that thing?”

She rears back and purses those damn lips. I almost demand that she sink to her knees but first, I want to find out why clothes could possibly require shiny stones sewn in to every available surface.

“Those are my performance costumes,” she says, putting her hands on her hips. “I’m a singer/songwriter, Ronan. I perform for a living. You know that.”

“What is wrong with more conservative kit, woman?”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Her eyes flash fire, but before her feisty side rips free, I see a single moment of pain. I don’t own her. And yet…I feel like I own her. I want to own her. Body and soul.

But I’ll never admit it, even to myself. Doing so would show weakness.

Savie bends down and tenderly opens the suitcase, withdrawing one of the blinding items. It’s so full of flash, I can’t even tell what it is. She clutches the clothing to her ample chest and says something so muffled, her answer is lost within the blinding folds of fabric.

“This is my favorite costume,” she says, eyes welling up with tears as she lifts her chin to face me. “I wore it two years ago when I won a Grammy for Best New Artist. My mom helped me pick it out. We don’t see each other enough since I moved to L.A. It’s why I named my guitar after her. Helen.”

I stand there, a complete fool, clutching my load of laundry to my own chest. I want to kneel down next to her and push that wayward strand of silky hair away from her face. I want to capture her lips in a searing kiss. This soft and vulnerable version of Savie is my favorite, compelling every cell in my body to protect her and keep her safe. Even if the threat to her health and happiness is me.

“What’s a Grammy?” I ask, never having heard of it before now. I’ve never owned a television, and try not to partake in the one at the inn. I’m assuming it’s some kind of award since she indicated that she won it.

“Only the most prestigious award in the entire music industry. Even people from your country covet them and want to win one. It will go down in history as the most epic moment of my life.”

I sigh and crinkle my brow in consternation. Her best moments have not yet come to pass. Of that, I’m certain.

“But yer ‘av not wed yet, Savie. Yer ‘av not birthed yer first child. Only then will yer truly know what epic moments really mean. Life is not about what a person obtains, ‘tis about experiences. Special moments where the passage of time seems to stand still.”

She places each hand on a saucy hip and gives me a stink eye that could rival Caris when she’s about to go all bleedin’ weapon on my arse. “You’re not married or a father, either.”

I puff out my chest because that ridiculous statement requires no further defense, and I’m not going to argue with her. “I’m nay woman.”

She huffs a breath from her mouth that causes her bangs to point toward the ceiling, mumbling something that sounds like “Chauvinist pig,” but I’m not sure. She goes back to re-arranging her outfits inside the case. I look around my bedroom, currently serving as Savie’s room, and realize she’s not the tidiest of house guests.

Her head snaps up, and she tailgates my gaze with her own. “I know it’s a mess, Ronan. I’m used to having my people look after me.”

That part, I can understand. Although I do for myself most days and can be independent, I don’t deny it’s comforting to have Caris or Mary do some of the women’s work. Once I do take a wife, I won’t be cooking or doing laundry and cleaning ever again.

But the ease of not having to perform menial tasks comes with its own set of troubles. Women and their damn emotions and moods that change with the shift of the wind. If truth be told, I’ve avoided the leg-shackling because I just don’t want the trouble. I like my simple and provincial life and a wife is going to mess with my hard-won peace. My way is law here.

“Just how many people do yer ‘av?”

She frowns in concentration. “I guess if you count Stevo, it’s ten total.”

“Ten?” I stare at her, wondering if I heard her right. I also wonder if I should be worried since Stevo sounds like a gyppo name. “And just who is this Stevo?” The question comes out harsher than I intend, but the very thought of a man being in her life stokes a fire deep inside me.

“He’s my gardener. I have two personal assistants, and—’

I interrupt before she can explain. “Stall the ball, woman! Two helpers, did yer say? What do they do all day?”

A muscle pops in her jaw, and I know I’ve vexed her. “As I was saying, I have two personal assistants, a trainer, a chef, a makeup artist, a hair stylist, a publicist, a manager, a housekeeper, and Stevo is my gardener.”

I snort out a laugh even though there’s nothing comical about this conversation. I imagine Stevo as a shitehawk pikey, and that helps but only for the moment it takes me to inhale. “Well, yer couldn’t possibly be expected to go without Stevo, now could yer, lass?”

She holds up her hands and flashes them at me. “Do these look like the hands that engage in physical labor? Besides, I’m on tour nine months out of the year. Am I supposed to just let my house turn into an overgrown hovel while I’m gone? I’m not supposed to take any pride in my residence?”

I tap a finger to my temple and pretend to consider it. Of course, I can’t even imagine having a bevy of staff to cater to my every whim. Well, maybe a staff of one.

“I guess not.”

I step over her to put the load of laundry into the wicker hamper Caris insisted upon when Savanah stays my leg with her tapered fingers. I tingle everywhere she touches.

“Stay here. I want to show you something.”

Just as Savie pulls another costume out of her bag, a loud knock sounds at the door. Shite the bed, Caris would just walk on in. Who’s the fecking swamp donkey interrupting my alone time with my woman?

Dread travels up my spine because I think I know his identity before I get visual verification. It’s a man with a death wish and a huge pair of plums.

I swing the door open, and, sure enough, Cos rushes past me, stopping to stand in the middle of my living room. “Where is she? Where’s the famous molly yer ‘av holed up in here, thicko?”

I look him up and down from his heaving chest to his red face. “Are yer shitefaced?”

“Nay, the way yer talk, Rone, folks would think I’m a piss artist just like my feckin’ da. Don’t yer know any better than that? Yer been hangin’ ‘round this townie and her fun bags too long?” He narrows his eyes and gives me a look most men don’t have the stones to give me. “Gone over to the dark side, eh?”