Page 631 of End Game

“Still competent.”

I kiss him again because there are times Ronan deserves the last word and times he absolutely does not.

Later, Ronan insists on checking the marks again.

Apparently being fucked into a state of visible satisfaction does not reduce his commitment to post-scene quality assurance.

I lie on my stomach while he examines the bruising under better light, his fingertips tracing the spaces between sore areas with careful pressure.

The contrast makes my skin prickle.

“You're going to hate sitting tomorrow.”

“I already hate sitting.”

“You're pleased about that.”

I turn my face toward him. “Very.”

His fingers pause against my thigh.

Then move again.

There is something almost tender about Ronan tending marks he deliberately created.

Maybe almost is unfair.

It is tender.

That doesn't make what happened downstairs less sadistic.

Doesn't make the strap less real.

Once he is satisfied I'm not going to spontaneously fall apart, he turns off the brighter lamp and gets into bed beside me.

I lie on my side because my ass currently has strong opinions about mattresses.

For a minute, neither of us touches.

Not awkward.

Ronan's touch has always worked best when it is chosen instead of assumed, and some part of me still waits for the signal even now.

I shift closer.

His eyes open.

I move slowly enough that he sees exactly what I want.

Ronan lifts his arm.

I settle against him.

My head finds the space near his shoulder, and his hand comes down along my upper arm.

Everything in me loosens.

The room is dark enough that the outlines of his bookshelves blur, but I can still make out the faint light from the charger beside his bed.