The Hooker and the Hermit
Page 42

His chocolate gaze grew fierce and demanding, a contradiction to the feather-light ministrations of his middle finger at my entrance. He stroked me, opening me, entering me. As well, his words were serene and hypnotic.
“Spread your legs, all the way. Let me touch you; let me help you feel good…that’s it. Oh, Annie dearest, you’re so fucking soft and tight. You feel like heaven.”
I swallowed the building thickness in my throat and instinctively reached for him, gripping the towel at his waist. My other hand moved to my breast, and my head fell back against the rim of the tub. I moaned.
“Shhh….” He leaned forward, briefly covered my mouth with his to silence me, and then whispered against my lips before pulling away, “Your Miss Patricia is in our room unpacking your things. You have to be quiet.”
My breath hitched, and I nodded, whimpering a little but not loud enough to be heard. His index finger joined his middle finger, stroking me while his thumb danced little rhythmic circles over my clitoris. I bit my lip to keep from moaning, and I squeezed my eyes shut.
“No, no. Look at me,” Ronan demanded, his voice still calm and commanding. “Look at me when you come.”
I opened my eyes and found that he was skimming the top of the water with his free hand, pushing the bubbles out of the way so he could see me, where he entered me, where I cupped my breast. His eyes, avaricious and focused, moved over my body.
“You are magnificent.” His tone was dispassionate and removed as he studied me, as though he were an observer and not a participant.
My lungs were bursting with fire, and I couldn’t seem to breathe deeply enough, my inner walls grasping covetously as he moved in and out, filling me. But it wasn’t enough; his movements were too temperate. I needed him. I needed more than his tender fingers. I needed him to be harder, firmer. I needed him everywhere.
“Ronan,” I panted, reaching for his wrist between my legs, pushing his hand more firmly against my center. “Ronan, I want you. I need…. Please, please.”
“Hush,” he said, his touches still lithe and gentle, far too gentle. They were teasing. He was driving me crazy, and he sounded like he knew it. Looking at him, at the set of his jaw and the brutal gleam in his eyes, I had the distinct impression I was being punished.
I whimpered again.
He tsked, his fingers leaving my body to spread my arousal over the lips framing my clitoris, more teasing. “Such a greedy girl.”
“Please, please,” I begged, mindless, desperate.
“Are you going to leave me again, Annie? Are you going to walk away? Rip me open? Make me beg?” Though his tone was tender, his words stabbed at my heart.
“Ronan….”
“Do you trust me?”
I nodded and spoke the truth. “Yes. Yes.”
“Are we together? Are you mine?”
I bit my lip, and despite his earlier command, I squeezed my eyes shut. I wasn’t too far gone to make promises I didn’t know if I could keep. Without the carved perfection of him filling my vision, I was able to gather several sobering deep breaths. I reached again for his wrist, stilling his movements and pulling him away—though it felt like I was removing a part of myself—and I closed my legs and twisted them to the side, away from him.
I let go of the towel around his waist and used my arms to cover myself. I was shaking, though the water was still hot and so was my body, my insides molten with unfulfilled longing.
I heard the faint splash of his hand leaving the water and then nothing. I pressed my lips together to keep my chin from wobbling. I was such a mess. I wanted him; but I didn’t want to lie to him, and nothing had changed. I knew he was watching me, waiting; I felt his eyes sure as a hand sliding over my body.
At last he said, “I see.”
The air shifted. I knew he’d moved. I dared to open my eyes into slits and caught sight of his back just before he opened the door.
“I’ll be back to pick you up. You need to be ready at five.” His tone was unruffled, verging on bored. It did terrible things to me, like force two tears past the barrier of my eyelids.
And then he was gone.
Chapter Sixteen
New York’s Finest
Blogging as *The Socialmedialite*
March 29
You know what I both love and hate about New York? Toplessness.
In case you didn’t know, going topless in New York City (for both guys and gals) is a-okay. That’s right—New York is all for equal-opportunity torso ogling. Last week, Marta Duvall and her fiancé Eric Harper, went topless while hanging out (pun intended) on the chilly lawns of Central Park.
Even though I’ve blacked out both Marta and Eric’s nipples in the picture above, I fully support NYC’s topless policy…except for the unavoidable tattoos of regret which are often revealed.
Take the following picture, for example. This is a shot of Eric’s back. As you can see, because of how I’ve enlarged the area and added the helpful red arrows and circles, Eric has a very awkward caricature of his ex-girlfriend (actress Temaya Garrison) on his right shoulder blade. Ironically, in the tattoo, Temaya is also topless.
Perhaps instead of paying for the removal of Temaya’s hooters, Eric is planning on donating the saved money to today’s highlighted charity! All donations received today will go toward “Tit for Tat,” a program that helps breast cancer survivors (with breast reconstruction) by providing expertly tattooed nipples.
<3 The Socialmedialite
*Annie*
I was on my fourth glass of champagne when Ronan came back. Granted, I’d had four glasses over the course of an hour and a half, but it was four glasses nevertheless.
I was sitting on the least comfortable chair in the suite, all trussed up and trying not to move for fear I would wrinkle or smudge or flatten something. My afternoon of beauty treatments was…interesting. The entire team had been women. I’d never had a facial or a massage before. Both were actually quite nice, soothing, especially after my frustrated fantasy and bathtub encounter.
The hair and nails and makeup portion, however, was aggravating. I didn’t like being poked, prodded, and painted. Patricia, who I suspected was my fairy godmother, must have noticed my grimace because she was the one to suggest and pour the champagne. It helped.
She was also kind enough to fill the silence with tales from her past. She’d been a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall for four years before joining a traveling Broadway company. Her past was colorful and shocking, and she was completely engaging. Her stories, plus the champagne, went a long way toward taking my mind off what had happened earlier.
But Ronan never completely left my mind, how he’d touched me with such gentleness and care yet looked at me with an unforgiving harshness, like I’d betrayed him.
And now I was sitting on the wooden chair at the desk, trying to concentrate on work emails and checking the comments on my blog, all the while trying to ignore the constant throbbing ache between my legs and how I missed his smile.
He entered the suite, and I glanced up, found him wearing a tux that looked custom cut for his frame. I swallowed a mouthful of lust. He didn’t look at me as he entered. Instead, he strolled to the bedroom, opened and closed a few drawers, and then reemerged. His attention was on his watch.
“We have to go,” he said, opening the closet in the entryway and pulling out my coat and an umbrella. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, all set.” I was proud that I sounded so completely normal because I didn’t feel normal. I felt jumbled and unsteady and saturated with self-doubt.
“Okay, then let’s go.” He glanced at me and indicated the door with a tilt of his head. I felt something bend and then snap painfully behind my ribs as his eyes met mine. His were flat, disinterested.
He looked distracted.
He’d never looked at me that way before. Never. I was anyone and everyone. I didn’t matter.
I nodded, tearing my eyes from his and closing the programs on my computer, hiding the shaking of my hand by gripping the mouse tighter.
I was being stupid.
We weren’t together.
How many times of my pushing him away did I think it would take before he’d stop pursuing me? This was what I wanted.
I closed my laptop and stood carefully in the stilettos. Patricia had helped me practice walking once she realized I was a high-heel novice. I felt almost proficient, except for the fact that my stomach was a mass of tangled unhappiness knots. I didn’t want to see the ambivalence in his eyes, so I kept mine averted—to the floor, to my bag on the table by the door, to my coat as I took it from him and shrugged it on.
I lifted my hair out from the collar and preceded him out the door without further instruction or discussion. I felt him behind me, heard his steps echo mine as we neared the elevator. Silence and melancholy were my companions on the ride down.
As we neared the lobby, Ronan fit his hand in mine and pulled me closer. I glanced at our joined hands then at his profile. He was watching the display count down the floors. He almost looked nervous.
“There will be photographers in the lobby and on the street. Stay close, okay?”
I nodded and actively held his hand rather than passively allowing my hand to be held.
He misinterpreted the tightness of my grip and slid his eyes to mine; they flickered over my face. “Don’t worry—they won’t get close this time. I’ll keep you safe.”