Page 622 of End Game

“And,” he adds, “my bed is significantly more comfortable.”

“That too.”

Standing is an adventure.

The first time I straighten completely, the skin across my thighs pulls and burns so hard that my breath catches.

Ronan doesn't automatically support me.

He watches.

Waits.

Lets me decide whether I need him.

I don't.

But knowing he would catch me again if I did makes the stairs easier anyway.

Ronan's bedroom looks exactly the way it always does.

The same dark bedding.

The same books stacked with no logical concern for whether anybody besides him understands the organizational system.

The same lamp throwing warm light over the wall.

The same chair in the corner with absolutely no clothing on it, because Ronan is apparently incapable of using furniture incorrectly.

I've been naked in this room before.

Restrained in this bed.

I've watched him stroke himself while he watched me fall apart.

Tonight it feels more intimate before we even touch.

Maybe because downstairs he saw something in me I have spent most of my life controlling.

Maybe because I saw what he did with it.

He closes the door and turns. “Still green?”

“Yes.” I step into him and kiss him.

The first few seconds are almost painfully normal.

His hands settle where they usually do—one at my waist, the other along my neck where I can track every movement. Mine rest against his sides, palms spanning the warm skin beneath his shirt.

I know these places.

I know what happens to his breathing when my thumb moves along his ribs. I know the almost invisible tension that means a touch is becoming too much and the different kind that means he wants more.

Learning Ronan has always felt like learning a language with rules he actually explains if I ask.

Tonight I notice every response more sharply.

Maybe because he spent the last several hours reading mine.