Page 122 of In the Shadows
He stood. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The look on his face—half-wrecked, fully intent—made her reach for his waistband.
She freed him from his boxers. He was thick and hard, and when she wrapped her hand around him, he exhaled like she’d knocked the air out of his lungs.
“Condom,” she managed.
“Nightstand.”
“That’s too far.”
Something moved across his face—not a smile, but the shadow of one. He reached into his back pocket and produced a foil packet.
“Always prepared,” she said.
“Ranger.”
She laughed. The sound surprised both of them—raw and real, caught somewhere between grief and desire. He rolled the condom on, and she watched his hands, steady now, efficient. Then he stepped between her legs and pulled her to the edge of the counter.
He pushed inside her in one long stroke.
The stretch drew a gasp from both of them. She was still pulsing from the orgasm, still sensitive, and the fullness of him hit every nerve. He held still for a moment—forehead against hers, his breath ragged—and she felt the tremor in his arms as he braced against the counter.
“Move,” she said.
He did.
Hard. Deep. The counter shook beneath her with each thrust. A mug walked itself to the edge and fell—she heard it shatter on the tile and didn’t care. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her to meet him, and the angle was devastating. She wrapped one arm around his neck and held on.
“Look at me,” he said. The same words from that first night at the cottage, but different now. Rougher. More urgent.
She looked. His eyes were open, fixed on hers, and she watched his control unravel in real time—the tightening of his jaw, the unevenness of his breath, the way his rhythm faltered when she clenched around him.
“I’m close,” she whispered.
His hand slid between them. Found her clit. Two strokes—that was all it took. The second orgasm hit harder than the first, deeper, pulling a sound from her chest that she didn’t recognize. She tightened around him, and he drove in once more and came with a groan that vibrated through both of them.
For a long time, they didn’t move.
His forehead rested against her shoulder. Her fingers were still tangled in his hair. Their breathing filled the kitchen, loud in the quiet cottage, gradually slowing.
She became aware of details. The edge of the counter was digging into the backs of her thighs. The cool air against her flushed skin. The coffee mug in pieces on the floor—the blue one, the one from Mae’s Bakery that she’d been meaning to replace anyway.
“We broke a mug,” she said.
“I’ll buy you a new one.”
“It was your mug.”
“Then I’ll buy me a new one.”
He lifted his head from her shoulder. His face was open in a way she rarely saw—the operational mask gone, the careful composure dissolved. Just Ronan. The man underneath all the training and the scars and the twelve years of keeping everyone at arm’s length.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
She considered the question. The hollow emptiness from the courthouse was gone. In its place was something she couldn’t name yet—not happiness, not peace, but something rawer. Like a wound that had been lanced. The poison was out. What remained was tender, exposed, but clean.
“Like I’ve been holding my breath for five years and I just exhaled.”
He kissed her forehead. Helped her down from the counter. She stepped over the broken mug in her bare feet, and he steered her around the shards.
