Page 612 of End Game

The movement starts again. Shoulder to elbow. Elbow to shoulder.

“Can you give me words?”

I swallow. My throat feels raw even though I barely made a sound.

“Yeah.” The word drags on the way out.

“Good.”

That fucking word.

Usually it hits somewhere lower. Makes my stomach tighten or sends heat straight into my dick because I am apparently far more praise-motivated than I spent most of my adult life believing.

Right now it sinks somewhere behind my ribs.

The tightness there loosens.

My eyes close.

Ronan keeps touching me.

I don't know how long we stay like that.

Time doesn't exactly disappear. I'm aware of it passing because things change. My breathing slows. The tremor in my thighs eases. Somewhere in the house, a pipe knocks inside the wall, and I recognize the sound as the plumbing rather than trying to figure out if something is wrong.

But minutes don't feel like minutes.

They feel like Ronan's hand moving over my arm.

The warmth of his chest through my hair.

The steady rise under my cheek every time he breathes.

The deep ache under my skin that blooms whenever I shift even slightly.

Eventually something cool presses into my palm.

I open my eyes and find the water bottle.

The plastic crackles when my fingers close around it.

“I can hold it.” His voice is close to my ear.

I look at the bottle, then at my hand around it. “I can.”

“Okay.”

No argument. No praise for basic motor function.

He leaves his hand beneath mine for another second anyway, waiting until I have the weight before he lets go.

I get it open and drink.

The water is almost too cold. I feel it all the way down, a clean line through the heat still sitting everywhere else.

I take three swallows before my arm starts to feel strangely heavy.

Ronan takes the bottle when I hold it toward him.