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.