Page 24

TWENTY-FOUR

Despicable - grandson

Apparently, I’m a goddamn glutton for punishment. I let Ronan jack me off in the shower.

More than let him, I made him. And fuck, if it wasn’t the best orgasm I’ve had in years. Fucking years. Seeing him under me, feeling his hatred and submission, seeing him look like… him …it reached deep into my soul and drew something out of me that’s been dormant for a long time.

I’ve messed around since Greyson died, but it’s always been as detached as I can make it. A guy gives me a handjob here or a blowjob there, never anything more than that. I never let myself really enjoy it. The mission is just to scratch the itch. Scratch the itch and move on. I’ve even tried letting girls do it, but it does nothing for me. Never once have I felt anything afterward.

But this time? This time, I did, and I hate myself for it.

I pace in the kitchen. I know I shouldn’t leave Ronan alone, but I can’t be near him right now. I can’t . The way he looked up at me with those hazel eyes full of hate. In that moment, he looked scared, hurt, disgusted .

It should make me disgusted. I did this to him. I took him and made him jack me off.

Instead, it made me want to kiss him.

I pull my hat on and off, on and off. It’s like I can feel the picture in the rim burning the back of my head.

How dare I feel like kissing another man? It’s like Greyson is here, telling me I’m selling him out. Telling me how disgusting I am for forcing myself on Ronan. How Ronan would rather be dead than fuck me. I close my eyes so I can’t see him around the corner.

I need something. Something to take the edge off. Killing horrible people usually helps. But now I guess I’m a fucking babysitter. So, I settle for something to chew on. I rip open the cabinets, looking for anything.

After grabbing the pretzels, I spot Buffalo on the counter. He’s tipped on his side, so I sit him back up. His fur is coarse, and I stand there for a second, staring at him. Ronan loves this thing. It’s probably the only thing he loves, really. He’s more worried about the blood on it than he is about his own death.

Anger fills me, and I grab the toy and shove it on top of the cabinets. Damn Ronan. Damn him, and more importantly, damn me. Because I felt something today. And as much as I know I should drop it, I can’t. I couldn’t fourteen years ago, and I can’t today.

I’m not fucking done messing with Ronan.