I took her hand in mine during takeoff, and she didn’t protest, squeezing her eyes shut the whole time. I watched her closely, ready to calm her at the merest sign of panic. I knew some people went a little bit crazy on airplanes. When she opened her eyes, we were in the air. She glanced past me and out the window.

“Wow,” she breathed, leaning closer and marveling at the clouds and blue sky beyond. You could see the city drifting away beneath us, the buildings tiny in the distance. She was practically sitting on top of me, but I wasn’t complaining, mainly because her breasts were pushing into my arm. I closed my eyes for a moment, savoring her scent and the comfort of having her so close. For a brief moment, I forgot about our emotional distance and just enjoyed being near her.

“Sorry,” she said then and drew away.

I opened my eyes. “No apologies needed, love. You sure you don’t want to sit by the window?”

Unlike before, now she seemed positively elated by the idea. “Yes, please, if you don’t mind,” she enthused, and I grinned, undoing my seatbelt. Our bodies brushed briefly as we switched seats, and she blushed, keeping her gaze on her shoes. For the next hour, Annie was glued to the window, marveling at the sky. It was probably the most charming thing I’d ever witnessed and made me fall that little bit harder for her.

I busied myself with a book and let her enjoy her window-seat view.

Some time elapsed before she got up and excused herself to the bathroom. And yeah, I’m not going to lie, I got a nice look at her arse as she went by me. Today she was wearing jeans and a purple knitted jumper. She didn’t have any makeup on, and her long hair was braided into a side plait. She looked so incredibly natural and fuckable. It was such a sweet torture.

For several short seconds, I was wracked with indecision. I’d told her I’d behave on this trip, but the temptation to follow her was too much. I rose from my seat, smiling amiably at the air hostess as I passed by and made my way to the restrooms. I waited patiently until Annie was done, and then, just as she was stepping out to leave, I got in her way and moved forward, leaving her no other option but to retreat back inside. A moment later I’d flicked the lock, and we were alone.

“Hey,” I murmured as she leaned into the sink and I crowded her space. There was no way to not crowd her space; the toilet was the size of a postage stamp.

She swallowed and moved her lips, drawing my attention to her mouth. It seemed redder and even more plump than usual. Such a temptation.

“What’s going on?” Annie asked, eyes on my shirt collar rather than my face.

“I miss you so fucking much,” I said, my words almost choked, pained. I brought my hands to her hips and slid them around her waist then down to her bottom. She sucked in a quick breath before exhaling. When she finally looked up at me, she was flushed—but not from displeasure. Her eyes were practically glowing.

I drew air in past my teeth before asking, “Oh, Annie, what am I gonna do with you?”

Chapter Fifteen

The Companion Fake Selfie: When two or more people pretend to be taking a picture together, but are instead taking a picture of a person in the background.

Best for: Situations where taking a group selfie wouldn’t be unusual/draw attention. This method, unlike the “Creeper Selfie” and “Fake Selfie,” can be used in restaurants. However, caution should be used if the waiter/waitress is overly helpful and might offer to take the picture instead.

Do not use: Near mirrors.

*Annie*

I was hot, and it had nothing to do with my sweater. I was hot because I had a war raging within me. I hadn’t yet reconciled what I knew was safe with what I wanted.

I miss you so fucking much…. That’s what he’d said.

He had no idea.

No. Idea.

I ached for him, for that fleeting sensation of belonging with him. I ached for being seen and known by him. I ached for our connection, for enjoying him, being with him, listening to him. I ached for how he touched me; his dirty, shocking words; his skilled hands; how he commanded a response from my body with just a look or a whisper.

I ached for Ronan.

It was physical, and it was painful; and resisting him felt like being sawed in half with a dull, rusty blade.

“Ronan.” I shook my head, squeezed my eyes shut; I was trembling. When I spoke next, I wasn’t surprised to hear myself beg, “Please don’t do this. Please…please.”

I felt him shift, hesitate. I held my breath: waiting, wanting him, and hating myself for being weak and yielding where before I’d always been resilient and constant.

Eventually I heard Ronan mutter, “Christ, Annie. Come here.” He slid his hands from my bottom to my back and then my shoulders. He pulled me against him, tucking my head under his neck and against his chest. He squeezed.

He gave me a hug.

I released an uncontrolled and watery sigh, closer to a choked sob than an exhalation, and wrapped my arms around him, returning his embrace. I buried my face in his neck and held on tightly. I didn’t know how I was going to let him go, both figuratively and literally.

People who grow up with families, with a guardian or a parent or both parents, often take hugs for granted. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d been hugged since my adoptive family returned me to the state. It was the hugs that I missed the most, being held and touched with affection—even if the affection was only skin deep.

I often wished afterward that I didn’t know what it was like to be held. I wished they’d never hugged me. I resented them for showing me what I was missing. I was growing to resent Ronan for similar reasons, but it was much worse.