I'm In Love With Him
LILIANA’S POV
I woke with a groan, my whole body humming in a way that was equal parts bliss and pain. Every inch of me ached in that delicious way that made me want to bury my face in the pillow and grin like a fool. My thighs burned, my core throbbed, even my throat was sore from all the screaming he’d pulled out of me.
Ronny had kept his promise.
No—he had obliterated it.
He hadn’t let me sleep until the sky outside the window began to pale with the first strokes of morning light. Over and over again, he dragged me under, broke me apart, put me back together, until I was nothing but jelly in his hands, tapping out and laughing and crying all at once. He had shown me things I didn’t even think possible, left me trembling, undone, ruined—and still, when I finally begged for mercy, he only smirked like the devil himself and made me beg harder.
And yet, I wouldn’t have traded a second of it.
When I finally stirred, my eyes fluttering open, the first thing I noticed was that the bed was empty. The sheets still smelled like him, heat still clinging to them, but his body wasn’t there. For a second, my chest tightened—stupid, really, because of course he hadn’t just disappeared. He wasn’t that type. But my heart had the nerve to panic anyway.
Then I heard it.
The soft hiss of water running.
I blinked, winced at the soreness in my legs, and forced myself to stand. My knees wobbled so badly I almost laughed. He hadn’t exaggerated last night when he said I wouldn’t be able to walk. He had ruined me—in the most maddening, exhilarating way possible.
I shuffled toward the sound, my bare feet padding across the floor until I reached the bathroom door.
The sight stopped me cold.
Ronny stood under the spray of the shower, steam curling around his body, water running in rivulets over every hard line of muscle, every sharp cut of tattoo inked into his skin. My breath caught as I leaned against the doorframe, drinking him in. God, I couldn’t help it. I was obsessed. Absolutely obsessed. Every scar, every mark, every piece of art etched into his flesh was like a story I wanted to trace with my tongue.
He turned suddenly, like he could feel the weight of my stare, and his dark eyes locked onto mine through the steam.
“You’re sore.” His voice was low, a warning more than a question.
I should’ve been embarrassed at how my cheeks heated, but I wasn’t. Not with him.
“I know,” I said softly, stepping inside the warm fog.
And before I could lose my nerve, I joined him.
The water soaked me instantly, slicking down my hair, warming my skin. For a moment, we just stood there, the steam curling around us, the sound of the shower filling the silence. He looked at me, really looked, and for the first time since I’d met him, that cold, impenetrable mask on his face wasn’t there.
He looked younger. Softer. Carefree.
Like a boy who had forgotten the weight of the world for just a second.
And damn me, I couldn’t help myself.
I rose up on my toes and kissed him.
His lips twitched into the faintest smile, and I whispered against his mouth, “You look even better with a smile on.”
He turned his face away almost instantly, as if embarrassed to be caught. But I saw it—the tiny curve of his lips he couldn’t hide, the small crack in the wall he’d built around himself.
A chuckle rumbled in his chest, low and warm, and he shook his head, pushing wet hair back from his forehead. “You’re trouble.”
“Maybe,” I teased, bumping my shoulder into his.
And just like that, the heavy intensity that always hovered between us shifted. It wasn’t sex this time. It wasn’t war. It wasn’t even fire and danger. It was… light. Easy. He splashed water at me like a damn teenager, and I squealed, shoving at his chest.
“Ronny!”
His laugh—an honest, unguarded laugh—filled the bathroom, echoing off the tiles. It hit me harder than anything else he’d done. Harder than the orgasms, harder than the filthy promises. Because this… this was him. The man beneath all the shadows.
We played like kids, shoving and splashing and teasing until the steam was thick around us and my cheeks hurt from smiling. And when he finally turned the water off and stepped out, wrapping a towel low around his hips, I couldn’t stop watching him.
I lingered under the spray a little longer, smiling like an idiot.
When I finally stepped out, dripping water everywhere, I realized something that made me groan.
“Ronny!” I shouted.
“What?”
“You ruined my clothes!” I stood there with my hands on my hips, dripping wet. “What the hell am I supposed to wear now?”
Silence. And then, a lazy, unapologetic chuckle.
Before he could come back with one of his smug comments, my eyes caught on a door I hadn’t noticed before. Curious, I padded over and pushed it open.
A closet.
Correction—a cathedral dedicated to order and black clothing.
I stepped inside, my mouth parting in surprise. Every shirt, every pair of pants, every jacket was perfectly lined up, arranged like soldiers at attention. Color-coded too, though apparently his entire spectrum started and ended with black. It was obsessive, neat, intimidating—and somehow, so very Ronny.
I reached out, fingers brushing over one of the shirts. I pulled it down, brought it to my face, and breathed in.
His scent.
God, I could drown in it.
I slipped the shirt over my head, the fabric soft and too big, falling mid-thigh on me. It felt like armor and a confession all at once. Standing there in the middle of his closet, surrounded by his world, I suddenly realized something that made my knees weak.
It wasn’t just lust.
It wasn’t just obsession.
I wasn’t just addicted to the way he touched me or the way he ruined me.
I was already in too deep.
Somewhere between his brutal kisses and his rare, fleeting smile, I had fallen. Hard.
I didn’t just like Ronny.
I was already—terrifyingly, helplessly—deeply in love with him.
And that realization hit me like a bullet straight to the chest.
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