The Last Piece of His Heart (Lost Boys 3)

“You keep asking me that, as if it could be any more perfect.”

“I’ve never done something like this before.”

“You’re slaying this boyfriend stuff.” I leaned over the picnic blanket and kissed him. I tasted his potent fire, stirring places deep inside me that were hungry, and not for food.

We ate, as the sun began to sink in a blood orange sunset. Ronan opened his backpack and pulled out eight small metal torch-looking devices with stands, each no more than a foot tall.

“There’s more?” I asked.

“That was dinner,” he said. “This is Prom.”

He ringed the wooden viewing platform’s railing with the little torches and turned on their flickering orange LED lights. They glowed from within metal cups, each cut with flame-like designs to give the appearance that real fire burned within.

When they were set up, the entire space glowed, the orange light illuminating the orange wings of the butterflies that looked as if they’d gone to sleep.

“I figured—hoped—this place wouldn’t be busy at night,” Ronan said, as the last torch was lit. “But thanks to Parish…”

“You would have done this anyway? With an audience?”

He pulled me to my feet and held me close. “Only for you.”

We hovered in that moment, our lips inches apart, his eyes boring into me, smoky and hot. He leaned in, brushing that mouth of his against mine, sending sparks dancing down my neck, my chest, hardening my nipples.

But he didn’t kiss me. Instead, he pulled his iPhone from the back pocket of his jeans. “Music.”

My eyes widened. “Are we dancing?”

He made a noncommittal sound and showed me the phone. “I made a playlist of stuff I thought you might like.”

My heart…

He pressed the first song and Dua Lipa’s “Physical” played over his phone at a medium volume. “Don’t want to disturb them,” he said with a nod at the butterflies.

For a second, all I could do was stare at this man who was miles deeper than anyone knew. Considerate and kind beneath his hard stare and black ink.

Then I smiled as joy—running on the currents of the music—poured out of me. I danced on the platform, letting the song and euphoria carry me where they wanted to go. I took Ronan’s hands and tried to get him to join me, but he shook his head and pulled out of my grip.

“I don’t dance.”

“You’re just going to watch?”

“Yes.”

God, how he could load one syllable with so much sex was beyond me.

Ronan crossed his arms and leaned against the railing, and I could feel his heated, hooded gaze watching me as the night sky darkened to dark blue velvet.

The song ended and “Umbrella” began. I closed my eyes and let Rihanna’s voice take me too. I thought I’d feel self-conscious with Ronan watching me but instead, I felt electrified. Uninhibited. I moved to him, turned my back to him, pressing myself against him. His hands came up and took hold of my hips.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, his lips near my ear, his hands sliding up my waist to my breasts. I slid out of his grasp and tossed him a coy smile.

“If you want to touch me, you have to dance.”

He started to shake his head when the song ended and Maroon 5’s “She Will Be Loved” came on. A softer, slow song. I pul

led him to the center of the platform.

“Now you can touch me.”