He yanked his shirt over his head, and my jaw fell open. I snapped it shut again before he caught me staring, but honestly, his torso was absolute perfection. Smooth muscles, nicked in places, and dusted with dark hair. Tattoos encircled one shoulder and wound down his arm. I wanted to lick every inch of him. But that wasn’t what we were here for.

I pointed to the bed and he lay down, his arms thrown carelessly above his head. For a moment, it struck me how much trust it took to let his guard down like this. I hoped he knew that after the past two days, I’d cut my arm off before I’d hurt him.

I cleared my throat and climbed onto the bed. Then hesitated. I’d imagined straddling him, but I hadn’t considered the reality of what that would involve. He had a glorious bubble butt, and if I sat on him the way I’d planned, I’d be pinning my crotch against it.

“Everything okay?” he asked, his muscles tensing and reminding me of why I had to suck up my discomfort and do this. Lately, I’d been taking while he’d been giving. That needed to change.

“Yes, of course.” I slung a leg over him and sank into position, trying to ignore the heat of his flesh between my legs. I reached into my pocket and withdrew the small vile of massage oil Sage had given me, dripping it onto his back. He flinched in surprise. “Sorry.”

I recapped the bottle and pocketed it, then rubbed the oil into his skin. It smelled of eucalyptus and something else I couldn’t put my finger on. I breathed it in and set to work, stroking along each of his muscles to loosen them up.

His skin was smoother than I’d expected, and he seemed to sink deeper into relaxation with every glide of my hands, except for when I focused on a knot. Given the way he groaned, I didn’t think he minded the brief discomfort because of the relief it brought him. I found myself seeking out those knots and pressing closer to him with each ragged sigh. What the hell was wrong with me? Ronan had seen a man die today, and here I was, riding his butt like a hussy.

Desperate for a distraction, I traced one of his scars with a finger. It bisected his trapezius muscle over his shoulder. “How did you get this?”

He stiffened. “Nasty story. Are you sure you want to know?”

I hesitated. I’d only asked the question idly, but yes, I wanted to know all there was to know about him. “Yes.”

He turned sideways and glanced up at me. “I accidentally interrupted Mom with one of her johns. He was angry. Used a switchblade on me.”

My heart squeezed. “How old were you?” I didn’t really want to know, but felt I needed to.

“Eight.”

A lump lodged in my throat. At eight years old, children should be playing with their toys, not being hurt by grown men. “That’s awful.”