Ronan was not used to pleasing anyone. The concept itself was foreign—he was always the one in control, the one dictating the pace, the one others submitted to.
So when Riven looked at him like that—mischievous, predatory, as if he were the one about to devour him—Ronan felt something unsettling stir in his chest. A strange mix of unease and anticipation.
Riven took his time, fingers gliding up the front of Ronan's uniform until they reached the knot of his tie. He toyed with it, twisting the silk between his fingers before giving a playful tug.
"You're so tense," Riven murmured, leaning in so close that his breath ghosted against Ronan's throat. "Relax, won't you?"
Ronan didn't reply, but his jaw clenched as Riven slowly, deliberately, loosened the tie. He could feel Riven's fingers brushing against his collarbone, featherlight touches that did far more damage than they should.
The tie slipped free.
