And damnit, but Ronan was right—Nireas’s stare was palpable, a fold of concentration or worry on his brow as he watched Ronan bucking into me. Worse, I'd known. I'd always known Nireas watched. Watched but never touched, although his stare was almost enough. It caressed over my breasts, skimmed over my lips, and tugged on the roots of my hair, written out in melody as he played and studied me.
