Rowan (The Irish Wolves Book 3)

Chapter 1

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Hugh bellowed, startling Rowan and almost making her tumble from her precarious perch.

She was currently stretched atop one of the highest rungs on Hugh’s library ladder. Flustered and annoyed, her usual feelings around the retired oil billionaire, she stopped reaching for the book that had caught her eye. Technically, a book hadn’t caught her eye, but an exquisitely crafted archival box and her curiosity about what it might hold got the best of her. It was placed on the highest bookshelf, mocking her short frame, which was why she found herself on the ladder in the first place.

Rowan swung her head around, ready to growl back a response, the only language the man seemed to understand, and remind Hugh the Harasser that he had, in fact, given her permission to be here not three hours ago at Irish Wolves Pub Eatery.

Wolves was the O’Faolains’ first experimental step as restaurateurs and where she’d spent New Year’s Eve with her two sisters and their significant others, Bran and Patrick, Hugh’s sons…and Hugh. Both of their families had been staying at the O’Faolain compound in Muskogee, Oklahoma, during the holiday season and for Raven and Bran’s wedding.

Before she could shut down the Master of Moodiness, Rowan lost her balance. One moment, she was all easy elegance—à la Belle swinging on her hometown bookstore’s ladder, carefree and smiling. Then one foot slipped, the arm previously reaching for the treasure above her head flailing, which shifted her weight and momentum. A ballet choreographed in disaster, and unlike the bibliophilic Beauty, there was no singing and certainly no grace.

She felt her remaining hand slip, which allowed her upper body to slow-fall backward. The only purchase left was one foot, five little toes, gripping a step. For a single heartbeat, Rowan thought she might tip her body back toward the ladder’s safety. Unfortunately, her windmilling arms had no effect on gravity.

Rowan had a moment to consider what a header to the stone library floor might feel like—on her face—when a warm hand slid beneath Rowan’s pajama shorts. Beast to the rescue. Large fingers gripped her bare ass, stopping the inevitable fall. Rowan’s body halted abruptly, arched backward at an awkward angle like a stringless marionette.

However, with Hugh’s hand hidden beneath her shorts, a risqué sculpture in freefall might be a better description. Visualize Atlas holding up the heavens and then replace the Titan with Hugh holding her ass.

His warm grip was the architectural keystone suspending disaster and injury. It also created a shocking level of intimacy.

As Rowan slightly twisted toward the O’Faolain patriarch, she witnessed the widening of his eyes and the complete stillness of his body as his fingertips found their resting places, touching her most intimate...nooks and crannies.

Hugh might not be a Greek god, but the man was huge and mouthwateringly gorgeous. No matter how undignified her current position, she prayed he’d keep touching her.

Rowan was afraid to move. First, she didn’t want him to take his fingers away, and second, if he moved his fingers, she was afraid a moan might slip out.

And then...his fingers flexed—barely—and, oh God, she moan-squeaked. Kill me.

Squeaking was so not sexy.

Hugh’s eyes flew to hers. He was the most intense man Rowan had ever met, and right now, she wanted all that pent-up, growling, testosterone-fueled intensity sinking into her body. His dark brown eyes looked almost black as they stared at one another.

Hugh inhaled deeply before reaching his free hand toward her and placing it against her side closest to the rungs. Rowan shivered as his heat radiated through the thin material of her sleep tank, then inhaled sharply as his grip tightened and his thumb pressed below her right breast.

It was Hugh’s turn to moan. Rowan watched him close his eyes and swallow. He was always rigidly in control of himself. At that moment, he looked a hairsbreadth away from pulling Rowan into his arms and finally, finally, touching her the way she’d dreamed of him doing—the way his face always said he wanted to.

Opening his eyes, Hugh easily lifted her from the ladder, setting her carefully in front of him. As he slowly pulled his fingers from inside her shorts, Rowan knew he must have felt her damp heat. When he muttered “Christ” under his breath, she was sure of it.

He hadn’t removed his hand from her side yet. From his much greater height, Hugh was 6’4” to her 5’4”, his thumb rested snugly under her breast, pushing her boob slightly higher than the other. He had to know where he was touching her. When his thumb slowly swiped right, the nail’s tip edging her painfully erect nipple, Rowan knew he knew what he was touching.

As Rowan took a tentative half step forward to close the gap between their bodies, Hugh’s breath exploded, and he practically tripped over his feet as he released her and jumped back. Rowan could only blink in wonderment at the man’s mercurial moods. She was tired of him looking at her like he wanted her close while putting up walls to keep her far away. It was confusing and frustrating—and had been going on for months.

Tired of the mixed signals, Rowan took a step toward him. “Hugh,” she began softly, “Will you ki—.” Before she could finish asking him to kiss her, he cut her off.

“Why are you here?” he demanded.

So, they were playing the Ignore What Just Happened game. Typical. He stood there, looking furious and devastatingly handsome, damn it. He still wore his slacks and white button-up from Wolves. The blazer was gone, and his sleeves were rolled up, showing off the ridges of his muscular forearms and their dusting of dark hair. God, Rowan wished she could explore his body. For days.

“If you’ll recall, you told me when we got home that you were headed to your office to make sure our flight to Dublin was finalized for the morning, and you also wanted to answer some emails.” When he continued to stare with his unblinking stoney expression, Rowan got even more pissed. “You told me that I could use your library for about an hour while you worked. And that’s what I did after I changed!” Rowan shouted. “I’ve only been in here, like thirty minutes.”

“That was two hours ago.”

Shit. Rowan could feel her cheeks heat. Damn. Damn. Damn. Clearing the stutter of embarrassment from her throat, she calmly replied, “Time obviously got away from me.” This was true. There were so many books to see and touch and a million more still in boxes to discover. How could he blame her for that?

“It’s late, and I don’t have time to waste playing librarian with you,” Hugh snarled. “I’m going to bed. Please shut the door on your way out.”

Rowan’s whole body was combustably hot. Scorching. Initially, the heat had come from the object of her deepest desire, Hugh Darcy O’Faolain, having his hands on her body. Finally. The heat running lava tracks through her veins now was all fury as Hugh’s bedroom door clicked closed behind him. Asshole.

Rowan knew he desired her. He’d done nothing but visually stalk her for months. He’d practically torn Ciaran Murphy’s head from his shoulders when the Irish pub owner had dared put his arm around her. Hugh’s behavior wasn’t fatherly, at all, but the stubborn man refused to make a move on her! It had to be their age difference, but Jesus, get over it.

Her two older sisters were married to or dating his sons. Rowan was the youngest of the lot, but still, again, he needed to let it go. She was a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and who she wanted doing it to her.

She was sick of his heated looks and possessive behavior if he never planned on acting on one damn thing. Only a few hours earlier at Wolves, she and Hugh had spent time alone together looking at the memorial she’d helped design for his late father. There had been a moment where he’d rested his heavy hand on her lower back. It felt like he had been branding her, staking his claim.

Then they’d danced together as the clock struck midnight. He’d pulled her tight to his body. The new year had started with the two of them holding each other. It had seemed a portent for things to come. A beginning. And then...Why are you here? It’s late, and I don’t have time to waste playing librarian with you. I’m going to bed. Please shut the door on your way out.

Screw that. Rowan had had enough of his bullshit. Mind made up, she opened the door Hugh had disappeared through and found herself in an all-white paradise. Rowan wasn’t sure what she’d expected of Hugh’s bedroom, his inner sanctum, but breezy white linens and warm woods weren’t it. But then, black silk sheets and red roses didn’t match him either. The more she looked around her, she decided the simplicity in the room was beautiful and peaceful.

Unfortunately, the aesthetics hadn’t rubbed off on the killjoy.

Hugh’s bedroom included an open lavatory. She heard the shower running, but surely, he hadn’t gotten in yet. He’d only stormed off a few minutes ago. More lovely white met her eyes; counters, braided rugs covered warm wood floors, white-framed family photos. Rowan momentarily got sucked into looking at the candid pictures of Hugh and his mother and father and Hugh with his sons. They were so and heart-warming that Rowan almost forgot she was in Hugh’s personal, really personal, space.

Her favorite was a candid photo of Hugh holding Bran to his side, his chubby legs and white blonde hair unmistakable. His other arm held a baby. Patrick. The absolute joy of Hugh’s smile made Rowan’s heart pound. An answering joy spread along her nerves. Hugh was an exceptional father. She wished desperately that her own father could have met him.

Rowan rounded the wooden partition to find— Oh. My. God. —Solid glass walls. Hugh naked behind the glass. One hand plastered above his bowed head, water beaded off his short hair, running tracks through his long dark beard, highlighting the white and silver streaks. His broad back blocked most of the spray, giving Rowan an unimpeded view of Hugh’s magnificent body. His other hand...Christ, her mouth was dry. His other hand was stroking his extremely large, extremely erect sex.

He was masturbating. Rowan was watching Hugh O’Faolain masturbate.

She backed up a step until her back hit the wood slats of the dividing wall. She could only stare in wonder at his body. Knowing a man is big and fit isn’t the same as seeing that man naked...and aroused. His body was art, all ropey muscles, furrows, and valleys. Abdominal ridges highlighted by the perfect vee of his hips. A Spartan warrior—one she wanted to touch and taste. Rowan felt her nipples harden and her sex clench with every stroke of his palm. She should run.

Running wasn’t her style.

His fingers had brushedbetween Rowan’s legs, Jesus. He’d felt everything from her core to between her cheeks. It had taken everything he had, all his determination, not to let his fingers sink in everywhere they could. He was still imagining doing just that, which is why he was currently jacking off, but fuck him, he knew from multiple other attempts that his hand would never relieve the ache he felt deep in his body for that woman.

He groaned as he remembered his fingertips barely sliding against the lips of her sex. She’d been feverishly hot. Wet. For him.

He hated himself for wanting her. He was even more furious with himself for getting off to thoughts of her, but at that moment, he couldn’t stop. Knowing she was younger than his sons didn’t force his hand to cease.

He could not, would not, touch her. More than he had only moments ago, he supposed. Hugh stroked a little faster thinking of her plump breasts and hard nipples. That top she’d been wearing left little to the imagination, and where Rowan was concerned, his imagination was poetic.

Hugh froze as movement caught his attention. His head jerked up and...he had an audience. Rowan was there. She was leaning against the opposite wall, her eyes wide. God, her nipples were hard, and her mouth was parted, panting. She’d been watching him. She was turned on. That almost had him coming, but...

He let go of his hard flesh, taking a small step away from the glass, about to grab a towel and demand answers as to why she was there.

She held her hand out to him and shook her head. Through the shower’s mist, Hugh watched her mouth move, heard the words her lips formed, and knew he was in trouble.

“Don’t stop.”

That’s all she said. Her eyes never wavered. She only stood straighter, and Hugh watched Rowan’s hands pinch the thin hem of her tank and tug it over her head. Hugh’s hand landed flat against the glass wall of his shower. He hadn’t even been aware of stepping close to the partition again. Her breasts were perfection. Full. He ached to cup them in his hands.

There was a tattoo on the side of her right breast. What the fuck was it? Hugh didn’t care, he only wanted to suck and bite the mark—cover her mark with his.

“Rowan,” he groaned. “I’m not touching you.” It was all he wanted.

“I’ll touch myself and wish it was you,” she replied, her voice husky with desire.

He’d done so well at pretending for months that she could never want him this way. That his obsession was one-sided. Sure, Hugh had seen her watching him, but he assumed it was because he constantly made an ass out of himself around her. He’d felt like a pervert for wanting such a young woman. He hadn’t dared entertain her wanting him. Jesus, it still didn’t change things. She was too young to recognize he wasn’t what she needed.

He had to be stronger. Why, then, was he not stopping this?

She leaned back against the wall, arching her back slightly to make her breasts stand out even more. No matter the number of chastisements heaped upon his conscience, he couldn’t look away. He could not pull his gaze from her body. Then she shocked the hell out of him. Rowan looked him in the eye and slowly ran the fingers of her right hand across her breasts, ripping a groan from his throat when she squeezed her nipples before sliding down the flat plain of her stomach, slipping beneath her shorts. She was bare beneath, he knew personally. Was she...was she going to touch herself? Make herself come? While he fucking watched?

Rowan only continued to consider him as her fingers slipped lower. She widened her stance. Hugh saw her hand moving side to side, then up and down, in and out. Her pants roared in his ears. The bathroom could be burning down around his head, and he wouldn’t have looked away. His right hand drifted toward his swollen flesh, pinching the head once. He was about to release himself, but Rowan was watching him intently. She moaned, “Yes, Hugh.”

As her movements became more frantic, Hugh couldn’t stop from pumping himself in return. They never stopped watching each other. Rowan’s mouth had curved in an almost painful expression. She was close, so close. Hugh stroked faster and faster. His balls were tight, and he could feel himself tipping over the edge. As Rowan screamed his name, Hugh painted the glass walls in streams of white. His body bowed in a perfect pain, his legs shook, barely holding his weight. That was the most erotic moment of his life, and he’d only touched himself.

His most sensual experience was with a woman younger than—Damn it! He stood straight, ashamed about what he’d done. Hugh flinched at seeing Rowan’s perfect breasts still on full display, swearing as she slowly pulled her hand from between her legs, wishing simultaneously that she was completely naked and thankful it was one less visual he had to endure during his sleepless nights.

Rowan never said another word. She bent down to retrieve her top from the floor, her breasts swaying with the movement, and slipped it easily over her head. He saw her tattoo clearly then. A triskelion disk and a tree, probably to represent her name. She gave him a smile, small but enough to show off her gorgeous dimples.

Dimples that he only wanted her to show him. If she were his alone, Hugh would demand she only smile for him.

It was painful to remember that she would never be his, and he would never be hers.

She turned and left. His cum still marked this moment of folly.