Rowan (The Irish Wolves Book 3)

Chapter 33

After showering and changing, they went to see Nan, who they knew would be anxious to lay eyes on Rowan.

Nan had filled three tables full of food. She’d made the girls’ favorites—all of their favorites—some of their parents’ favorites. The O’Faolains had a table just for them, Devlen had a spread, and her grandma even did Jo’s favorite apricot jam-filled sandwich cookies and Scottish shortbread for MacGregor in thanks for all his help in finding Rowan. Kitchen therapy.

Raven, River, and Rowan, because they could be childish when the need arose, took a picture of them each grinning around a whole sandwich cookie shoved in their mouths and sent it to Jo. She took a picture of her flipping them off with a ‘Paybacks’ caption.

Nan had hugged her for at least an hour, rocking Rowan in her lap and crying over her head, sniffling, and patting her and her sisters at five-minute intervals. It had taken a lot of talking and reassurances, but finally, she’d settled into grandma and great-grandma mode.

Nan insisted on seeing each of Rowan’s scrapes, bruises, and scabs, gently kissing the worst of them. When she teared up, they all did, but it was cleansing.

Hugh, Bran, Patrick, and Devlen moved her things out of the apartment while the women visited and caught up. Hugh wanted her things moved to his flat, or their flat as he insisted on calling it, immediately.

With every pass through the living room carrying her things to the waiting truck below, he would make eye contact. She felt her stomach flutter with every box and rack of clothes that went out the door.

She and Hugh were going to be living together. Every day and every night. It still seemed impossible. While River was in the middle of telling Nan about her last doctor visit, Rowan slid her phone from her pocket and pulled up her text messages.

You’re so handsome you take my breath away.

Bubbles appeared...

You’re biased.

Women embarrass themselves daily drooling over you. Why can’t I?

Untrue.

Always so modest, Rowan thought.

What would you like to do tonight…that includes my mouth specifically?

Rowan had just hit send when the apartment door opened again. Hugh looked at his phone and must have seen her last text because the look he gave her was all angry smolder.

Her favorite.

Patrick announced that they had everything loaded and were going to head back to the O Building. Bran walked to Raven and kissed his wife and son. Patrick walked to River, kissing her—far longer than was appropriate, of course—and cupped her stomach, grinning like a maniac. Hugh thanked Devlen for his help, accepted a to-go treat box from Nan, and stared at Rowan from the doorway.

He didn’t even say goodbye.

Breathe.She told herself. She knew he wouldn’t become demonstrative in an afternoon. He loved her, and she loved him. It was more than enough.

His huge paw of a hand flexed on the door’s frame as he stared at her one more time, his jaw flexing with emotion before he firmly shut the heavy door behind him.

Thirty seconds later.

You. On your knees. Specifically.

“Is your Daddy texting you something naughty?” River poked Rowan’s thigh with her bare toes.

Rowan felt her face flame. If they only knew. With Nan’s keen eye laser-focused on what River was talking about, Rowan knew a change of subject was needed.

“We’re going out to dinner tomorrow night with Tim and Saoirse, Nan. The guys want to go over the plans for the distillery, and we just want to talk to Saoirse about her wedding dress,” she chuckled.

Nan showed them the dress she was thinking about wearing to the wedding and what she’d picked out for Devlen. Thanksgiving lists were made, and tasks were divvied up. They discussed possible scenarios about Jo and Thomas breaking up. Unanimously, they agreed it had to have been something the grumpy Scot had done.

The rest of the afternoon was wonderful and relaxing—sprinkled with hundreds of random inappropriate thoughts about her boyfriend. Smothering her random grins was the only trial.

“I orderedFrench onion soup earlier and garden salads from that bakery down the block that you like, Bácús. Would you like me to heat some up for dinner? It’s early yet, I know, but just in case you’re hungry...” Hugh let his voice trail off, inwardly groaning at his awkwardness. Rowan was standing in his kitchen, the soft, butter-yellow appliances the perfect backdrop to her causal lean.

It’s too bad he sounded like a nervous waiter on his first day on the job. Was he about to ask what she’d like to drink? He fidgeted with the barstools before toying with the blown glass sculpture Rowan must have picked out. It was all the colors of the sun, deep red, fire orange, and too many yellows to count all swirled together. He wouldn’t have picked it, but he could admit it looked perfect on the kitchen island.

And what was Rowan doing while he did his best to not look like a squirrely, clueless teenager? She just leaned there. Her back against the counter, elbows resting atop the barstools on either side of her.

Unruffled, casual, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, calculating…something.

“I’m not hungry for that,” she finally managed to speak.

Hugh grimaced. Damn, he’d thought that was one of her favorite meals. “I have eggs and cheese. I can make a simple omelet…though Pat is the best cook. I could call h?—”

Rowan interrupted. “I’m not hungry. For food.”

He swallowed thickly at the blatant innuendo of what she was hungry for. So, that was her game. His body instantly responded, forcing him to adjust himself, which he didn’t bother to hide.

Her eyes followed the movement. He didn’t say another word, just waited and watched, leaning against the counter himself now. Watching her watch him.

She would cave eventually.

She didn’t cave. She just took what she wanted.

Rowan pushed off the counter, moving left to sidle up in front of him before laying her hands flat on the marble, either side of his body.

“Take your shirt off,” she demanded.

Fuuuuckkkk.He almost got whiplash. He ripped the offending garment off his head so fast. When she ran her nails over his chest, leaning forward to kiss and lick his nipples, his legs threatened to buckle

Clearing his throat, he said, “Please, be careful of your hand.” She’d told him it felt fine. Most of the damage had been around her wrist and above her thumb. Still...

When her fingers paused at his waistband, he placed his hands around her tiny waist and pulled her tight against his body. She stood on top of his shoes, giving her a few extra inches. He leaned closer to her upturned face.

Instead of kissing him, she whispered, “Get your phone out and read the last text from you to me.”

He felt fire race up his spine. He knew exactly what his last text had been. “I don’t need my phone.” You. On your knees. Specifically.

“Well?” She whispered against his lips.

His answer was to scoop her up and sprint to their bedroom.

Two hours and a shower later, he and Rowan settled in the living room, wolfing down French onion soup and crusty baguettes on their cream-colored leather couch, watching the first season of Great British Bake Off. Apparently, he had to see the original judges, Paul Hollywood and Mary Berry, to fully appreciate the later seasons.

His body temperature was still running warm from coming twice, but he felt insatiable where Rowan was concerned. In fact, he was having trouble concentrating on the difference between a stodgy cake and a claggy one—who in the hell cared? Rowan.

He was in the middle of dunking a bite of bread in his soup and pondering why the contestants were made to use, surely, the smallest ovens in the world, when his attention was snagged again by the woman sitting next to him. Rowan had slipped the silver spoon between her lips and sucked off the broth, licking the stray drops from the metal. Christ, have mercy.

Her mouth had been doing something similar to his body not long ago. He gritted his teeth as he felt himself swell against his pajama pants. He really should be satisfied, but where wanting her was concerned, he had little control.

Rowan looked away from the television, glancing his way, probably feeling his gaze.

“Do you like the soup?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You aren’t eating it.”

“I’d rather eat you.” Her faced flamed with rosy heat. Her pale skin had no chance of camouflaging her reactions. This flush wasn’t from embarrassment but from need. He could tell by her eyes that she wanted him.

They set their trays on the side tables. She crawled over the couch and straddled his lap, kissing him once before sliding his t-shirt over his head. He took hers off, too, palming her breasts the minute they were free. She was wearing tiny sleep shorts that allowed her to feel the thick ridge rocking between her legs.

“Condom?” she asked between kisses.

“Pocket.”

“Prepared.” She nipped his lip and rocked faster.

“Always,” he moaned.

“Want you inside me now,” she panted, dropping her head back to give him better access to suck her nipples into his mouth.

He’d just hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pajama pants when someone—he would gladly kill—pounded their fist on the front door.

“Ignore it,” Hugh demanded, continuing to take his pants down when the pounding started up again, and he heard, “Dad, I know your home. Open up.”

He and Rowan both groaned at the interruption. Her hands had already fisted around his sex. “He’ll go away,” he reasoned.

She was already backing off his lap, pulling her hands from his body. “It’s Pat. It might be about River.”

“She would have called you,” he groused, standing and pulling his pants up. He attempted to find a position for his dick where it wouldn’t pop out.

“God, I love your body, babe,” she said, stepping forward once more, smashing her chest against his abs.

He wrapped her up and was about to lift her against his body when Pat had the nerve to bang on the door. Again. “Dad! I need something!” Pat whined.

He grabbed up his shirt and slid it over her body before storming toward the apartment’s entrance.

As he yanked the door open, Patrick’s fist was raised, presumably in preparation to beat on his door for a third time. His son smirked as he took in Hugh’s appearance—raging hard-on and shirtless.

“Jesus, Dad, you’ll poke my eye out with that thing. I would have called, but I forgot my phone downstairs.”

Hugh gritted his teeth against the teasing, wanting desperately to tackle his son and beat the smartass out of him. He heard Rowan snort in amusement behind them. She must have moved into the kitchen.

“What in the fuck do you want?” Thankfully his erection was powering down. He only had to get rid of the jackass at his door, and he’d be hard again and sinking into Rowan’s heat.

Patrick pushed past his dad and went straight to Rowan. Over his shoulder, he said, “Riv wants one of those German garlic pickles, and I’m out. I saw you had a case in your pantry the other day.”

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

He disappeared into the walk-in pantry and got out two jars for River, shoving the heavy glass jars into Pat’s chest, causing the nuisance to make a satisfying grunt. He propped his hip on the center island near Rowan and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Leave.” Patrick ignored him.

“Hey Sister, Dad’s shirt looks better on you than him.” He grinned at her blush. “It’d probably be more comfortable if it wasn’t on backwards.”

With that parting shot, the swaggering shit let himself out. Hugh was congratulating himself that he’d managed not to cringe when his son called Rowan, Sister. He promised her to lighten up, and he was pretty sure he’d nailed it.

“He’s gone. You can stop clenching your jaw in embarrassment,” she giggled, poking him in the stomach.

So, he hadn’t nailed it. Shit.

“Let’s pick up the food in the living room, and then you can take me to bed,” she smiled, pressing a kiss to his chest.

He walked to the TV and shut it down. She’d remembered to pause it so they wouldn’t miss the ‘Showstopper bake,’ she’d explained. Grrrreat.

Rowan’s phone pinged with a notification. She was carrying her food tray to the kitchen while she looked at her phone. When she snorted in amusement, he girded his loins.

She handed it to him. It was a text from River, of course.

Jesus, Row. Give Daddy’s D a break. He promised to help Pat put the baby’s crib together tomorrow, and he won’t be able to if he’s all chafed…down there...

He handed the phone back, suppressing a shudder. Rowan took the phone back and rapidly typed out a reply before handing the phone back to him.

Tell Patrick to stop watching you eat your pickle. It’s creepy.

She grinned at him. He couldn’t help but grin back.