Chapter 30
thirty
. . .
Violet
The morning sun filters through Rowan’s bedroom curtains, casting golden stripes across the crumpled sheets. His scent clings to the pillow beside me. I burrow into it, eyes closed, heart too full for my chest.
I feel him everywhere. Not just in my body, which is somehow both sore and aching for more, but in the echo of his hands, the way he looked at me like I was something sacred. Like he’d been starving for years and was finally allowed a taste, only to pull back before he could lose control.
Because he did pull back. Eventually.
We kissed, talked, touched, but when I tried to pull him in again later, he just tucked the blanket around me tighter and kissed my forehead.
“We’ve got time, baby,” he whispered.
It was sweet. Kind. Thoughtful.
And so very not what I wanted. I think it put him at ease, protecting me instead of pushing a boundary I never set.
He kissed my shoulder, whispered something about how he didn’t want to hurt me, how he wanted to make sure I was okay.
I nodded, even though what I really wanted to say was I want to be ruined a little, Rowan.
I want to feel you tomorrow, and the next day, and the one after that.
I let him play the gentleman. Let him hold me like I was precious and breakable. Let him sleep with his arm draped over my waist and his breath warm against the back of my neck.
I think he needed that. Maybe I did, too.
But this morning, waking up with the sun on my skin and the scent of him still wrapped around me, I can’t help but wonder if we’re both going to keep holding back for each other’s sake.
If last night taught me anything, it’s that I don’t want slow and cautious.
I want Rowan—hungry, messy, and mine. All the way.
The blankets rustle, and his breathing changes as he wakes. The mattress dips as he shifts, his movements careful, like he’s trying not to disturb me. I keep my eyes closed, curious about what he does when he thinks I’m not watching.
His fingers brush my hair from my face with such tenderness it makes my heart ache. Then the blankets shift, and cool air sweeps against my skin as he pulls the sheet back.
“Fuck,” he whispers, his voice rough with sleep and something a lot like regret.
I open my eyes to find him staring at my hips, his expression stricken. Following his gaze, I see what’s caught his attention—distinct marks on each hip, already darkening into bruises where his fingers dug in last night.
“Rowan?”
His head snaps up, guilt washing over his features. “I’m sorry,” he says immediately, fingers hovering just above the bruises without touching them. “You were a virgin, Violet. It shouldn’t have gotten like that.”
I reach down and wrap my fingers around his wrist, guiding his hand to my skin, right over the bruises. He flinches, but I don’t let go.
“Don’t apologize.” I press his hand more firmly against my hip. “I like it,” I whisper, heat rising to my cheeks.
His brow furrows. “Violet—”
“No, listen to me.” I sit up, letting the rest of the sheet fall away. “Last night was perfect. Not because you were gentle, which you were when I needed it, but because you were you.” I guide his fingers to trace the bruise again. “These don’t hurt. They remind me that you wanted me.”
Heat, disbelief, and unmistakable hunger flash in his eyes. “That’s not an excuse for leaving marks on you like that.”
“I’m not giving you an excuse,” I cut in, firm and sure. “I’m giving you permission.”
A muscle tenses in his jaw, and his gaze drops to where our fingers rest on my hip. “I’m fucked up, Violet. I like my marks on your skin, but I don’t like the idea that I lost control.”
“I don’t want you holding back for me,” I say softly. “I want to know the things you like, the things you want. Maybe I’ll like them, too.” My voice lowers to a whisper. “Isn’t that the point? That we get to learn each other?”
The storm in his eyes settles into something calmer.
“You’re not going to break me, Rowan. The only thing that would hurt is if you kept hiding pieces of yourself from me.”
Rowan’s jaw works harder as he studies me, his eyes darkening into that fierce blue that makes my stomach flip. He shifts, sitting up fully against the headboard, his bare chest rising with a deep breath.
“You think you know what you’re asking for,” he says, voice rough. “But you don’t.”
I tilt my chin up. “Then tell me.”
He watches me for a long moment, like he’s trying to decide if I can handle whatever truth he’s holding back. Finally, he speaks, each word deliberate and heavy.
“I like it rough, Violet. I don’t just mean a little hair pulling or those bruises on your hips.” His eyes never leave mine. “I mean I want to bend you over and take you until you’re begging. I want to hear you choke on my name while I fuck you from behind with my hand around your throat.”
For a heartbeat, the room goes very still. The part of me that’s always so careful just…pauses. Listens.
“I want to leave marks all over that perfect skin,” he continues, his voice dropping lower. “I want to tie you up, make you come until you’re begging for mercy.”
Heat floods through me, pooling low in my stomach. His words slide under my skin, waking something in me I didn’t know I was starving for.
“I’ve spent years being the guy who takes instead of gives.
The one who hurts instead of heals.” His hand moves to my face, cupping my cheek with unexpected gentleness.
“But with you, Violet… With you, I want it all. The rough and the tender. I want to wreck you and then put you back together. I’ve never wanted the soft moments before.
Never wanted to hold someone after, or wake up next to them, or just…
be still together.” His thumb traces my lower lip. “But with you, I want that.”
Good lord.
That’s the only coherent thought I can manage, which seems inadequate.
I’ve spent so long being cautious and careful with my heart. Careful with my body. Now I know I want to be wanted fiercely. I’ve wanted to be kept.
I want someone who can meet me in the dark and then sit with me in the morning light. Someone who will wreck me and cherish me after.
And he’s sitting right here, saying he wants both.
No, this isn’t scaring me away at all.
“I fucked this all up,” he mutters. “Didn’t I, Violet?”
I lean forward, my hands finding his shoulders. I use them to brace myself as I move to straddle him. His eyes widen, hands automatically going to my waist.
“No, you didn’t,” I whisper, lowering myself until our bodies are flush. “Show me what you want.”
His grip tightens, a flash of uncertainty crossing his features.
“I trust you,” I say, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I always have.”
My kiss barely lands before his hand comes up, gripping my jaw—not gentle this time. He doesn’t pull me away, but doesn’t rush in, either. He just holds me there, thumb pressing into my cheek.
Then his mouth crashes into mine.
It’s hungry and claiming, restraint no longer an option. His other hand locks around my hip, fingers biting hard.
I lied earlier. The bruises do hurt, but I welcome the pain. I find myself enjoying it. The only words that keep repeating in my mind are his, his, his.
He devours me, his tongue claiming, teeth grazing.
I grip his shoulders, marveling at the way hard muscle tenses beneath my fingers, how solid he feels when he moves.
One second, I’m in front of him. The next, the world tilts, and I’m on my back, the mattress yielding beneath me as his weight settles in.
Pinned.
The realization sends a thrilling jolt straight through me.
“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he growls against my throat, teeth scraping the sensitive skin there. “Every time I look at you, I want to strip you down.”
His hand glides down between us, finding where I’m already slick. He pushes two fingers inside me, and I arch up with a gasp.
“Rowan,” I moan, my hips lifting to meet his hand.
“You like that?” His voice is rough against my ear. “You like when I fuck you with my fingers?”
“Yes.”
He withdraws, and I whimper at the loss. Then he shifts, moving lower, his broad shoulders pushing my thighs apart. His eyes meet mine, dark and hungry, as he settles between my legs.
“I’m going to taste you,” he says, “and I’m not stopping until you’re screaming, Violet.”
The first stroke of his tongue has me clutching at the sheets. His hands grip my thighs so hard I know there will be more bruises tomorrow.
I don’t care. I want them all.
His tongue is relentless as he laps at me, his stubble scraping roughly against my sensitive skin. The contrast between his soft tongue and harsh grip is almost too much, and yet, not nearly enough.
He sucks my clit, fingers digging deeper into my thighs, forcing them wider apart.
“Rowan, please…”
He silences me with his tongue, thrusting it inside me with zero warning and no mercy. My back bows off the mattress, a sharp cry tearing free as ecstasy crashes over me in waves.
He lifts his head to look up at me, pupils blown wide. “I told you I’m not stopping until you scream, baby. I meant it.”
Then he’s back between my thighs, and he feasts on me like my reactions are fuel, like every gasp and broken sound is permission.
I shatter. The scream he promised rips out of me, my whole body locking around the feeling as it crests and crashes. My hands fist in his hair, my legs shaking violently, but he doesn’t stop.
I’m nowhere near coming down from my high when he flips me over onto my stomach with effortless strength. His hand presses between my shoulder blades while the other grips my hip and pulls me up onto my knees.
“Violet,” he groans, but there’s a pause. “Are you still good with this?”
I bite back a moan, tilting my head to the side so he can see my answer in my eyes. “Yes,” I manage, my voice trembling with the aftershock of what he’s already done.
A slow smile curls at the corner of his mouth. “Good,” he mutters. “Tell me, baby… How’s my pretty pussy after last night? Can you take more?”