Chapter 8 #2
“One of two, from what I gather.” Rowan turns onto the highway toward Rockhaven, merging into traffic with a check of his mirrors. “Locksmith and diner prep cook, right? You used to also work a night shift at a gas station, but you quit.”
Disquieted, I drop the hash browns back into the bag. “You’ve been busy.”
“Information is valuable.” He sips his coffee, focus never leaving the road. “Especially when it concerns interesting people.”
I turn to stare out the window, counting exits as we pass them, tracking our location by habit. The city thins out, buildings growing farther apart, green spaces appearing between developments as we approach the border of Ashford Heights and Rockhaven.
“Exit 32,” I say when we’re half a mile out. “Then right at the light.”
Rowan follows my directions, pulling into a parking lot connected to a row of boutique stores and professional offices. The car slides into a space near the end of the lot, engine idling.
“That building there?” He points to a brownstone with brass fixtures gleaming in the morning light.
“Yeah.” I crumple my wrapper into a tight ball. “Should take about two hours.”
Rowan doesn’t turn off the car but shifts into park, letting the heat continue to flow from the vents. Our breath begins to fog the windows, the cold outside creating condensation on the glass. The effect is isolating, cocooning us in a temporary bubble removed from the world outside.
“Thanks,” I say, the word unfamiliar on my tongue. “For the ride. And breakfast.”
“Practical solution for both of us.” Rowan’s fingers tap a rhythm on the steering wheel. “You arrive at your job on time. I have the pleasure of spending time with you.”
The coffee cup weighs almost nothing as I drain the last scalding sip. Empty cup, empty wrapper, ride and food provided. The tally in my head calculates what I’ve taken versus what I’ve given, and the imbalance itches under my skin.
My time isn’t worth that much, and I don’t take handouts.
Tossing the to-go bag onto the floor next to my tool bag, I turn to Rowan. His profile cuts a sharp line against the fogged window, with the hint of stubble darkening his jaw. His attention shifts to me, nostrils flaring as he registers the change in my scent.
My knee hits the gearshift as I climb over the console, the motion neither graceful nor unsure. Rowan’s hands find my hips, steadying me as I settle onto his lap, my thighs bracketing his.
“Well, hello there.” His fingers dig into my hips, testing the bruises he left last time, finding them through layers of denim.
“I don’t owe anyone.” The words come out rougher than intended, my throat tight with not quite anger or desire, but an emotion that exists in the overlap between the two.
Understanding flashes, and Rowan’s mouth curves into a dangerous half-smile. “Paying your debts?”
“Balancing the ledger.” I shift my hips, and he thickens beneath me.
My body remembers his, craves the stretch of him, and heat floods my bloodstream while the numbers keep running in my head.
Rowan’s hands slide up my sides, under my jacket but over my shirt, thumbs finding the grooves between my ribs. “Such integrity.”
“Shut up.” I crash my mouth onto his, cutting off whatever else he might say.
The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s teeth and tongue and hints of coffee, bitter and familiar. Rowan bites my lower lip, not hard enough to break skin but enough to send a jolt of electricity down my spine. My hands fist in his shirt, bunching the expensive fabric.
His tongue curls around mine, practiced and sure, while his fingers slip under my shirt to find bare skin.
I roll my hips, grinding down on the erection straining at the front of his jeans. The friction draws a groan from his throat that vibrates my lips. His hands drop to my ass, gripping hard enough to guide my movements without taking control.
The windows fog over as our breathing quickens, hot exhales creating a barrier between us and the outside world.
“How do you want this?” Rowan asks, his mouth moving to my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below my ear.
“Fast.” I reach between us, fingers working at his belt and the button of his jeans. “No time for slow.”
He laughs into my skin. “Practical as always.”
His hands take over, making quick work of his zipper before moving to mine. The sound of metal teeth separating fills the car, loud in the enclosed space. Cool air hits my overheated skin as he tugs my jeans down to access what he wants.
My head falls back as his fingers circle my length, grip firm but not rough, knowing how much pressure to apply. I’m already hard, already leaking, my body betraying how much I’ve thought about this since our last encounter.
“Prepared this time, so you wouldn’t leave my car a mess,” Rowan murmurs, his free hand retrieving a small packet from his pocket.
The tear of foil punctuates his words as he rolls the condom down his thick length.
The logistics side of my brain approves as the animal side grows impatient. My hands brace on his shoulders as I lift up, positioning myself above him. Rowan holds himself steady, the blunt head of his cock finding my entrance.
A breath hisses out of him when I drop onto his cock. “Always so tight for me.”
The fullness borders on pain, my body stretching to accommodate his size. My breath catches in my throat, trapped there as I adjust to the invasion. Rowan’s hands return to my hips, steadying me, while letting me set the pace.
I give myself ten seconds to adjust, counting each one in my head, before I begin to move. Up and down, establishing a rhythm aimed for efficiency over pleasure. But pleasure comes anyway, electric and all-consuming, as his cock hits the spot inside me that blurs my vision.
Rowan’s teeth find my collarbone through my shirt, biting down hard enough to mark but not break skin. The pain shoots straight to my groin, my dick jerking between us, trapped by the hard plane of his stomach.
“Touch yourself,” he rumbles, the vibration traveling through me. “Show me how you take your pleasure.”
I obey without thought, wrapping my fingers around myself, stroking in time with the rise and fall of my hips. The dual sensations of his cock inside me, my hand on my dick, push me toward the edge faster than I expected.
“That’s it,” he encourages. “You’re doing so good.”
The only sounds are our harsh breathing, the wet slide of bodies connecting, and the occasional creak of the leather seat beneath us. My thighs burn with the effort of maintaining the pace, but I don’t slow down.
Rowan’s hands tighten on my hips, his control slipping. “Close.”
My free hand grips his shoulder, nails digging in through his shirt. “Yes.”
He thrusts up, meeting me halfway, the impact jarring enough to steal my breath. Once, twice, and on the third thrust, he holds me down, grinding up into me as he comes. The pulse of him inside me, the pressure on my most sensitive spot, sends me over the edge.
My release hits hard. I bury my moan in his shoulder as I spill over my fingers and onto his shirt. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me, my muscles clamping down around him, milking his cock until we’re both spent and gasping.
For five heartbeats, we stay frozen, connected and panting in the stillness of the car before reality returns. I have a job waiting.
I lift off him, wincing at the empty sensation and a soreness destined to make itself known each time I move, sit, or bend over today.
Rowan produces wet wipes from the glove compartment, another sign of preparation pointing toward expectations or habits I prefer not to examine.
We clean up in silence, straightening clothes and erasing the evidence of what happened.
My jeans fasten with a metallic snap that breaks the quiet. I run a hand through my hair, pushing the strands back from my forehead, aware of how I must appear, all flushed and disheveled.
“I’ll be back in two hours,” Rowan says as I reach for the door handle.
I twist to look back at him. “What for?”
“To pick you up and take you to lunch.”
My hand tightens on my work bag. “Who asked you to do that?”
“I want to.” The simplicity of the statement leaves no room for argument. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”
I grab my tool bag from the floor. “I can take the bus.”
“You could.” His voice carries a dangerous edge of amusement. “But you won’t.”
A shiver goes through me as I step out of his car without turning back.
He’s right. If Rowan is here when I finish, I’ll get back into his car, because I want him, and if there’s a version of this arrangement where I take what I need without owing more than I can give, then I’ll seize it with both hands.
It’s not a relationship. It’s a transaction.
And I can live with that.