Chapter 12
The mattress gives beneath my weight as I perch on the edge of Rowan’s bed. His sheets still carry a unique blend of expensive laundry detergent and his pheromones, a combination that fills my lungs with each breath I take.
I run my palm over the cool fabric, my broken cuticles catching on the silky material. Rowan had taken a call after dinner and had to step out, leaving Lena and me alone in his space.
My baby sister had been all too eager to return to her room to take a long bath, leaving me to clean up the food containers from the Thai place, then retreat to Rowan’s bedroom.
That was almost two hours ago.
I stand and pace the length of the room, my sock-covered feet silent on the plush carpet. The clock on the nightstand reads ten forty-seven. My fingers trail along the edge of his dresser, where I had placed the bowl Lena made me, its pieces glued back together as best as I was able.
My clothes now hang in the closet alongside his far nicer possessions, and my hole-filled socks rest next to his, some still in the package.
I didn’t bring enough to occupy me for long, which left my thoughts circling into places best not to dwell on for too long.
Through the cracked door, footsteps approach from down the hallway, a steady stride that I’ve already begun to recognize as his. My pulse quickens, and I wipe my palms on my threadbare sweatpants.
The door opens without a knock, and Rowan fills the frame, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the hallway. He’s removed his button-up shirt, leaving only a black undershirt that stretches across his chest and highlights the muscles in his arms.
“Thought you might be asleep already,” he says, closing the door behind him, and the minimal noise from the rest of the apartment silences.
My mouth goes dry as I watch him cross the room, and I sink to my knees in the center of the carpet, positioning myself in his path.
Rowan stops, his nostrils flaring as his breathing changes rhythm. “Well. Hello to you, too.”
I reach for his belt without speaking, fingers working the leather through the metal buckle.
The button of his jeans follows, then the zipper, metal teeth parting beneath my fingertips.
His scent intensifies as I hook my thumbs in the waistband of his boxers and pull both layers down in one fluid motion.
His cock springs free, already half-hard and thickening by the second. It sits heavy in my palm as I wrap my fingers around the base, angling him toward my mouth.
“You don’t have to—” Rowan starts, but his words cut off on a hiss of breath as I take him between my lips.
His salty-musk taste blooms on my tongue, familiar now after all of our hurried encounters in his car. The velvet-smooth skin stretches over rigid heat as I work his length, the prominent vein on the underside pulsing on my lips.
I catalog his reactions with the same careful attention I use to crack a difficult lock.
A twist of my wrist at the base draws a groan from his throat.
Flattening my tongue along the underside makes his thighs tense.
His thick shaft fills my mouth, the blunt head nudging the back of my throat with each forward motion.
His hand settles on the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair without applying pressure, but I read the message and take him deeper, relaxing my throat to accommodate his size, fighting past the stretch and fullness as he slides past my gag reflex.
Breathing through my nose, I establish a rhythm designed to build him up, give him pleasure, and repay a fraction of what we owe for his protection.
“Fuck,” Rowan breathes above me, his fingers tightening in my hair. “Your mouth…”
I hum around him, sending vibrations through his cock that pull another curse from his lips.
His length pulses on my tongue, rock hard now, the tip leaking salt and bitter across my taste buds.
I pull back to run the flat of my tongue over the head, collecting the evidence of his arousal before taking him deep again.
My jaw aches from the stretch, but I ignore the discomfort. It’s nothing compared to what he’s given us. Nothing compared to the safety he’s wrapped around Lena, the worries he’s lifted from my shoulders. I can handle a sore jaw and a few minutes on my knees.
I keep my technique consistent, watching for the signs that he’s close, the tightening of his abdomen, the slight tremble in his thighs, the way his breathing turns fast and shallow.
When his hips begin to rock into my mouth, I adjust to match his movements, allowing him to set the pace while maintaining control of pressure and depth.
Rowan cups my chin, tilting my face upward until our stares lock. I don’t break rhythm, maintaining eye contact while continuing to work him with lips, tongue, and hand.
But his brows draw together into a frown as he studies me. “Stop.”
I ignore him, redoubling my efforts. This is what I’m good at. This is what I can give. This is the only currency I have.
His fingers slide to my jaw, applying gentle pressure to the hinge to force me to release him. “I said stop.”
I sit back on my heels, confusion washing through me as he tucks himself back into his boxers, still erect. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” Rowan crouches to put us at eye level. “But this isn’t what I want from you.”
“I’m good at it,” I counter, confusion mixing with the first stirrings of embarrassment. “I can finish you off quick.”
His hand moves from my jaw to the side of my neck, thumb brushing along my pulse point. “And that’s the problem, precious. You’re approaching this as a transaction. Like you’re paying off a debt.”
Heat spreads up my neck and into my cheeks. “Isn’t that what this is?”
Rowan’s thumb traces my bottom lip, still wet from his cock. “No. That’s not what this is.”
“Then what do you want?” The question scrapes raw in my throat.
He stands, pulling me to my feet in one smooth motion. “I want you in my bed because you want to be there. Not because you think you owe me.”
His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones. The amber of his irises has shrunk to a thin ring around black pools of his pupils, and his breath comes shallow, jaw tightening as he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bombing.
“Not like this,” Rowan says, the challenge of the words hanging between us. “Never like this.”
My back hits the mattress as Rowan guides me down, following to cover me in a blanket of heated muscle.
His body settles between my thighs, not crushing but impossible to ignore.
A knot forms in my throat when he stares down at me with hunger that hasn’t diminished despite rejecting what I offered moments before.
“You’re thinking too much,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear and sending shivers down my neck. “I can see the gears turning.”
I push at his shoulders, not with the real intent to dislodge him but testing his resolve. “I don’t understand what we’re doing.”
“Whatever we want.” His teeth catch my earlobe, the slight pain shooting straight to my groin. “No one can hear us in here, so you don’t have to be quiet.”
Rowan’s hands slide beneath my shirt, pushing the fabric up to uncover my stomach. “We don’t have to rush.”
His palm flattens over my ribs, his fingers spanning wide enough to cover an alarming amount of real estate on my torso.
“I’m not noisy, anyway,” I tell him.
I’ve spent years conditioning myself to silence, biting pillows and knuckles during hurried encounters in apartments with too-thin walls. The idea of letting go now is more intimate than the act itself.
Rowan’s huff of disbelief warms my skin. “Let’s test your conviction.”
He strips my shirt off in one fluid motion, tossing it aside before returning to cover my body with his. The contrast between his clothed chest and my bare skin adds friction as he rocks his hips forward, his still-hard cock grinding through layers of fabric against my own stiffening length.
My teeth sink into my lower lip to trap the moan threatening to escape.
Rowan notices, because of course he does, and his mouth captures mine in a kiss deep enough to steal my breath.
His tongue sweeps inside, tasting of the whiskey he drank after dinner, and I forget to resist as I clutch at his shoulders.
“Arms up,” he commands when he breaks the kiss, his voice dropping into that Alpha register that bypasses my brain and speaks directly to my body.
I obey without thinking, lifting my arms above my head.
Rowan catches my wrists in one large hand, pinning them to the mattress with enough force to make clear his intention but not enough to hurt.
The position stretches my body beneath him, taking away my control of this encounter, and panic flutters in my chest.
“You’re going to let go for me,” he says, his free hand working my sweatpants down my hips.
The cool air hits my skin, my dick springing free to lie hot and heavy on my stomach.
Rowan shifts to kick off his jeans and boxers, maintaining his grip on my wrists the entire time.
When he settles back between my legs, the hot, silken skin of his cock slides alongside mine, drawing a hiss through my clenched teeth.
His hand releases my wrists only long enough to strip off his shirt, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
This is the first time I’ve seen him naked, without the cramped shadows of the car or the rushed urgency of not getting caught.
Rowan isn’t just strong, he’s carved, every line of muscle defined by years of work and discipline rather than vanity.
Ink wraps his arms and shoulders in dark patterns that demand a longer look at the breadth of his chest and down the hard ridges of muscle that flex as he moves.
Without clothes, he appears bigger, more dangerous, more real, like the final layer of distance between us has been stripped away.