Chapter Thirteen
Rowan
My body feels the way it normally does after an intense workout. Relaxed and in some way satiated. A contentment I’ve never known flows through my veins, and it’s making me hungry—it’s making me greedy.
I fucked Elijah again last night. I ran my tongue over his skin and buried myself so deep inside of his body I thought I’d never get free again.
Not that I’d want to. If I could die just like that—submerged completely in everything that is Elijah—I would die happy.
He shook and purred beneath my touch; he fell apart from where he sat on top of me. If I hadn’t known that he was meant to be mine before last night, I would undoubtedly know now.
“My flower.”
Are you kidding me? Fuck, I could come just remembering the words leaving his sweet little mouth.
Am I really? Is my natural scent so sweet to him that he sees me in such a gentle light, even as I’m railing him relentlessly?
I don’t know how much more I can take. I’m not sure how much higher this affection can surge before I succumb to the pain of it.
Even now, I need him against me—I need to hear his voice. I feel that any second I am not with him, I might never be again.
Which is probably why I’m here now—watching him walk out of the office that belongs to the Fort Myers Post. Sitting in my truck—parked outside of the antique shop across the street—I lift my camera.
Just as he’s cutting onto the grass that lies in the center of the town square, I snap a photo.
Elijah is wearing white dress pants that sit high on his waist with a blue button-up tucked neatly into his gold belt. I’m not sure where his jacket is, but it’s most definitely too chilly to be forgoing one.
Not that I can jump out of the driver’s seat and get onto him for it.
I’m not supposed to be here. After we finished last night, we left things at an undecided impasse. He texted me this morning and told me to have a good day, but other than that, nothing has been exchanged.
I most definitely didn’t tell Elijah I’d be creeping outside of his office to take photos of him.
I’m not trying to be weird, but this burning need in my chest to be near him is suffocating—and it’s kind of pathetic that my corkboard only has one photo of him. Two birds, one stone.
Elijah makes his way into Tabitha’s Place, presumably for lunch, and from my spot in front of the neighboring store, I can see him easily.
He grabs a booth by the front window as if he’s aware I’m watching and wants to make my life that much easier.
Sweet little angel.
He’s so fucking beautiful today. All bright hair and big, doe eyes. I want to eat him up and swallow the pieces before another man can set eyes on him. I want him to boss me around and watch me bow to him.
Elijah looks so much like the sweet, submissive boy from my dreams. From our past life. Yet, some part of him is different.
I don’t recall Benjamin bossing me around in any of my memories. But I like it—I really like it. Maybe we’ve evolved just slightly.
I watch as he taps his fingertips over the table, and moments later, a familiar face approaches him.
In blue jeans, a black apron around his waist, and a baseball cap thrown on backwards, is Bennett Hendrick. I almost forgot that we ran into his father. That he and Elijah were friends.
Bennett smiles brightly, obviously incredibly happy to see Elijah. Who wouldn’t be? But Elijah is grinning right back, throwing his head back in laughter as Bennett slides into the seat across from him.
What the hell? Are they having lunch together?
I watch the two of them interact. I watch as Bennett from high school leans in closer and closer, his boy-next-door charm clearly turned up to the max. He’s flirting.
Elijah doesn’t seem to care. As if the attention either means nothing or simply flatters him. And when Bennett finally gets up and walks away, Elijah turns his head to look out the window, his face falling from that energetic smile to a look of apprehension and reflection.
I snap another picture.
Bennett returns with a plate, delivering it to Elijah as he sits back down in that seat across the table. As if it’s his. As if he’s taken a claim to any chair that partners with Elijah’s.
I didn’t care much for Bennett in high school, and I care less for him now. He wants Elijah. I can tell—just from this single interaction, I can almost smell it on him.
Bennett is trying to take something that belongs to me.
Should I go inside? Should I interrupt—say I was just passing through for lunch?
No, no one would believe that.
I’ll wait here. I’ll observe for the time being, and the next time I have Elijah alone, I’ll focus on the beat of his heart while I’m inside of him. It’ll remind me that Bennett means nothing—that I’m his destiny.
I take one more picture of a smiling Elijah and start my truck. I have some photos to develop.
A few hours later, the photos are developed, and I’m hanging the very last one on my corkboard. They sit nicely alongside the paper detailing my night spent with Benjamin.
God… one experience is never supposed to feel exactly like the other. Yet the way he gripped me, the way he cried and clung to me… it felt far too similar to every wet dream I’ve had.
That same desperation, that same feral need—I felt it with Elijah too. But I guess that makes sense when they’re the same person.
As I stare between the photos and the scrap of notebook paper, I begin to feel a bit crazy.
Am I making all of this up? Am I taking a completely innocent bystander and forcing my delusions onto him?
Could it be that I have been alone for far too long, and I have finally reached my breaking point? Have all of these years of solitude reached their peak?
But they’re identical. And the emotion—the pain and the longing that only feels whole when I’m in front of him.
These delusions are the only thing that makes sense. If I’m the only man on this planet who is experiencing this phenomenon, then so be it. But I’m not crazy.
Right?
Fuck. I think I need to talk to someone about this. And since my family is very obviously out of the picture, I call the only other person I have.
Marissa picks up on the third ring.
“Hey, Row. What’s up?” She sounds shocked, her slight Texan accent bleeding through every word.
“Nothing much. Why do you sound so freaked out?”
“Well, you never call first. I thought you might be dying,” Marissa laughs, and I hear voices in the background that slowly fade away as if she’s walked out of a crowded room.
“Are you busy? I can call later,” I offer.
“No, no. I was just at a friend’s promotion party. I have time. What’s going on out in the sticks?”
Marissa may live in Texas, but she lives on the rich suburban side. For her, Fort Myers is as sticks as it gets.
“I actually need some advice,” I admit, and she groans.
“I knew it. What’s going on?”
“Well,” I start, sighing lightly. “There’s this guy—”
“What?! I’m sorry, but you’ve never so much as looked at someone outside of sex. Are you saying you like him? Like, like him?”
“Marissa,” I interject, clearly annoyed. “Can I speak?”
She huffs. “Yes. Sorry.”
“Anyway, as I was saying, this guy just moved to town. He’s…incredibly beautiful. And kind, too. But I…”
“But you what? What could possibly be hindering Rowie’s first crush?”
Ignoring her condescending tone, I steel myself for the truth I’m about to lay out in front of her. I’ve never said it out loud before.
“I’ve been having these specific dreams since I was little. And they always had the same guy in them. This same guy.”
It’s silent for a moment, and then she says, “Huh?”
“Yeah. As if he walked straight out of my dreams. And he wanted to interview me for the paper, so I finally gave in, but we ended up sleeping together. And Marissa—we cried. Like, the entire time.”
“I need more information before I comment on this,” she says, clearly straying closer to the you’re crazy side of my internal debate.
My eyes trace over the four photos I have hung of Elijah on my corkboard as I continue. “I always figured these dreams were a coping mechanism or something. For the sadness. But then I met him—and I fucked him—and now I’m absolutely certain that they aren’t dreams at all. I think they’re memories.”
“Memories?” she questions slowly.
“Yes. As in, I think I’ve been remembering him this entire time for a good reason, and I loved him before. In a past life or something.”
Marissa releases a long breath. “Rowan… this sounds insane, you know that?”
“I know,” I sigh. “But I’m telling you, Rissa, we both feel this pull. This overwhelming emotion. I mean, I knew he had back dimples before he even lifted his shirt, all because I’ve fucked him in my dreams.”
Marissa bursts out laughing. It’s a frantic and frazzled sound. “Okay. Let’s say all of this is true, and you do have a long-lost lover’s situation on your hands. So what? What are you looking for here?”
I close my eyes. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, actually. Validation? Comfort? For someone to listen to me speak?
“I guess… I guess I just want you to tell me I’m not crazy,” I finally say, and Marissa scoffs.
“I can’t tell you that. I’ve never been able to tell you that.
” When I say nothing, she continues. “But I can tell you that if you feel this pull toward him—that if you look at him and all of your dreams come to life—then you should pursue him. Whether or not you ever figure this whole tortured lovers thing out, attraction like what you’re describing is rare. Grab it while you can, Row.”
I consider her words for a moment, and yeah. I guess it really is that simple, huh?
“So you think I shouldn’t tell him I’ve been dreaming about him since childhood?”
Through a laugh, Marissa says, “Yeah, maybe not.” And then, “I’m going to come see you soon, okay? Wait to fall apart until I get there.”
I roll my eyes, though she can’t see me. “No promises.”
It’s early the next morning—maybe around 9 a.m.—when three steady knocks rain down on my door. I’m about to walk out of my back door, coat on and axe gloves in hand, when I stop.
I know that knock, but why didn’t he call? Or text me? I set the gloves on the back of the couch and take a moment to neutralize my expression before I open the front door.
There Elijah stands in his normal work attire—slacks and a button-up—and when his eyes meet mine, he smiles brightly.
“Heading out?” he asks, eyeing my coat.
“Ah, no. I was about to chop some wood.”
Elijah’s gaze flickers to my hands, and he clears his throat. “How… manly.”
I don’t miss the way his eyes heat, or how he fidgets slightly where he stands. Strong men turn him on.
“What can I do for you?” I prompt, doing my best to puff my chest out just a bit more.
Elijah blushes, almost as if he’s embarrassed by showing up here.
“Well—I—John needed one more question answered. For the article, I mean.” His fingers tap away at his thigh, and that hot ache in my chest grows at his nervousness. So shy and cute.
As if I wasn’t pounding into him not so long ago.
“What’s the question?” I ask him.
“Huh? Oh!” Elijah flushes even further, eyes darting everywhere but back to my own. “It’s nothing really. He just wanted to know if you plan on participating in any more competitions soon?”
It’s such a cop out. A lame question, very clearly an excuse to come see me. And it’s so adorable that he thinks it’ll work.
“No, I’m focusing on work and myself right now.”
Elijah nods quickly, pretending like this is vital information. “Got it! That’s good.”
When he says nothing else, I lean against the doorframe and raise a brow.
“You could have texted, you know.”
“Oh,” he says, eyes falling to the wood planks below his feet. “Right. Sorry.” Elijah sounds as if I’ve rejected him, and that was not my intention.
“I’m glad you came here, though," I add, and those big eyes snap back up to meet mine.
“Oh,” he says again, much softer this time. Another blush colors his cheeks, and I take a moment to drink it in.
I’ll never get tired of his blushes, the same way I’ll never get tired of hearing get on your knees.
Before I can think—before I can process the words leaving my mouth or the potential rejection intertwined with them—I say, “Go on a date with me.”
Elijah’s eyes widen significantly, his breath stuttering out of him as he tries to answer. On the third attempt, words finally escape him.
“A date?” he questions, and I nod stiffly.
“Yeah. This Saturday, let me take you on a date.”
Up until now, we’ve just been hooking up. And it was only twice. Aside from the blushing and the bursts of romantic dialogue during sex, nothing else has happened between us.
But I’m tired of waiting, and I plan to make Elijah mine again at any cost.
“O-okay,” he murmurs, finally putting me out of my misery. He says it like he can’t believe he’s agreeing.
“Great. I look forward to it, Eli.”
Those hazel eyes seem to settle, as if they’ve given up the battle they were so desperately fighting. Surrender looks so beautiful on him.
“I am too. I really am.” And then he walks away.