Chapter 3 Willow
WILLOW
Cheyenne spots them first this time, her sigh already winding up. “Oh no. Not again.”
I follow her gaze before she can physically turn my head away. Three men, three drinks, three variations of ruin lined up at the ship’s lounge table like they’re in a magazine spread titled Bad Decisions, Deluxe Edition.
Sean’s in the middle, catching my eye first because he always does, that grin turned up to eleven. Declan’s on one end, relaxed, watchful, giving me a nod that feels like a pressure point. And then there’s the third.
I’ve seen him before, I realize—in the background, leaning back in a chair, legs stretched out like the world can work around him.
Dark curls falling over his forehead. Eyes the color of wet coffee grounds.
Features cut fine enough to look almost delicate until you notice the sharpness in them.
Lean frame, long fingers curled around a glass like it’s a prop he doesn’t quite believe in.
He doesn’t look up when I look at him. Which is…annoying. And maybe exactly the sort of problem I’m in the mood to solve.
Dylan leans back in his chair, smirking. “Third time’s the charm, huh?”
Cheyenne elbows him. “Do not encourage her.”
“Oh, I am absolutely encouraging her,” Dylan says, eyes sparkling. “You’ve got two thirds of the set already.”
Cheyenne turns to me. “Don’t listen to him, Willow. These are people, not playing cards. You do not need a full set. You’re not a collector.”
I grin, lifting my drink. “Gotta catch ’em all.”
Cheyenne groans, but there’s the tiniest hint of a smile in it. “If you get your heart stomped, don’t come crying to me.”
“Noted,” I say, standing, while behind me, Dylan sings the theme song of Pokémon: I wanna be the very best…
I get lucky when the men leave my target alone, with a book in one hand and a drink in another—a classic loner move.
I approach with slow steps, trying to look casual, like this is my natural path.
I glance back at Dylan and Cheyenne. They’re already turned to each other, engrossed in their own love story, done with my antics.
I slide into the empty chair next to the man, crossing my legs and sipping my drink. I look over my shoulder, pretend to be interested in something behind me. The man’s eyes flick over me once before returning to his book, but I feel something like disdain in them.
“Evening,” I say, a little too loudly, and then, “Is it okay if I sit here?”
“Of course.” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look up. His mouth is flat, emotionless, dropping words without feeling them. It should be discouraging. Instead, it’s…kind of thrilling.
“What are you reading?” I ask.
Exaggeratedly, sarcastically, the man looks at the cover and then at me, smirks, and says, “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. By James Joyce.”
“Ah,” I say, embarrassed by his tone, by his obvious disdain, and then I say softly, “That’s a good one.”
“You’ve read it?” he asks, surprise laced in every word.
“No,” I admit. He stares at me for a beat before returning to it. I watch his eyes settle back onto the sentence he was on before I start grasping at straws, saying, “But isn’t it more fun to talk about a book to someone who’s never read it?”
His eyes flick up, the whites of his eyes showing under his heavy lashes. “It’s even more fun to read it.”
It’s a pointed comment, a hint I’m not taking. “I thought people brought books on cruises to read when there wasn’t a pretty woman hitting on them.”
He smiles thinly. “Just because you want me doesn’t mean that I want you.”
“You don’t want me?” I ask, staring him down. He’s silent, and when our staring contest ends with him clearing his throat, I add, “I usually get what I want.”
“I can tell. You’re insufferable for it,” he says, not even looking up this time.
Ouch. I’m losing him, and it stings, but it only makes me want him more. I don’t quite believe that he isn’t intrigued by me, but I also don’t understand the reason for his reservation.
I almost leave. I tap the arms of the velvet chairs and look around, the silence between us overbearing.
I cross and uncross my legs. I glance back at Dylan and Cheyenne, who are pretending not to watch me, but Cheyenne is clearly cringing and looking out the corner of her eye.
I’m not giving up that easy. In the name of a collection of Irish doctor friends, I blurt out, “Just tell me about yourself. What’s your deal? ”
He quirks an eyebrow and slams the book shut. “My deal?”
“Yeah. Like…who are you? What are you doing here?”
He smiles, plants his hands on the arms of his chair, and repeats, “Aye, what am I doing here?” and then he pushes himself to a standing position and bows, ever so slightly, before turning to leave.
I let him take a few steps before standing and calling to him, “Why don’t you like me?”
“I don’t know you,” he corrects, surprised. He tucks his book under his arm.
“Would you like to?”
His mouth curves—not a smile, exactly. More like he’s amused at the question. “Are you always this…relentless? And direct?”
“Only when it’s worth it,” I say.
There’s a pause. He readjusts his weight to the other leg and lifts the arm holding the book. “And you’ve decided I’m worth it?”
“I have. I think you’re special. And I have excellent instincts,” I say lightly, lifting my nose into the air.
“Well, let’s see if that’s true, then.” He turns and walks away, and I watch his retreating form before he calls over his shoulder, “Are you coming?”
His cabin is smaller than Sean’s, messier than Declan’s. He closes the door with his foot and leans back against it, watching me like he’s still deciding whether to let me in—figuratively, not literally.
“Last chance to leg it,” he says.
“Last chance to kiss me,” I counter.
That earns me the smallest huff of laughter.
“Don’t reckon that’s true.” And then he’s moving—long strides, lean body, hands cupping my jaw like he’s been wanting to since I sat down across from him.
The kiss is sharp, urgent, nothing like Declan’s slow build or Sean’s easy warmth.
It’s all tension finally snapping, and I melt into it, letting him press me back against the wall.
“Wait,” I say quickly. “What’s your name?”
“Rowan,” he answers, his eyes locking with mine, dark and steady. He drags his fingers up the inside of my thigh, underneath my skirt, slow, deliberate.
“Don’t you want to know mine?” I ask, breath caught in my chest.
When his fingers find the wet spot on my underwear, I gasp, and he smirks faintly, victorious.
“Sure,” he says casually. “What’s your name?
” He pushes his fingertip into me, pressing the fabric of my underwear inside my wanting pussy.
His eyes stare through me, and I feel myself shrinking beneath his gaze.
“Willow,” I whisper hoarsely.
His smirk sharpens, but his voice is steadier than I expect when he murmurs, “I knew you’d be soaked for me already, Willow.” His tone is cutting, but his eyes never leave mine, as if daring me to flinch away.
Heat floods my cheeks, and I whimper, but I don’t look away. My hips arch helplessly toward his hand. He slips his fingers under the fabric, the slide of skin on skin making my whole body jolt. He strokes me between the warm lips of my pussy, watching with a smile as I mewl at each touch.
When he lets his fingertip prod inside me, where I’m slick and hot with lust, my head tips back with a cry, and he looks ruthlessly satisfied, a sparkle in his eyes that borders on cruel as his fingers move deeper into me.
He pulls his fingers out of me with a soft squelching of my juices, leaving me throbbing and empty. I whimper at the loss, but he doesn’t soften. His gaze is dark, sharp, and he licks me off his fingers before he says, “Take these off” and snaps the elastic of my underwear.
My hands fumble, but I push them down, heat flooding my cheeks. He watches like he’s devouring me, and then with an exasperated groan, he pulls them off me himself, throwing them to the ground.
I’m still against the wall, unsure of where to go, unsure of my next move. As if reading my mind, he points to the bed and says, “Lie on your back. But keep your legs open. Let me see that pretty pussy drip.”
I look at him for a moment, my eyes searching his, the heat between my legs urgent, my breath gone, my blood still and electric.
He watches me, not pressuring, just waiting.
He tilts his head, the amusement gone from his eyes, and he whispers, “You’re trembling.
” He folds himself forward to kiss me once, slow, before nipping my bottom lip. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No,” I breathe. “God, don’t stop.”
That earns me another of those almost-smiles, dangerous and amused. “Careful, Willow. You don’t get to give me orders.” He kisses me once, slow, and nips my bottom lip. Then he kisses me sharper, deeper, and his hand finds a fistful of my hair.
He pulls until I stumble, walking me backward until the bed hits the backs of my knees. One push, and I’m on my back with him standing over me.
He opens my thighs, exposing my tender skin to the cool air of his cabin, and he goes back to touching me, his eyes never leaving mine.
His touch follows a rhythm, unrelentingly edging, exacting.
He wastes no motion. Each gasp I give him he files away and uses again, building me up with merciless accuracy.
“Rowan,” I pant, throwing my head back, squeezing my thigh muscles to keep from exploding.
“Say my name louder,” he growls. “I want to hear how bad you want me.”
“Rowan!” I cry out this time, and his name breaks him open. His exhale is a rough, guttural sound, like a prayer he’s not used to saying out loud. His chest rumbles with a pleased sound, almost a laugh, but rougher.
He grabs my ankles and pulls me to the side of the bed, lifting my feet onto his shoulders, and my breath stutters in my chest. The control I thought I had slips from me completely as I feel a heartbeat between my legs, coursing up to my stomach.
“Are you ready to take me, Willow? Will we see if I’m worth it?” he asks, one of his hands sliding up my leg to hold my ankle, the other brushing circles on my sensitive and swollen clit.
I nod dumbly, like I can’t speak, because I’m not sure that I can.
He nods back, mocking but good-natured, and murmurs, “Good” before pushing into me, slow but steady, filling me inch by inch with an impressive length and a girth that stretches me.
It burns, but it’s so good, and I can’t hold back the broken moan that spills out of me.
His gaze pins me as surely as the hand slipping from my clit to hold my stomach. He pushes all the way in, groaning low when I clench around him. “Fuck,” he curses softly, like it’s a prayer. “Tight little thing, aren’t you? Made for me.”
He starts to move, steady and deep, every thrust measured. Not rough, not frantic—controlled. He keeps me just where he wants me, sliding out so slowly that I start to wriggle and cry out, and then jackhammering against my G-spot until tears leak from my eyes onto the sheets.
“That’s it,” he says, voice low and commanding. The hand on my stomach and the hand on my ankle slide up my curves and he’s holding my shoulders, pressing himself deeper into me, as if he’s sourcing those tears. “Take it. You feel that? That’s mine now.”
My hands scramble—clutching the sheets, his fingers. It’s too much, too deep, too alive, and he’s watching me so intently that he sees when my eyes glaze over as an orgasm starts to crawl up my spine.
He folds forward to capture my wrists and pin them above my head with one hand, and my pulse kicks so hard I swear he feels it. “Helpless looks good on you,” he says, hips pressing deeper, harder. “Don’t fight it. Just let me wreck you.”
I’m already unraveling, his rhythm too precise, too perfect. My body climbs before I can control it, wave after wave building under his control. “I’m—” I choke out, my whole body tensing as he pushes my own feet to my ears so he can fuck me as deep as possible.
“Go on,” he growls, slamming deeper, his patience turning to power in an instant. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”
And I do—falling apart under him, my cry swallowed by his mouth as he claims it with another kiss. The wave crashes, shatters, and he holds me through it, his arm locked around my waist, his body keeping me grounded as I quake against him.
He follows right after, burying himself deep, his rhythm breaking for the first time as he groans into my throat, rough and guttural. He curses again, softer, like it’s only meant for me.
When it’s over, he doesn’t roll away. He stays above me, still inside me, still holding my wrists like he’s not ready to let me go. His dark eyes are steady, searching, as if memorizing the way I look right now.
“So, Willow,” he breathes with a coy irony in that bouncing Irish cadence. Underneath him, I feel too seen, and I start to squirm, but he doesn’t let go. He kisses all the way up my neck to my forehead and asks, “What’s your deal?”
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