Chapter 40
tough times, big guy
Hannah
Rowan falls to his knees in front of me. Moonlight bounces off his shoulders, chest bare, pajama pants slung low on his hips. Every inch of ink, every scar, cast in a twinge of shadow. But his eyes are bright and locked on me.
“Uncross,” he grits.
I want him like this. Controlled, confident, a little unhinged, and looking at me like he can’t live another second without getting a taste.
My hoodie lifts to the uppermost part of my thighs when I do as he asks. Knees flanking his ribs, he glides a hand up my leg until his fingers wrap around the lace.
“Lift.”
He peels off my panties, stuffs them into his pocket as he gives me one last sharp look in the eye—a final opportunity for me to back out.
I don’t take it. Instead, I spread my knees to make room for him. He throws one leg over his shoulder, my heel heavy on his spine.
He plants a trail of hot kisses up my thigh, stopping shy of where I need him. A flash of a satisfied smirk and steely blue irises to match. “Let’s wake some bear cubs, baby.”
Then his mouth is on me.
His tongue flattens along my center, starting low and licking lazily to the apex, ending with a sharp flick. My voice cracks on a gasp as he takes the same path again, and then a third. Each pass his tongue presses harder, savors the taste a little bit longer.
He finds the sensitive bundle of nerves once more and wraps his mouth around it. It undoes me. I moan, launching out a hand and fisting his hair. My other hand presses into the grass at my back, leveraging me as I shamelessly buck my hips against him.
“Rowan! Don’t stop, it feels so—”
Words splinter in my throat when he inserts a finger, curving deep, his tongue swirling on the outside.
“Your taste. God, it’s unreal, Hannah. Every day. I want this every goddamn day.”
He plants a heavy palm around the crease of my hip bone, anchoring me as he dives back in for more. His groan makes my thighs quiver.
“Oh my god, I’m so…cl—I’m so close!”
The scratch of his beard on my thighs, the heat of his breath on my skin, the way his grunts vibrate every nerve ending along my core—it’s so euphoric, I feel invincible.
I pant up at the sky, nails digging into the grass as my release races toward me. Rowan groans again, shifts on his knees. He removes his finger and then his tongue, meeting my eyes with a devilish grin.
“You trust me?” he asks, my arousal glistening his beard.
My nod comes fast as my hips reach for him in a plea to finish what he started.
His face dips low again, but instead of putting his mouth on me, he uses his fingers to spread me open.
Gaze fixed on me through hooded lashes, he blows a soft breath against where his tongue had done the work before.
The contrast of hot and cold is a devastating collision of sensations—too much and not enough all at once.
My foot on his back jerks as I heave forward, my moan coming loud and long.
He hums his approval. “That’s it right there, isn’t it?” Another cool breath, another cry ripped from my lungs. Rowan curses through gritted teeth. “Yeah, baby, scream for me. Nobody else around to hear it. All for me.”
He blows one more time, punctuating the end with his mouth searing the now cool flesh. My second leg flies around his head on instinct, ankles linked at his spine, thighs squeezing.
I rock into him. The rhythm is frantic, each of my pitched moans echoed by a deep guttural sound of his own.
My climax crashes over me, the stars overhead a mirror image of the flashes of white behind my eyelids as I come.
He doesn’t relent. His tongue stretches my release, my hand on his head grinding his face into me to carry this out to the bitter end. It goes on and on until I have no air left, until my shouts of pleasure fracture and I’m nothing but a pile of loose limbs and dysfunctional lungs.
The muscles of Rowan’s back flex in the moonlight, contracting and releasing as he breathes heavily. I lower my legs to the stairs on either side of him and his head comes to rest on my thigh.
After long seconds, he says, “Okay, don’t panic.”
His tone is light so I manage a grin while I try to catch my breath. “Noted. Not panicking.”
“Good,” he exhales, blinking up at me. “Because I just came in my pants.”
I hiss through my teeth, pat his head like a puppy. “Tough times, big guy.”
A blush fans over his cheeks as he climbs up a step to plant a firm kiss on my lips. My taste on his tongue, my scent on his breath, the mess in his pants—intoxicating, all-consuming, absolutely ruinous in the best possible way.
After helping me back into my panties, he pulls me to stand while not so discreetly adjusting himself. I fail to hide my teasing smile, but he takes it like a champ.
He tucks me into his side, kisses my temple, and turns us toward the cabin. “How do you feel, sunshine?”
Shrugging, my answer is nonchalant. “Oh, you know, like the queen of the world. Top of my game. Unstoppable.”
I let the words pass as a joke, but there’s a truth there. I gave him the reigns tonight, but he made sure I always had control. I didn’t ask him to do it, he just did it. And he took pleasure in it.
It’s not pride I feel. It’s empowerment.
“You’re extra sparkly today,” Kristen says, strawberry Dum-Dum popping off her lips.
I stop outside the coffee shop and glance down at my gray cigarette pants, white cap-sleeve blouse, and black open-toed Louboutins. “Literally not a single sparkle on me.”
“I was talking about your face.”
Inside we place our orders and my friend grills me for details while we wait at the pick up counter. I give up next to nothing other than the promise that I’m happy and sleeping well. Five days from now I can almost guarantee I’ll be neither happy nor sleeping, but I leave that part out.
Those are Saturday Hannah problems. Monday Hannah is thriving.
As we collect our drinks, I shift the conversation to safer territory. Work. Gala. Mom’s “friend.”
“You mean boyfriend,” Kristen says. Not a question. Cold hard facts.
“Honestly, if I never hear that term again in relation to my dying mother, it’ll be too soon.”
I move for the exit, checking for any unsuspecting pedestrians before pushing out onto the sidewalk.
Shockingly, I leave nobody concussed in my exit—Rowan should learn this skill.
The thought makes me chuckle. Kristen snickers beside me, oblivious to the fact we’re laughing for two different reasons.
The iced coffee travels down my throat, cooling the humor as I think back to my brunch with Mom.
“I think she’s sick,” I admit.
“Obviously,” Kris retorts, fighting a grin. I flash her a Timberlake stare. “Oh come on, that one was funny.”
Sighing, I reply, “She really is rubbing off on all of us, isn’t she?”
We enter the office lobby and I try to swap the memory of that nasty chest cough for something more pleasant, but it doesn’t work. All I can think about is the fact that Mom’s immune system is shot, she’s obviously sick, and there’s not a damn thing she’ll let me do about it.
“You’re worried,” Kristen says, reading my expression.
“Yeah.” We come to a stop outside my office, the sound of clacking keyboards a steady din around us.
“We’re all worried, Han. You’re not alone in this.” She steps closer, lowers her voice. “You’re not alone in any of it.”
Her gaze finds mine for several beats, a promise leashed between them. My best friend doesn’t say anything else. Just a gentle squeeze of my arm and a demand for another block walk tomorrow before she heads to her office.
A few hours later, I’m deep into the second draft of my speech as the memories of those final days with Maddy play out like a movie in my mind. The emergency room. Two good days, followed by the worst one of all. The waiting room.
I went out to the dock last night to settle my mind. The possibilities and improbabilities were whirling, and I couldn’t make sense of it. But there, under the cloudy sky where Rowan had first told me about that hope, I thought I might find clarity, a sign there was something bigger at work here.
He said meeting me felt like fate and, if I’m honest with myself, I think I felt it then too. That tug, that…thing that would always be there no matter the distance or whether or not fate ever brought us together again. But now I wonder if that thread goes back further than either of us realize.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I shoot an email to Mr. Whitley under the guise of collecting information for my speech. It’s a half-truth at best, but it’s not a whole lie so that’s something. His reply comes a few minutes later with the promise he’ll look into my request and get back to me.
My phone lights up with a notification.
Rowan
Date night?
Me
I’m listening.
Rowan
Well, dearest, since our little 5 person memorial service has become a 50 guest event involving finger foods and chair rentals, we need groceries.
Me
Oh my, this is so sudden. You’ve caught me off guard, I don’t know what to say.
Rowan
Hannah.
Me
Rowan.
Rowan
Will you do me the honor of accompanying me to the grocery store this evening?
Me
OMG! Yes! A thousand times yes!
Rowan
Meet me at the Safeway after you leave.
Me
Yes, sergeant.
So much cheese.
“We’re overthinking this,” I announce. “It’s charcuterie for a bunch of old men who consider tobacco a food group.”
Rowan stares at the refrigerated wall of dairy with a grimace as though it disgusts him mankind has wasted so much of its existence mastering the art of flavoring cheese.
He offers a sage nod. “You’re right, it’s just cheese.”
“Grab the cubed stuff and we’ll toss it on a platter with some toothpicks.”
He agrees but only stares harder, no movement. I bite back a laugh.
“While you figure this out, I’m gonna grab the crackers.”
Another nod. I turn to walk away, but he grabs me by the hand and hauls me back to him, bringing my face an inch from his.
His voice is dark, the words spilling against my lips when he whispers, “Get the good crackers.”
I kiss him once. “On it. And Rowan?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Remember”—kiss—“it’s just”—kiss—“cheese.” I walk backward one step, then two, holding his gaze as I go. “You can do this.”
I find the cracker aisle on the opposite side of the market. After browsing for a couple minutes, I grab a few boxes and am about to head back to find Rowan when a shopping cart turns the corner in my periphery.
Arms laden, I look up in time to see the person behind the cart come into view. My heart stops in my chest.
He doesn’t notice me right away, but I can’t move, my muscles are locked. All I do is stare. The blood drains from my face as the space between me and the basket shrinks. Why can’t I move?
When he finally looks my way, his mouth falls open.
There’s not enough air. I can’t breathe.
I break eye contact first, rushing to put the crackers back on the shelf. Blood pounds in my ears and my hands tremble as I stuff one box in only to knock over three more.
“Shit, no! Shit! Shit!” I mutter, barely able to see through the tears welling in my eyes.
“Hannah.” The sound of my name out of his mouth makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “Hannah, please, can I just—”
I don’t hear the rest. His cart moves as his footsteps close in. He’s too close.
The boxes in my arms fall to the ground in a heap, and I run.