Chapter 34
thirty-four
. . .
Rowan
Violet’s breathing deepens, her features softening as sleep claims her. For a long time, I just lie there, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the fan of her lashes against her skin, the slight part of her lips. Everything about her is perfect.
I roll over, careful not to disturb her, and grab my phone from the nightstand. A message notification glows on the screen—two texts.
Melissa:
Need to see you.
Melissa:
Please, Rowan, it’s bad.
And just like that, I’m back in that run-down apartment in Arizona. Melissa was my neighbor. A friend. We ended up sleeping together once, which was a mistake, and I’d realized she was high before I’d even pulled my shirt back on.
She’d needed help. I gave it. She crashed on my couch for months after she lost her apartment. Then she disappeared when she was back on her feet.
She’s using again, there’s no doubt about it. This is her pattern—when everything else is a blur, she reaches for the one safe thing in her life. Me.
Every single time, it brings up the memory of my sister. The one I failed. I was young and hadn’t seen the signs, or maybe I had, and just didn’t want to believe them. It eats me alive every day.
So when Melissa needed something solid, I let her lean on me because I thought maybe if I could help her, it’d make up for the time I couldn’t help the one person I should’ve.
I glance down at Violet, peaceful in our bed. My gut clenches with frustration. I don’t want Melissa’s shit or anything from my past coming into my life now.
I pull her back into my chest and press my lips to her shoulder, inhaling her lavender scent. This right here is all that matters.
The next morning, I wake before Violet. She’s sleeping on her stomach, one arm tucked beneath her pillow and hair spilling across her back.
I slip out of bed quietly. It’s still early, and after yesterday’s move, she deserves the rest. I pull on a pair of sweats, grab my phone, and head downstairs, Bramble following at my heels.
The kitchen is a mess of half-unpacked boxes and misplaced utensils. I navigate around them, starting the coffee maker, and let Bramble out the back door.
My phone buzzes in my hand. Three missed calls from Melissa.
“Shit,” I mutter, setting the phone face down on the counter. I pour myself a cup of coffee, trying to focus on the day ahead rather than the past that keeps trying to claw its way back in.
I hear Violet’s footsteps on the stairs before I see her. She appears in the doorway wearing one of my T-shirts, her hair tousled from sleep.
“Morning,” she says, her voice husky from exhaustion. She crosses to me, rising on her toes to press a kiss to my lips. “You’re up early.”
I doctor up the coffee that was originally intended for me, fixing it the way she likes—two sugars and a splash of that awful creamer she likes. “Thought I’d get a head start on unpacking.”
She takes a sip, humming appreciatively. “My hero.” She studies my face for a moment, her head tilting to one side. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie, turning to hide my expression as I open the fridge. “Just thinking about all the unpacking we need to do.”
Bramble scratches at the back door, and I let her in, grateful for the distraction. The dog bounds over to Violet, tail wagging as she leans against her legs.
“I think someone’s happy I’ve moved in permanently,” Violet laughs, reaching down to scratch behind Bramble’s ears.
“She’s not the only one,” I say, and this time, my smile is genuine.
The sight of her sleepy and soft in my kitchen, wearing my clothes, petting my dog—hits me like a physical force. It’s so fucking simple, but it’s everything.
The intensity of what I feel for her sometimes scares me. She’s my center of gravity, the axis my world turns on. I want to give her everything.
“What are you thinking about so hard over there?” she asks, straightening up and taking another sip of coffee.
I cross over to her, sliding my hands around her waist.
“Let’s go out tonight,” I say. “Somewhere nice. Just you and me.”
Her eyebrows lift. “A date?”
“A date.” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “We should celebrate you moving in properly. Dinner, wine, the whole thing.”
A slow smile spreads across her face. “That sounds perfect.”
The day passes in a blur of unpacking and arranging, working together to blend our lives into one shared space. My phone buzzes twice more, but I ignore it, focusing on the woman in front of me instead.
By evening, the house is starting to take shape. Most of the boxes are put away, her books mingling with mine on the shelves, her clothes hanging beside mine in the closet. It feels right. Like this is how it was always meant to be.
I’m buttoning my shirt when she steps out of the bathroom.
The sight of her steals my breath. Her green dress hugs her curves, the color making her eyes shine even brighter than usual.
Her golden hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, and a small gold pendant necklace lays just below her collarbone.
“Jesus, Violet.” My hands fall still. “You walk out looking like that and expect me to behave?”
She lifts a brow, the barest smirk tugging at her lips.
I take a step closer, eyes locked on her mouth. “You look so good it’s fucking disrespectful.”
She laughs, her eyes raking down the line of my shirt. “You’re one to talk.”
I swear on everything holy, if she told me to fall to my knees right now and stay there—look up at her, wait for her, anything—I’d do it. Gladly. All she needs to do is exist, and I’d trade a piece of myself just to be the reason that smile remains on her face.
“Careful, baby. You keep teasing and I’ll forget we have dinner reservations.”
She steps in close and presses a kiss to my jaw. “Dinner first. Then you can ruin me.”
I groan, dragging a hand down my face before finishing the last button on my shirt. If she keeps talking like that, we’re never making it out the door.
But we do—barely.
The restaurant is one of those upscale places downtown with dim lighting and wine lists longer than most novels. The host leads us to a corner table, slightly secluded from the rest of the dining room.
“This is beautiful,” Violet says, looking around with wide eyes as she settles into her chair.
The waiter appears with menus and a wine list, his demeanor polished and professional. We order drinks, and as he walks away, Violet leans forward, her expression softening.
“Thank you for this,” she says quietly.
“You don’t have to thank me for wanting to spoil you,” I say, squeezing her hand.
Her cheeks flush, that soft pink that always gives her away.
The waiter returns with our wine, pouring a sample in my glass. I taste it and nod, watching as he fills both our glasses before disappearing again.
“To us,” I say, lifting my glass.
She smiles, clinking hers to mine. “To us.”
We order dinner and conversation flows easily between us. I watch her face light up as she talks about her work, the way her hands animate her stories, how her entire body seems to lean into the telling. How deeply she cares is one of the things I love most about her.
“And then there was this cat,” she continues, taking a sip of her wine. “Absolute nightmare. Hissed at everyone except me. Even Dr. Langford couldn’t get near him without those leather falconry gloves.”
“But he let you touch him?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Animals have always responded well to Violet.
She nods, a hint of pride in her smile. “I just sat with him for a while, talked to him softly. By the end of it, he was purring in my lap.”
“You’ve always had that talent. Seeing the good in things most people are afraid of.”
“Not talent,” she says, shaking her head. “Just patience.” She takes another sip of her drink, her eyes meeting mine over the rim of her glass. “What about you? Any interesting security details lately?”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I slip my hand down to silence it without looking. “Nothing special.”
The waiter arrives with our entrees. Steak for me, some fancy pasta dish for her that smells like heaven. As we eat, I can’t help but watch her, memorizing the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the slight furrow between her brows when she concentrates on cutting her food.
“What?” she asks, catching me staring.
I shake my head. “Just thinking about how lucky I am.”
Her cheeks flush that perfect shade of pink again. “You’re looking at me like you want to devour me.”
“Duh. Of course I do.”
“Do you, now?” she asks, her voice dropping to that low, teasing lilt that never fails to send my blood rushing south.
“Absolutely.” I reach across the table, brushing my thumb across her bottom lip. “But I’m trying to be a gentleman right now.”
She catches my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm. “What if I don’t want you to be a gentleman?”
My phone buzzes again, persistent and unwelcome. I ignore it for a second time.
“Careful,” I warn, voice dropping lower. “Keep looking at me like that and we won’t make it to dessert.”
“And what if I want to be dessert?” she whispers.
Dear god. Where did sweet Violet go? If she wants to play this game in public, I’m more than happy to oblige.
I lean forward, voice dropping to a rough whisper that only she can hear. “You want to know what I’m thinking right now?”
She nods, eyes widening.
“I’m thinking about pushing that pretty dress up around your waist so everyone could see.” I keep my voice low, watching as her pupils dilate.
Her lips part on a silent gasp, cheeks flushing deeper. She glances around, but no one is paying attention to us.
“I bet you’re already wet for me,” I continue. “Aren’t you, baby? Sitting there in that tight dress, pretending to be so proper while your pussy’s dripping.”
She sets her glass down with a shaky hand. “Rowan…”
I take a casual sip of my wine, maintaining eye contact over the rim.
“I can’t wait to taste you later. Spread those pretty thighs and lick you until you’re sobbing.
But I won’t let you come right away,” I continue, watching her squirm in her seat.
“First, I want to feel how tight you get around my fingers when you’re desperate. ”
She presses her thighs together under the table, her breath quickening. Her cheeks flame crimson, but she doesn’t look away. The waiter approaches with fresh water as she struggles to compose herself.
“Everything alright with your meals?” he asks politely.
“Perfect,” I answer, never taking my eyes off Violet. “Couldn’t be better.”
When he leaves, I lean in again. “You know what I’m going to do when I get you home? I’m going to rip that pretty dress off you, bend you over the first surface I find, and fuck you until you can’t remember your own name.”
When she speaks, she’s breathless. “Rowan?”
I quirk my brow.
“I need you to take me home. Now.”
I shake my head, settling back in my chair. “No.”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
“I said no.” I signal the waiter. “We’ll take the dessert menu, please.”
“You can’t be serious.”
I meet her gaze, reveling in the flush spreading down her neck and disappearing beneath her dress. “Dead serious. I think we should have dessert first.”
The waiter returns with two elegant menus, and I take my time studying the options while Violet shifts uncomfortably in her seat. The frustration radiating off her in waves in practically tangible.
“The chocolate soufflé looks excellent,” I say conversationally. “What do you think, baby?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “I think you’re cruel.”
I smile, reaching across the table to take her hand. “Me? Never. Besides, anticipation makes everything sweeter, doesn’t it?”
“I hate you right now,” she mutters, but there’s no heat behind it.
“No, Violet. You don’t,” I say, my voice dropping to that low register that always makes her shiver. “You want me.”
She doesn’t deny it, just takes a sip of her water with unsteady hands.
The waiter returns, pen poised over his notepad. “Have you decided?”
“We’ll take the chocolate soufflé,” I tell him. “To share.”
“You can’t seriously expect me to sit here for another twenty minutes,” Violet says as soon as the waiter walks away
“That’s exactly what I expect.”
Her eyes widen with realization. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Mmm,” I confirm. I want her to sit here, wet and aching for me, imagining everything I’m going to do to her when we get home. The frustration in her eyes only makes me harder, knowing how desperate she’s getting across the table.
“Two can play this game,” she warns, her voice dropping to a whisper as she shifts in her seat.
Before I can respond, her foot begins sliding up my calf. She holds my gaze, challenging me with a raised eyebrow as her toes inch higher, tracing a path toward my inner thigh.
“Careful,” I warn, my voice lower than I intend.
Her foot finds its target, pressing against the growing hardness beneath my slacks. I grip the edge of the table, my knuckles whitening as she applies just enough pressure to drive me crazy.
“Something wrong?” she asks innocently.
I catch her ankle under the table, holding her foot in place. “You feel how hard my cock is right now? If you keep that up, I’m going to bend you over this fucking table and let everyone in this restaurant see exactly what you do to me.”
Her eyes widen to saucers, her foot immediately retreating as she glances around nervously to see if anyone hears me. “You win,” she whispers, her cheeks flaming scarlet. “God, you win.”
I smirk, victorious but equally affected. The waiter arrives with our soufflé, setting it between us with two spoons. Neither of us moves to touch it.
“Check, please,” I say without taking my eyes off her. The waiter gives a curt nod before walking away.
“You better hurry up and eat that dessert,” I say, nodding toward the untouched dish between us, “or I’m going to make good on every single promise I just made to you.”
“You wouldn’t.”
I pull out my wallet and drop enough cash on the table to cover the bill and a generous tip. “Try me.”
She grabs her spoon, scooping up a bite of chocolate soufflé and bringing it to her lips. The way her mouth closes around the spoon has my dick straining against my slacks.
I lean back in my chair, watching her take another bite. “Five.”
She pauses mid-chew, eyes darting to mine. “What?”
“I’m giving you five seconds to finish that.” I keep my voice low. “Five.”
“Rowan—”
“Four.”
She scoops up another hurried bite. A drop of chocolate lingers at the corner of her mouth, and I have to grip the armrest to keep from leaning across the table and licking it off.
“Three.”
“You’re insane,” she whispers, but she’s already setting down her spoon and reaching for her clutch.
“Two.”
She stands, smoothing down her dress with trembling hands. The movement makes the fabric cling to her curves in a way that has my cock throbbing against my zipper.
“One.”
I’m on my feet before the word fully leaves my mouth, my hand finding the small of her back as I guide her toward the exit. The hostess smiles at us as we pass, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m about two seconds away from putting on a show for the entire restaurant to see.