Chapter Fourteen – Ivy
The ache in my body is a slow, deliberate thrum—like a warning bell in my muscles, reminding me that I spent the night before hauling wet towels, dragging buckets, and running across a field that had no business being that steep.
I’d expected soreness. What I hadn’t expected was the other ache—low, persistent, and entirely Rowan’s fault.
Or maybe it’s my imagination.
Because I swear, just after I ran back to my car to get my phone that I’d stupidly left in the cup holder, I’d turned to head back to the guest cottage under the cover of night, when I heard him.
A groan. Deep. Guttural. One that had no business being that filthy unless someone was doing something filthy.
And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
Now, as I tiptoe around the small kitchen, trying to pour tea without spilling it down my tank top, the image won’t leave me alone.
Rowan. Naked. In the shower. Water sluicing over every inch of that strong, broad body. His hand wrapped around himself, jaw clenched, breath stuttering out as he thinks about—
“Dammit,” I mutter, burning my tongue on the first sip.
It’s too early for these thoughts.
Too early to be staring out the window toward the main house, hoping to catch a glimpse of him moving past the kitchen window, shirtless and smug like nothing happened yesterday. Like he didn’t nearly kiss me. Like I didn’t nearly let him.
I set the mug down harder than necessary, the sound echoing off the small counter. This back-and-forth is giving me whiplash.
It’s not just the lust swimming in my bloodstream. It’s the confusion. The push and pull. The way he looks at me like he’s starving, then closes the door in my face.
The way I came back here thinking maybe—just maybe—he’d be waiting. And all I got was silence.
Fine.
If he wants to act like nothing has happened between us, then I’ll confront him like something did. Because I’m tired of pretending. Tired of playing nice and tiptoeing around the burn in my chest every time he walks away without looking back.
I throw on a loose button-down over my tank and head out, not bothering to brush the sleep from my eyes. The morning air is sharp, biting against my legs as I stomp across the gravel toward the barn.
And of course, there he is.
Rowan stands beside the feed bins, sleeves shoved up to his shoulders, sweat already darkening the collar of his T-shirt even though it’s barely nine. He’s wrestling a wheelbarrow like it insulted his mother, muscles flexing with every motion.
He doesn’t see me at first.
Which is probably a good thing, because I need a second to collect the breath he’s knocked from my lungs. Even angry—maybe especially angry—he’s devastating.
“Rowan,” I call, louder than I mean to.
His shoulders stiffen before he turns. Smoke shadows still cling to his jaw, shirt damp at the collar, pitchfork biting the earth. “Morning,” he says, clipped.
That’s it. Morning.
After last night—the way he stood between me and the fire, the way his hand found the small of my back when the wind shifted, the way he cleaned the grit from my knee like it was his own skin—he gives me ‘morning’?
I close the distance, not bothering to hide the heat in my voice. “We’re just… pretending none of that happened?”
He keeps working a beat too long, like the soil suddenly matters more than oxygen. “Not sure what you mean.”
“Oh, I think you do.” I fold my arms and plant my feet. “The part where you hovered near enough to catch me if I fell and then acted like you didn’t. The part where you watched me like I was a storm you wanted and feared at the same time.”
His eyes lift, guarded. “Don’t make it into something it’s not, Ivy.”
“Then what is it?” Softer now, because the bravado is just scaffolding over something far more breakable. “Because you carry me when I’m sick, you show up when things burn, and then you talk to me like we’re strangers at the feed store.”
The pitchfork teeth thud into the dirt. He drags a hand over his scruff, like the rasp might buy him time. “It’s not that simple.”
“Try me.”
He exhales like he’s been holding up the sky all morning. When he speaks, it lands low and unvarnished. “You terrify me.”
I blink. “What?”
“You come into this place—into my life—like a spark I didn’t ask for.
Now everything smells like smoke.” His mouth flattens, then loosens.
“I think about you when I’m counting fence posts.
When I’m supposed to be sleeping. When I’m not supposed to be thinking at all.
And I hate it because I know where wanting has taken me before. ”
“You don’t know me,” I say, even though part of me aches at how much he already does.
“I know enough.” His voice snags on the last word. “I know I’m the guy who stays. And I know you’ve got a whole world that doesn’t look anything like this one.”
I take a step closer. The air between us tightens, humming. “Then stop pretending it doesn’t matter.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Tell me you don’t want me, Rowan,” I whisper. “Say it, and I’ll walk away.”
Silence.
“Say it,” I demand, voice shaking.
But he doesn’t. He just looks at me. And then he moves .
One step forward. One rough hand curling around my wrist, pulling me into him. His mouth hovers over mine, breath ragged.
“I can’t,” he rasps.
My heart thunders, then his lips crash into mine. It’s not tentative. It’s not soft. It’s hunger. Frustration. Weeks of wanting wrapped into one searing kiss.
His hands grip my waist like he’s been waiting forever to touch me. My fingers twist in his shirt, grounding myself in his heat.
He breaks the kiss first, forehead pressed to mine, breath still shaky.
“This is going to ruin me,” he whispers.
I smile against his mouth.
“Good.”
Rowan doesn’t take me back to the barn or the couch or press me up against the wall like I half expect him to. He leads me inside the house—quiet, steady, with his fingers still wrapped around mine like he’s afraid if he lets go, I’ll disappear again.
I trail him, breath caught somewhere between my ribs and my throat. The door swings shut with a final click , the tension between us thick and electric, humming louder with each step.
He doesn’t say a word as he leads me through the hallway and into his bedroom. The door closes. The air shifts. And we’re alone.
The room smells like cedar, old cotton, and him. There’s something unbearably intimate about it—his boots kicked beneath the bed, a flannel tossed across the chair, the sheets rumpled from a restless night.
I barely have time to absorb it before he’s on me.
Rowan kisses like he’s starved. Like he’s been holding back for too damn long. His hands bury in my hair, angling my head just right so he can deepen the kiss, tongue slipping past my lips and dragging a moan straight from my chest.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
His hands slide down my sides, lifting the hem of my shirt. I shrug out of it, breath hitching when his palms brush over the thin bra I’m wearing beneath. His thumbs graze my nipples through the fabric, slow and deliberate.
“You’re beautiful,” he mutters, like it’s a confession.
I reach for the bottom of his shirt, tugging it up, and he lets me. His body is exactly like I remembered it—broad and carved from labor, with a thin trail of hair leading down from his chest to where his jeans hang low on his hips.
My mouth waters.
Rowan’s hands cup the backs of my thighs, lifting me like I weigh nothing, and he lays me gently across the bed. His body comes down over mine, heat to heat, pressure against pressure.
I arch into him, moaning when he rolls his hips. There’s no denying what’s between us. How hard he is. How wet I already am.
“You sure?” he asks, voice thick.
“Rowan,” I whisper, wrapping my legs around him, “I’ve never been more sure.”
He groans and kisses me again—slower now, deeper. Like we have time to savor this.
And he takes his time.
He kisses down my throat and nips the sensitive spot just beneath my jaw. His hands explore me like he’s memorizing every inch—soft swipes, reverent touches, rough palms, and gentle mouths.
When he finally unhooks my bra, he pauses.
“Goddamn,” he mutters, staring at me like I’m priceless art.
He mouths over one nipple, tongue flicking, sucking, until I’m arching beneath him.
“Please,” I beg.
He chuckles, low and sinful, dragging his lips down my stomach.
“Patience, songbird.”
He kisses lower, hands skimming down my hips, hooking in the band of my shorts and panties. He pulls them off in one smooth motion.
And then he kneels between my thighs, eyes dark and reverent.
“Lie back,” he murmurs. “Let me taste you.”
My breath catches. He doesn’t wait for permission. Just dives in, tongue parting me, slow and steady, licking me like he’s starving for it.
I cry out, hips lifting, hands fisting in the sheets.
He groans against me, the sound vibrating through every nerve ending I have. His mouth is skilled—methodical, purposeful, worshipful. He flattens his tongue and laps up everything I give him, sucking my clit until I’m unraveling and shaking beneath him.
“I can’t—Rowan—” I gasp.
“Yes, you can,” he growls. “Give it to me.”
I come hard, body trembling, legs tight around his shoulders as he drinks me down like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
And then—God help me—he climbs up, kisses me, and flips us in one motion so I’m straddling his chest.
“Your turn,” I breathe, already reaching for his jeans.
He helps me get them off, and when I finally get his boxers down, I pause.
He’s big. Thick. Hard. My mouth waters all over again.
Rowan smirks. “Like what you see?”
I shoot him a wicked grin and slide down, licking a slow stripe from base to tip.
His head drops back. “Jesus.”
I slowly take him in my mouth, letting my lips stretch around him. He groans, hand fisting in my hair.
“You’re perfect,” he rasps.
I swirl my tongue, hollowing my cheeks, moaning around him as I work. I can feel him throb on my tongue and hear the filthy sounds he makes when I suck harder.
“Get up here,” he growls, tugging me up his body and twisting me around. “Sit on me like you mean it.”
I straddle his face and lean forward, taking him back in my mouth as he goes back to worshipping me from below.
It’s filthy. It’s perfect.
He licks and sucks while I moan around him, the two of us caught in some messy, glorious rhythm. He groans into me every time I swirl my tongue, and I whimper against him every time his teeth graze my clit.
It’s too much. It’s not enough. And then I’m coming again, shaking, mouth dropping from his cock as I scream his name.
He lets me ride it out before flipping me again, positioning himself at my entrance.
“Condom?” I ask, barely able to remember my own name.
“Shit. Hold on,” he says as he leans back, his abs and chest flexing as he reaches into his nightstand and grabs the familiar aluminum packet.
“Ready?” he pants after sheathing himself.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He pushes in slowly, stretching me in the best way. We both moan when he bottoms out.
“Fuck, Ivy,” he groans, burying his face in my neck.
He starts to move, slow and deep. Every thrust sends sparks through me, the tension climbing again, his name a litany on my tongue.
“You feel like heaven,” he pants, hooking one of my legs over his shoulder. “Like you were made for me.”
I cry out, hips meeting his, the pressure building again. Something about this position hits me in the best way. I can already feel myself shaking beneath him.
“I’m close,” I breathe. God, when has anything ever been this powerful?
He reaches between us, circles my clit with his thumb, and I shatter—white-hot, blinding.
He follows with a growl, burying himself deep, coming with a rough cry of my name.
Rowan collapses over me, both of us panting, trembling. After a long moment, he lifts his head and brushes his lips over mine.
“I’m not letting you go again,” he whispers.
I don’t reply. I kiss him back like I believe it. Like I want to. Because I do.
The silence that follows is anything but empty. It’s thick with the scent of sweat and skin and something sweeter—like peace if it had a heartbeat.
Rowan lies beside me, one arm flung across his eyes, the other stretched toward me, palm open like he’s not done touching me yet.
I turn on my side, pressing my cheek into the pillow, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. His breath is still ragged.
His skin glistens. And there’s a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth that makes something low in my stomach flutter all over again.
“Are you smiling because of the orgasms?” I murmur, teasing.
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “All of them. And also because I finally got you in my bed.”
My cheeks flush. “So you have been imagining it.”
“Since the day you stole my sweatshirt and turned my world inside out.”
I let that settle. His world. Inside out. There’s a weight to those words I’m not ready to lift.
I stare at the wooden beams above the bed, tracing the lines in the grain with my eyes and grounding myself before I turn the conversation too serious.
“I thought you were going to keep pretending nothing happened,” I say, voice quiet now. “After the fire… I heard you. In the shower.”
His arm drops from his face. Our eyes meet.
He doesn’t flinch or look away. “I thought about you the entire time. You don’t want to know how many nights I’ve done that.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks again, this time from something deeper than embarrassment. From want. From ache.
“Then why didn’t you say anything?”
He sighs and turns toward me, resting on his side. His hand finds my waist, fingers smoothing over my skin like he needs that anchor.
“Because I was scared,” he admits. “I’ve been living in the past. Letting old scars tell me what I do and don’t deserve. But this?” He dips his head, pressing his lips to the spot just below my jaw. “You? I’m not scared anymore.”
My throat tightens.
God, he says things like that and makes it feel real. Like we’re not going to break under the weight of it all.
I pull the blanket up to my chest and nestle closer, my leg sliding over his. “I wasn’t sure you wanted me here.”
“I always wanted you here,” he says. “Even when I didn’t know it.”
We lie there for a while, tangled in soft sheets and softer truths. His fingers draw lazy circles on my hip. My hand rests on his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart.
And in what feels like years, the ache in my chest isn’t fear. It’s hope. A quiet, steady thing that’s still fragile but is finally taking root.