Chapter Twenty-two – Ivy #3
I walk up behind him, looping my arms around his waist and pressing my cheek against the warm skin of his back. “I like this version of you,” I murmur. “Domestic cowboy with a spatula.”
He chuckles, flipping a pancake. “Don’t get used to it. This is a one-time special.”
I peek at the counter. There’s a stack of pancakes, a bowl of sliced strawberries, and fresh whipped cream.
“I didn’t think you cooked anything other than meat and eggs for breakfast.”
“I don’t usually. Evelyn helped me this morning.” He gestures to his phone with the screen still on that reads:
Use strawbewwies and LOTS of whip. She’ll like it. ??
I blink, caught off guard by the sweetness of it. “God, I love her.”
“She loves you too,” he says softly. “They all do.”
His voice is so quiet, so full of unspoken meaning, that I freeze.
“Ivy.”
I look up.
Rowan’s gaze meets mine, searching, serious. “We need to talk.”
My stomach dips. “About last night?”
He shakes his head. “About everything.”
He sets the spatula down and leans back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “I know you’ve got a life in Nashville. A career. Your mom, your team, all those people pulling you in every direction.”
I nod slowly, unsure where this is going.
“But when you’re here... when you’re with me, it’s like I can breathe. Like the chaos shuts up for five seconds.”
A lump forms in my throat. “Rowan—”
“I want you to stay and make this place—my house, not the cottage—your home,” he says bluntly. “But I’m not gonna ask you to give everything up for me. I just... I needed to say it. I want you here. I want mornings like this. I want pancakes and Evelyn’s texts on Lila’s phone and you in my bed.”
Something shifts in his expression—something fierce and gentle all at once. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“I want to,” I say, stepping into him. “I love you, Rowan.”
His arms are around me in seconds, holding me like the ground might fall out from under us. “I love you too, darlin’. So damn much.”
He kisses me, slow and deep, and suddenly, breakfast is forgotten.
He lifts me onto the kitchen counter, his hands under the hem of his shirt—his shirt—pushing it up over my ribs. The granite is cool under my thighs, but his mouth is hot, branding me in all the places that ache for him.
“God, you’re everything,” he growls, dragging my hips forward.
Rowan drops to his knees in front of me like it's a prayer.
His palms glide up the outsides of my thighs, slow and reverent, before curling around to the backs of my knees. I feel his breath against the apex of my thighs, warm and deliberate, like he’s savoring every second before he touches me.
The cool air kisses my skin, but his mouth is warmer. He presses a kiss to the inside of my knee, then higher. Higher.
“Rowan,” I whisper, already trembling, toes curling against the edge of the counter.
“You taste better than anything I’ve ever made in this kitchen,” he murmurs with a wicked smile.
And then he buries his face between my thighs.
I gasp, hips rocking forward into his mouth. He groans low, like he’s starved for this—starved for me—and God, the way he eats me? It's not fair. One hand spreads me open while the other grips my thigh, grounding me as his tongue strokes and circles, relentless and skillful.
I reach for his hair, threading my fingers through the soft strands, tugging just enough to make him growl. The sound vibrates through me, and I cry out, head falling back as he sucks my clit into his mouth and flicks with a rhythm that makes my knees weak—even though I’m not standing.
And I let him worship me because love looks a lot like this. Like pancakes cooling on the stove. Like laughter and whispered promises. Like flannel and bare feet and the soft groan of wood as the past finally gives way to something new.
“You’re gonna make me—” My voice breaks off in a moan.
Rowan doesn’t stop. He leans in harder, sliding two fingers inside me with delicious precision, his mouth working me in tandem until I fall apart, breath catching, legs shaking around his shoulders.
I come with his name on my lips, his beard rough against the inside of my thighs, my fingers clenching tight in his hair like it’s the only thing tethering me to this world.
He slows his strokes, gentle now, like he’s coaxing me back to earth.
When I finally catch my breath and lift my head, he’s staring up at me, mouth glistening, eyes dark with heat.
“I’m not done with you yet,” he says, voice rough and thick with promise.
My pulse stutters. “Oh?”
He stands, tugging me into his arms effortlessly, and I wrap my legs around his waist.
“Not even close,” he murmurs, carrying me through the kitchen like I weigh nothing, past the still warm stove and the forgotten pancakes.
He sets me on the kitchen table with a soft thud, wood creaking under my weight. His mouth crashes into mine as he undoes the tie of his pajama pants, his tongue tangling with mine, desperate and commanding.
When he presses into me, slow and deep, my breath catches again. There’s nothing between us—no space, no air, just the raw ache of wanting and finally, finally having.
He moves with measured control, hands braced on either side of my hips, his forehead pressed to mine.
“Look at me,” he pants. “I want to see you fall apart this time.”
I do. And when I come again, it’s with his name on my tongue, his body wrapped around mine, and a love so real it makes my chest hurt.
We collapse together, sweat-slick and tangled, chests heaving, breathless in more ways than one.
Rowan brushes his lips against my temple, still inside me. “You are everything, Ivy Quinn. Everything.”
I smile against his neck. “Don’t let the pancakes burn.”
He laughs, and that deep, gravelly sound makes me want to do it all over again.
“I guess you’re hungry now?”
“Oh, I’m starving,” I tease, curling my fingers around his biceps. “But not for food.”
His eyes darken again, and suddenly, I’m being hauled off the table and spun toward the hallway.
“Bed. Now.”
“Yes, sir.”