Chapter 9 #2
She kisses me again. Harder. One hand slides up to tangle in my hair, nails scraping my scalp in a way that makes my brain short-circuit.
I bracket her waist. Feel the shape of her ribs under thin cotton. The way she arches into me like she's been starving for this.
For me.
Thunder crashes overhead. The barn shakes.
We break apart. Breathing hard. Foreheads pressed together.
"That was—" I start.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Analyze it. Rationalize it. Just—" She pulls back far enough to meet my eyes. Hers are dark. Pupils blown wide. "Let it be what it is."
"What is it?"
"I don't know yet."
Her thumb brushes my jaw. Traces the scar there. The touch is gentle. Curious. Like she's memorizing the shape of me.
"We should probably talk about this," I say.
"Probably."
Neither of us moves.
The rain eases to a steady patter. Softer. Almost soothing.
Ivy leans her head against my shoulder. I wrap an arm around her. Pull her close. She fits there like she was designed for the space, her weight warm and solid against my side.
"I'm still mad at you," she murmurs.
"I know."
"About the catering money."
"I know."
"And I'm definitely going to lecture you about sustainable scaling once my brain works again."
I press a kiss to the top of her head. Breathe in the scent of rain and botanicals. "Looking forward to it."
She huffs a laugh. Her fingers trace idle patterns on my chest, following the seam of my shirt pocket.
"We're going to fight Webb," she says. Quiet but certain. "Together. You and me and this whole stubborn town."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She tilts her head up. Kisses me again. Slower this time. Deliberate. "Because I'm not losing this place. And neither are you."
The rain drums steady against the barn roof. A counterpoint to the thunder of my pulse in my ears.
Ivy's lips are still on mine. Soft. Insistent. Her fingers twist in my shirt, damp cotton clinging to her knuckles. The hay bales creak under our weight as I shift closer, pulling her against me until there's no space left between us.
Her breath hitches. Warm against my cheek. I can taste the rain on her skin, the faint salt of her, something green and growing that's just Ivy. My hands find her waist, the curve of her ribs under thin fabric, the way her body arches into mine like she's been waiting for this as long as I have.
"Rogan—"
My name on her lips is a spark to dry tinder. I deepen the kiss, my tongue tracing the seam of her mouth until she opens for me. She tastes like earth and possibility, like the first bite of something sweet after a long hunger.
Her fingers slide up my chest. Push my jacket off my shoulders. It falls to the hay, forgotten. I do the same for hers, peeling damp canvas away to find her underneath with warm skin and a thin tank top that clings to her like it's jealous of my hands.
I break the kiss long enough to pull the tank over her head. She lifts her arms, lets me. The air in the barn is cool against her bare skin, raising goosebumps I follow with my fingertips, tracing patterns down her arms, her sides, the dip of her waist.
She shivers. Not from cold.
"Tell me to stop," I whisper against her collarbone. My lips find the pulse there, steady and strong under my mouth. "Tell me and I'll stop."
She doesn't tell me to stop.
Her hands are in my hair, pulling me closer, her thighs parting to let me settle between them.
The hay scratches at my back through my shirt, but I barely feel it.
All I can feel is her, the heat of her through too many layers of clothes, the way her hips tilt up to meet mine, the sound she makes when I kiss the hollow of her throat.
"More," she says. Voice rough. "Please."
I oblige.
My hands map her body like it's terrain I've been tasked with memorizing. The slope of her shoulders, her breasts in my palms, the way her stomach trembles when I trace the line of her ribs. She's strong and soft all at once, muscle and give, earth and water, and I want to learn every inch of her.
She fumbles with my belt. Gets it undone. My jeans follow, kicked aside with impatient movements that make me grin against her skin. Her own clothes join the pile until there's nothing left but us, skin to skin in the half-light of the barn, the rain a steady rhythm against the roof.
I roll us until she's under me, the hay prickling at my back forgotten. Her legs wrap around my waist, heels digging into my ass like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go. I kiss her again, slow and deep, my hands braced on either side of her head, her hair tangled in my fingers.
"Rogan," she says again. My name a prayer and a demand.
I move down her body, kissing a path from her collarbone to her sternum, the dip of her navel. She gasps when I reach the waistband of her underwear, the last barrier between me and all of her.
I look up. Meet her eyes.
She nods.
I yank them off. Toss them aside.
And then I'm there, at the heart of her, my mouth on her like I'm starving and she's the only thing that can save me.
She cries out, her hands fisting in the hay, her back arching off the bales as I work her with my tongue, my lips, my teeth until she's trembling and breathless and begging for more.
I give her more.
My fingers join my mouth, sliding inside her as I lick and suck and worship her with everything I have. She's so wet, so hot, so perfectly Ivy that I could spend the rest of my life right here and die happy.
But she's pulling at me, urging me up, her legs wrapping around me again as she tries to drag me back to her mouth.
"Now," she pants. "Please, Rogan, now."
I don't make her ask twice.
I position myself at her entrance. Push in slow, watching her face the whole time, the way her eyes flutter shut, her lips part, her breath stutter in her chest as I fill her inch by inch until there's nothing left of me that isn't hers.
She's tight. Hot. Perfect.
I start to move.
And it's not just sex. Not just bodies finding pleasure in the dark.
It's a promise.
A vow.
A thing with weight and meaning and teeth.
Ivy's nails dig into my back as I thrust into her, her hips meeting mine with every movement, her breath coming faster, her body tightening around me like she's trying to pull me deeper, closer, until there's no part of me that isn't hers.
"Rogan," she gasps. "I—"
I know.
I can feel it in the way her body clenches around mine, the way her breath stutters, the way her hands scrabble at my skin like she's trying to hold on, like she's afraid of what's coming.
Like she's afraid of how good it's going to feel.
I reach between us. Find the place where we're joined and press my thumb there, circling, adding pressure until she's crying out, her body bowing off the hay, her release crashing over her in waves that pull me under with her.
I follow a second later. Bury my face in her neck as I come, my body shuddering with the force of it, the rightness of it, the way it feels like coming home after a long time lost.
We stay like that for a long moment. Breathing each other in. Skin cooling in the damp air. Hearts slowing to something like normal.
Ivy's fingers trace idle patterns on my back. Up and down my spine, over my shoulders, like she's memorizing me too.
I lift my head. Look at her.
She looks back.
And I know, with a certainty that settles deep in my bones, that this changes everything.
We don't talk about it.
Not yet.
Instead, Ivy pulls the tarp down from the rafters. Shakes off the water. Drapes it over us like a blanket, the canvas rough but dry enough to matter.
I tuck her against my chest. She fits there like she's always belonged, her breath evening out against my collarbone, her fingers curled in my shirt that we put back on when the cold started to bite.
"This doesn't solve anything," she murmurs.
"I know."
"We still have to deal with Webb. The money. The rezoning."
"Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," she agrees. Her eyes drift shut.
I watch her fall asleep. The way her face softens, tension melting from her jaw. How her lashes cast shadows on her freckled cheeks in the dim lantern light.
Outside, the rain finally stops.
The silence feels bigger than the storm.
I close my eyes. Let exhaustion pull me under.
Morning light brightens through the barn slats like knives.
I wake with a crick in my neck and Ivy's elbow digging into my ribs. She's sprawled across me, one leg thrown over my thigh, drooling slightly on my shoulder.
It's perfect.
She stirs. Lifts her head. Blinks at me with sleep-fogged eyes.
"Morning," I say.
"Ugh." She wipes her mouth. Sits up. Hair's a disaster, braid completely undone, dirt smeared across her temple. "We slept in a barn."
"We did more than sleep."
Pink floods her cheeks. She shoves at my shoulder, but there's no heat in it.
I stand. Stretch. Everything aches in the best possible way. Through the gap in the barn door, I spot something that stops me cold.
"Ivy."
"What?"
I push the door wider. Point.
A patch of wildflowers has bloomed overnight. Tiny purple things with delicate petals, clustered in the muddy space between the barn and the fence line. They shouldn't be there. This late in the season, this close to frost, nothing blooms.
But there they are.
Ivy crouches beside them. Touches one flower with reverent fingers.
"Dwarf larkspur," she breathes. "I haven't seen these in five years. They're supposed to be locally extinct."
"Seeds must've been dormant."
"For years. Waiting." She looks up at me. Something fierce and bright burning in her expression. "The rain brought them back."
I crouch beside her. The flowers are smaller than my thumbnail, fragile as hope.
"Take it as a sign?" I ask.
"I don't believe in signs."
"Liar."
She smiles. Small. Real. "Maybe just this once."
We walk back to town as the sun climbs. Mud sucks at our boots. Ivy's hand finds mine halfway down the hill, our fingers lacing together like it's simple.
Like it's not the most complicated thing I've ever done.
My phone goes off in my pocket as we reach the main road. I pull it out. Seventeen missed calls from Maya. Forty-three texts. Three emails.
And a notification from the town Facebook group.
"What?" Ivy leans in to look.
The photo loads.
It's us. Last night. Sitting on hay bales under lantern light, sharing that emergency meal I'd cobbled together from my jacket pockets. Ivy's laughing at something. I'm looking at her like she hung the moon.
The caption reads: New romance brewing at the bistro? Local chef and seed activist spotted on secret late-night date. Webb Industries better watch out—these two look like trouble
"Oh no," Ivy says.
My phone rings. Maya's name flashes on screen.
"You're going to want to answer that," Ivy says quietly.
I do.
"ROGAN ALEXANDER THORN!" Maya's voice could strip paint. "You have thirty seconds to explain why the entire town thinks you're dating Ivy Hale and why I had to find out FROM FACEBOOK!"
I look at Ivy.
She looks at me.
"This is going to be a problem," she says.
My phone keeps ringing.