23. Miles #2
Seattle rain welcomed us home. Rowan's loft was a sanctuary—exposed brick and tall windows, with the ghosts of past investigations pinned to the far wall.
"Phones off," I said as we dropped our bags.
Rowan placed both devices on the desk and powered them down.
"Food," I said. "Something that tastes like it belongs to us."
We walked to the corner market through rain that soaked our shoulders and plastered our hair to our heads. The clerk rang up pasta, tomatoes, and wine without recognition—we were nobody special, only another couple buying groceries for the night.
Back in the loft, our domestic rhythm was meditative after days of public performance. Rowan chopped vegetables while I peeled garlic.
"You were incredible today," he said, not looking up from the cutting board.
"I was functional."
"You were brave." He caught my wrist as I reached for a corkscrew. "Miles, what you did today—most people couldn't have managed it."
"Most people wouldn't have walked into Harrow's trap in the first place."
"Most people wouldn't have survived it. You did both."
The pasta water boiled over, sending steam clouds toward the ceiling. I moved to stir the pot, but Rowan's hands settled on my hips, holding me in place.
"I'm proud of you," he said against my ear.
The simple words nearly undid me. After weeks of media attention and political theater, someone was proud of me for reasons unrelated to public service or professional duty. He was proud because I'd survived, fought back, and chosen truth over comfort.
I turned in his arms, wine forgotten. "I love you."
"I love you too." His lips found mine, gentle at first, as our tongues danced.
We cooked like that—close enough that shoulders knocked and hips bumped. When I bent to stir the sauce, his palm settled briefly at the small of my back.
He poured wine while the pasta boiled. He handed me a glass, and we toasted.
"To surviving," I said.
"To more than surviving—living," he countered.
We ate standing at first, impatient. Rowan twirled pasta around his fork, then held it out to me like an offering. Sauce dripped down my chin when I took the bite, and he caught it with his thumb before I could wipe it away.
"You're messy," he said.
"You like it," I shot back, tongue flicking against his thumb before he pulled away.
The silence that followed crackled with electricity. Rain tapped at the tall windows, and freight trains groaned somewhere in the distance.
We carried the rest of the meal to the table, but sitting didn't slow us down. Our knees touched under the wood, brushing once, then pressing together. Rowan twirled another forkful of pasta and held it to my mouth. I took it, lips brushing the tines.
"You're dangerous," he said.
"And that's a problem, why?"
His smile was quick and sharp. He set his fork down and leaned closer until I could feel his breath. My pulse spiked, the food forgotten.
"Leave the dishes," he murmured.
We left them.
It was a short walk to the bathroom. Rowan tugged his shirt over his head as he went, muscles shifting under his skin. I followed, undoing buttons with clumsy fingers and shedding layers, leaving a trail across the floor.
The bathroom light caught the sharp angles of his collarbones and the hollow at the base of his throat. Steam had already fogged the mirror by the time we stumbled into the shower, my back hitting the glass door with enough force to rattle it.
Water beat down scalding and relentless, plastering his dark hair to his forehead and streaming in rivulets down his muscular chest. He hauled me under the spray with a growl that vibrated through my bones, his hands sliding possessively down my slick skin.
Rowan's mouth crushed mine. The kiss was savage, our teeth clicking once before we found the right rhythm.
He shoved me back against the cold tile, water drumming against my shoulders while his hips pinned mine in place. His tongue tasted like expensive wine and salt, while his forearms braced on either side of my head, pinning me precisely where he wanted me.
"Fuck, Miles," he said against my mouth, voice gone rough. "I've wanted this since the courtroom, since you stood there and—"
"Shut up," I gasped, biting his lower lip hard enough to make him groan.
His hand tangled in my hair, tugging my head back, exposing my throat to his teeth. The scrape of them made me arch, water slicking every curve of our bodies. I dropped to my knees on the wet tile, taking him into my mouth.
He hissed through his teeth, one hand braced against the wall, the other gripping my shoulder. I worked him slowly, savoring the taste, weight, and low, broken sounds vibrating out of his chest. When his hips jerked, he yanked me up by the arms.
"Not like that," he rasped, water dripping down his face. "I want you in bed. Want you open for me."
"Yes," I grunted, every nerve sparking.
We stumbled out of the bathroom, dripping water across the floor, leaving a damp trail. The sheets were cool when we tumbled onto the mattress. He was on top of me, grinding hard.
"Slow?" he asked, voice wrecked already.
"Fuck, no. I want this."
Rowan's teeth scraped my chest, pulling a gasp out of me. When his mouth closed around my nipple, heat shot straight to my gut. He pulled back, watching my reaction with a glitter that made me shiver.
His hand slid lower, fingers teasing, testing, until I opened for him, shameless.
"Ready?" he murmured. His fingers trembled around the packet from the nightstand drawer.
"Please."
He opened me with his fingers, but the first thrust of his cock burned in the best way, stretching me wide, breath catching in my throat. He froze, jaw locked tight.
"Talk to me," he said.
"I want it," I breathed, wrapping my legs higher around him, pulling him in. "All of you. Don't hold back."
He groaned and began to move—slow at first, then harder, deeper, until the rhythm slammed heat through me in relentless waves. The slap of skin, creak of the bed, and guttural sounds tearing out of both of us built into something raw and consuming.
"Look at me," Rowan ordered, his voice ragged.
I forced my eyes open and met his gaze. The gray-green of his irises had darkened to storm clouds, pupils blown wide with desire.
"Don't look away," he commanded, each word punctuated by the relentless rhythm of his hips. "I want to watch you come apart."
My fingers dug into the sweat-slicked muscles of his back, feeling them flex and strain with each powerful thrust. The pressure built higher, a white-hot coil tightening at my core.
When it finally broke, pleasure tore through me like lightning splitting the sky. I couldn't hold back the broken cry that ripped from my throat, my entire body arching up against his. Rowan's eyes never left mine, drinking in every tremor and gasp.
"That's it," he growled, "give me everything."
His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as he buried himself even deeper. I felt the exact moment he lost control—his arms shaking, jaw clenched tight before moaning my name against my neck. The hot pulse of him inside me triggered another wave of pleasure that left me gasping.
We clung to each other, shuddering through the aftershocks, skin fused together with sweat and heat. Time stretched and warped around us as we lay tangled, catching our ragged breaths, neither willing to break the connection that bound us together.
"What now?" I whispered.
He kissed the corner of my mouth, still panting. "Now we live. Not as symbols. Not as survivors. Just us."
I closed my eyes and pressed my face against his shoulder.
"I love you," I said, the words spilling out with nothing left to hold them back.
"I love you too."