Chapter 31 Pumpkin Patch Photoshoot & Corn Maze Chaos #2
The space fills with a tension as gentle and charged as static in the air before a thunderclap. My pulse stutters, and the cinnamon in my scent unfurls, curling into something autumnal and a little wild. His hand, still encasing mine, shifts so our fingers weave together.
Rowan leans just enough that his shoulder brushes mine, his scent warm and cedar-spice and grounded. “Are you scared of the storm?”
I shake my head, letting the words tumble out before I can overthink them. “Not if I’m with you.”
He’s so close now, his smile more open than I think I’ve ever seen. “That’s a relief. Because I hear you’re terrified of corn.”
I laugh, the sound coming out awkward and too loud in the hush of the clearing. He reacts by tucking a rogue strand of my hair behind my ear, and the touch is so gentle I think I might combust.
“I should just kiss you, shouldn’t I?”
My smile can’t get bigger as I whisper, “Or you can see if we can do a quicky before the twins find us?”
He groans, tilting his head back for a second, exposing the strong line of his throat. I want to kiss it, trace the pulse there with my tongue, but I hold back, watching him wrestle with that protective streak of his.
Yeah…fuck that…I do what I want.
Which is why I’m already leaning in, pressing my lips to his pulse point, kissing it firmly enough to ignite that rumble of a groan.
“You can always convince me to be like the twins,” he huffs, like it’s not a compliment.
“Act now, think later,” I huff against his flesh, licking it slowly, which I’m sure is sending tingles through him.
Before he can protest—or agree—he captures my mouth in a kiss that's anything but quick.
It's deep, consuming, his lips firm and insistent as one hand slides up to cradle the back of my head, fingers threading through my messy hair.
I melt into it, tasting him the sugar sweetness of our earlier treats.
My hands roam, slipping under his Henley to feel the hard planes of his chest, muscles honed from years of firefighting.
He's so solid, so real, and it hits me how much I've craved this—being wanted without the weight of expectations.
With Rowan, there's no pressure to perform; it's just us, bickering our way into something deeper.
"You're overdressed," I murmur against his lips, tugging at his shirt.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through me.
"Bossy today, aren't you? First the photoshoot, now this.
" But he obliges, shrugging out of his flannel jacket and pulling the Henley over his head in one smooth motion.
The sight of him—broad shoulders, defined abs dusted with dark hair, that scar from some old fire on his side—makes my mouth dry.
He's attractive in that unassuming way, like he doesn't know the effect he has, but I do.
I've always noticed, even when I pretended not to.
"Your turn," he says, eyes darkening as they rake over me. His hands find the hem of my sweater, pushing it up slowly, exposing the pumpkin-patterned leggings and the curve of my stomach.
I help him, shimmying out of it, feeling a rush of vulnerability mixed with empowerment.
After the photoshoot earlier, with Reverie yelling about "sensual bakery goddess energy," I'd felt shy, but now?
With Rowan's gaze on me like I'm something precious, I feel sexy, desired.
My hair tumbles down, the autumn-pumpkin strands with their black roots catching the light, and I watch his expression soften, heat with want.
"Beautiful," he whispers, leaning in to kiss along my collarbone, his stubble grazing my skin in a way that sends sparks straight to my core.
I arch into him, my mismatched fuzzy socks scraping against the hay-strewn ground as I wrap my legs around his waist. We're in a bubble here, the maze walls high and enclosing, but the thrill of potential discovery adds an edge.
What if Levi or Luca stumbles upon us? The thought makes me giggle, even as Rowan's mouth finds the sensitive spot below my ear.
"What's so funny?" he asks, nipping lightly.
"Just imagining Levi's face if he finds us like this. He'd probably cheer."
Rowan snorts, his hands sliding down to cup my ass through the leggings.
"He'd join in, the idiot." There's no jealousy in his tone, just fond exasperation—pack dynamics at their finest. We've come so far from my hesitance at the start of the day, when the idea of "officializing" us with photos felt too exposed. Now, it feels right, like belonging.
I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle, my fingers clumsy with anticipation.
He helps, his jeans pooling at his ankles, and then he's pressing against me, hard and ready.
My leggings are next, peeled off with a bit of awkward wiggling that has us both laughing—me half-tangled in the fabric, him steadying me so I don't topple into the hay.
"Graceful," I mutter, self-deprecating as always.
"Adorable," he counters, pulling me close again. We're skin to skin now, his warmth chasing away the evening chill, scents mingling into something intoxicating. He lowers me onto the hay bale, careful, always careful, but there's urgency in his touch as he positions himself between my thighs.
"Ready?" he asks, eyes searching mine.
I nod, pulling him down for another kiss. "Yes."
He slides into me slowly, inch by inch, and I gasp at the stretch, the fullness.
It's perfect, overwhelming, our bodies fitting like they've always known how.
He starts moving, a steady rhythm that builds heat between us, my nails digging into his back as pleasure coils tight in my belly.
The hay pricks at my skin, but it's a grounding contrast to the softness of his touches, the way he whispers my name like a prayer.
We're lost in it, the maze forgotten, when suddenly—crunch.
Something gives way under us, and the hay bale collapses in a puff of dust and straw.
I yelp as we tumble, Rowan twisting to take the fall, me landing on top of him in a heap of limbs and laughter.
Hay sticks to my hair, my back, everywhere, and I can feel it in places it definitely shouldn't be.
"Oh my god!" I burst out, giggling uncontrollably. "Did we just break the hay bale?"
Rowan groans, but he's laughing too, hands brushing hay from my shoulders. "Apparently we're too hot for it to handle." His eyes sparkle with mirth, that quiet humor of his shining through. "You okay?"
"Yeah, just... hay in my bra now." I fish out a strand, still straddling him, our bodies still connected in the chaos. It's ridiculous, clumsy, but so us—cozy bickering even in the middle of passion.
He sits up, pulling me with him, and kisses me through the laughter. "Worth it. Now, where were we?"
We manage to rearrange ourselves on the scattered hay, less graceful but no less eager. The interruption only heightens the urgency; our movements are faster now, chasing that peak together.
I brace both hands on Rowan’s chest, feeling the hard, rapid drum of his heart beneath my palms.
My thighs clench tight around his waist and I rock against him deliberately, finding the rhythm that makes his lips part and his eyes nearly roll.
He’s so steady, always so in-control—even now, holding himself motionless, letting me take the pace, the lead, as if willing to surrender just this once.
There’s a power in that, in watching this mountain of a man come undone beneath me, in the way his hands grip my hips so hard it’s a miracle my leggings don’t fuse to my skin. I make a show of it, grinding down and lifting a little, teasing him while I arch my back and toss my hair.
It’s mostly for effect, but when I chance a look at his face, I see only awe, reverence, and something deeper, star-bright and dangerous.
He tries to say something—maybe my name or a joke—but it comes out as a strangled sound that’s half growl, half plea.
The sight is enough to set my skin buzzing.
Every nerve ending in my body is tuned to Rowan: the smoky-cedar spike of his scent, the warmth of him inside me, the way his breath hitches every time I squeeze just so.
I let myself go a little wild, pace staccato and messy, not caring if I look silly or if my thighs are quaking from the effort. If anything, I want him to see it, to see me like this—sweaty and flushed and beautiful, not because it’s staged but because I’m finally allowed to feel.
He meets me halfway, his hands splaying wide over my hips, then up to my waist, then splayed over my ribs as if he can't decide where he most wants to touch.
The control slips. I see it happen, his head tipping back as he lets out a groan that makes my toes curl. He’s so close, and I want to push him further, to see just what it takes to break Rowan Cambridge all the way.
I lean in, panting, and find his pulse with my tongue, biting there because I know he likes it. His hands fly to my back, dragging me closer, and, for a second, we’re just clinging to each other, nothing holding us up but friction and mutual self-destruction.
I’m loud—I can’t help it, not after the day we’ve had, not after everything I’ve pretended not to want—and the sound of my own voice sets me off, pushes me right to the edge. I chase the heat, let it build and crest and crash down over me in wave after wave.
When I come, I clutch Rowan’s shoulders and cry out his name, muffled against the stubble of his jaw.
The world goes white and then gold and then soft, the fairy lights overhead blurring, the scent of trampled hay and autumn and Rowan swirling around me.
He thrusts up one last time, holding me in place, and I feel him spill inside me, the shudder that rips through him like a distant clap of thunder.
He says my name again, quieter this time, reverent, and I know—deep down, where all the broken pieces of me still live—that he means it.
We collapse together in a heap of tangled limbs and hay.