Chapter 33
thirty-three
SLOANE
We leave through the side doors because Luca has commandeered the event and is refusing to let any of our group go until they commit to an afterparty at Ironwood House. Rowan and I have decided we have other plans.
“Your sister,” I say, pulling my coat on, “is going to be in a campus security report by morning.”
“She’s already in two.” He says it without looking up, buttoning his own coat, and I laugh because he’s not kidding. “Fewer than I expected.”
We cut across the quad toward Sterling, my heels clicking on the frozen path. The whole walk, I’m waiting for what usually kicks in — the scan, the mental checklist, who saw us leave, whether someone’s going to text someone who’ll text someone else.
It doesn’t come.
I keep walking and it just doesn’t come.
I look sideways at Rowan. His hands are in his pockets, breath clouding in front of him. Under the lamplight, his face is flushed from the dancing, or the champagne, or the part where he told his father and Patrick Cross and half the donor class to go to hell inside the same hour.
It was hot.
His phone buzzes in his coat pocket, and he pulls it out without breaking stride. I catch the screen before he can angle it away — not a text, just a calendar alert, gray and bloodless: Canceled: Call — G. Mercer.
He looks at it a second, then locks the screen and puts it back in his pocket.
“Who’s Mercer?” I ask, though the timing answers it for me.
“A scout. We had a call set up.” He shrugs. “Guess we don’t anymore.”
“Rowan, that’s because of—”
“I know why.” He glances at me, voice plain. “I chose this. I chose you. A canceled call doesn’t change that math. There’ll be other doors that close, and I’m okay with that.”
And the wild thing is, I believe him.
“My place is closer,” he says, when we reach the fork in the path.
“I know.” I pull him by the wrist toward Sterling. “We’re going to mine.”
He doesn’t argue.
When we get there, Sterling’s lobby is dead, everyone still at the gala or at Murphy’s. We take the stairs, and as we do, I reach behind me under my coat, unhook my bra through my dress, and work it out through my sleeve the way every girl learns to do by fourteen.
I loop it over the outside doorknob, unlock the door, and pull him inside.
Rowan laughs. “Was that—”
“Ivy signal.”
“She’s going to love that.”
The room is small and still smells like the vanilla candle Ivy had burning that morning. My bed is made, while Ivy’s is chaos camouflaged by a pile of clothing. I take my heels off and lose three inches, and Rowan laughs, looking down at me.
“If you comment on my height I’m stabbing you with my heels,” I say.
The corner of his mouth ticks up, all faux innocence. “I wasn’t going to.”
“You are with your face.” I jab him with the shoe. “Take your jacket off.”
He does, draping it over my desk chair, then unbuttons his cuffs while I stand there watching him like I’ve never seen a man undress before. Which, okay — I’ve seen him shirtless plenty of times, but tonight he’s dressed up, his forearms flexing, and my mouth goes dry.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“I’m appreciating. Take the shirt off and I’ll appreciate more.”
He unbuttons it the rest of the way and shrugs it off, and I get the full view — broad shoulders, the hard cut of his chest, the line of muscle that tracks down his stomach and disappears into his belt.
I reach behind me for my zipper, and it catches. I twist, tugging, and Rowan steps in close, fingers replacing mine, working the zipper down while his mouth finds the side of my neck. The dress loosens and pools around my feet, and I’m standing in nothing but panties.
His hands settle on my waist, and he presses into me from behind. He’s already rock hard, and his hands move down over my breasts, my stomach, then lower, teasing my inner thighs as both his breathing and mine get heavier.
I turn and undo his belt, the buckle clinking as I pull the leather through the loops and toss it behind me. Then I help him out of his pants and see his boxer briefs are dark and tight, the thick outline of his cock straining against the fabric.
I press my palm flat against him and he twitches.
He exhales sharply, his hand coming up to the back of my neck, but whatever he has in mind fails because I push him onto the bed. He takes my lead, and I climb onto him, settling, his hands finding my thighs while I lean down and kiss him, deep and slow and thorough.
It’s the kind of kiss that makes me grind down against him without deciding to, and as his tongue slides against mine, I can feel him hard against me through two thin layers of fabric, right where I want him, and I make a sound into his mouth that I don’t try to quiet.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. “How do you want—”
“However you want.”
His eyebrows lift. “I thought you didn’t want me to—”
“I said I don’t want you to decide for me. I’m choosing to let you.”
He looks at me for a second, hunger in his eyes, then he nods. “Okay.”
He kisses me harder, deeper, his hand sliding down my body, hooking my panties and pulling them down my legs. I kick them off, and then I’m pulling at his briefs, and when his cock springs free I wrap my hand around him and stroke, slow.
As I work him, his forehead drops to my shoulder, and he swears quietly against my skin. But even with my permission to take me however he likes, he’s still careful with me, gentling, holding himself in check like I might change my mind — and tonight, I don’t want careful.
“I want to feel you,” I say. “Stop being polite about it.”
His mouth drags up my neck. “Say that again.”
“Just fuck me, Rowan.”
He laughs against my throat, surprised. Then he moves. He flips me — not roughly, just purposefully, one hand guiding my hip — and I go with it, turning onto my stomach and drawing up onto my forearms and knees.
His hand curves over my hip, steadying me, and then I feel him — the broad, blunt head of his cock pressing against me, pushing in slowly. I’m so wet it’s almost embarrassing, but I don’t care. He slides in thick and stretching and I drop my face into the pillow and groan.
He’s deep.
Deeper than before, filling me in a way that makes my thighs shake.
And he hasn’t even started moving yet.
“Fuck,” he breathes behind me, fingers digging into my hip.
I push back against him, and that gets him going. He sets a rhythm, slow at first, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in, and each thrust pushes a sound out of me that I do not edit. I’m loud — louder than I’ve ever been with him — and I love it.
“You feel so fucking good,” he says, low and ragged, and his hips snap forward harder.
I gasp, pressing back into him. “Don’t stop, Rowan, even if your sister walks in.”
He laughs, in between gasps of breath. “That’s weird… but… okay.”
He keeps going. His hand slides from my hip around to my front, fingers finding my clit, and the first stroke makes me jolt. He reads it instantly, keeps it light, circling, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. The double sensation is almost too much.
I can feel the orgasm building from somewhere deep, slow and heavy. He drives into me, and slow is gone. I’m shaking, my arms barely holding me up, but not daring to change position because the sensation might stop.
He pulls me back against his chest, upright on our knees, his arm banded around my waist, his cock still deep inside me. And the new angle changes everything. I feel him everywhere, his hand still between my legs while his mouth drags down my neck.
I come so hard my vision whites out.
His name comes out of me, loud and unguarded, and I grip his forearm with both hands as my body clenches around him. He swears, thrusting up into me twice, three more times, hard and uneven, and then he’s coming too.
We come down together and stay like that for a long, shaky moment, both breathing hard, his arm tight around me. He kisses me on the back of the head and lowers me down, pulling out, and I roll onto my back, boneless.
He lies down beside me, his hand finding my stomach, palm flat, thumb stroking idly. His chest is still heaving, and there’s sweat along his collarbone, and I reach over and push his hair off his forehead because it’s damp and falling into his eyes.
“You let me drive,” he says after a while.
“I told you to drive,” I say. “Don’t get cocky about it.”
“I’m already cocky about it.”
I shove his shoulder and he catches my hand, kissing the knuckle.
And I leave the bra on the doorknob.
Announcing myself — and us — to the world.