Chapter 29 #2
“I need—” The words stick for a second, but I force them out.
“I need to feel like I belong. Not a placement. Not a project.” My breath hitches.
“I chose this, you, all of it, and I’m terrified you’ll—” I stop myself, but the words hang there anyway.
Terrified you’ll leave. Terrified I’m not worth staying for.
But fuck the consequences, I can’t not feel him with me any longer.
Something in his face shifts then. The control doesn’t vanish, exactly, but it stops standing between us.
“You are our Omega,” he says, voice gone rough. “You always have been.”
Then he’s kissing me.
This isn’t the careful, testing kind of kiss we’ve shared before—the ones buffered by restraint and unspoken questions. This is heat and relief and something that feels an awful lot like a promise that he’s done holding himself at arm’s length.
His hands slide deeper into my hair, tilting my head, and I pull him closer, fingers bunching in his shirt like I’m trying to erase the memory of critical eyes and Nexus and the word flexibility disguised as a threat.
We stumble backward—my shoulders hit the wall next to the security panel, and the impact jolts through me in a way that grounds me in my own body instead of the one Nexus measured.
Rowan braces his forearm beside my head, caging me in, and for once the feeling of being trapped doesn’t make me want to run. It makes me want to stay.
“Tell me if I need to stop,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“Don’t.” The word comes out desperate, almost pleading. “Don’t stop.”
He lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his hips, and somehow he carries me upstairs, never breaking our kisses.
Then he walks me backward until my shoulders find the edge of his doorframe and we stumble into his bedroom.
It smells faintly of sandalwood and rain—Rowan—but underneath it lingers something softer, familiar: Eli’s clean warmth, his scent faintly woven through the sheets.
The click when his door shuts sounds final and makes my pulse stutter.
Then he pulls away as if he doesn’t want to, as if breaking our lips might mean I’ll change my mind and run.
I reach for his collar, fingers brushing the rough edge of his throat. “You just going to stand there and make me do all the work?” My voice isn’t steady, but it’s mine.
His mouth curves, almost a smile. “You said you wanted control.”
“I do.” So I lift my hair, turning my back so he can undo my zipper on the navy cocktail dress.
Cool air ghosts over my shoulder blades as he slides the zipper down. His hands still.
“Rowan?”
His breath roughens. “They’re almost gone.”
I know what he means before I see where he’s looking: the faint yellow halos low on my back from being tasered.
“It’s fine.”
“Not fine,” he answers. “But fading.”
He doesn’t ask permission; he waits for it—eyes on mine until I nod. Then he bends and presses his mouth to the first bruise, then the second—soft, reverent kisses that turn the last trace of hurt into heat.
A shiver races down my spine, not from cold.
“They don’t get to leave their mark on you,” he says against my skin. “Only if you want it.”
The breath I didn’t know I was holding leaves me in a small, broken sound. “I want this.”
I want you, is what I don’t say. The truth sits hot and reckless on my tongue.
His hands glide down my dress and it feels more intimate than if I was standing naked in front of him.
Cool air licks across my spine as the fabric slips off my shoulders, pools around my feet. I face him, kicking the dress out of the way.
My fingers unbutton his shirt even though I want to yank it off him, but I want to tease him back, show him that two can play at the same game.
When the last button is undone, I slide my hands up his arms to his shoulders, then pull the fabric down. His eyes are hooded and I can feel the strain in his muscles of keeping himself still.
Then I unfasten his belt but don’t remove it. I’m not that patient.
When I unhook his dress pants and ease the zipper down, his breath stutters, but he waits for me to finish.
“Careful,” he mutters, the word more groan than warning. “You keep doing that, and I’ll forget every promise I made to take this slow.”
We hover there for a beat, too close and not close enough. His eyes search mine like he’s checking for cracks. I’m done pretending there aren’t any.
Then I pull down his boxers, and heat brushes my stomach. His cock is solid, heavy, proof he’s barely holding back.
“Rowan,” I whisper.
That’s all it takes. He embraces me, the heat off his body hits me through the thin lace of my underwear left between us. One hand rises, hesitates, then lands against my jaw. His thumb traces the corner of my mouth. I breathe in, and he exhales like it hurts.
“Jess.” Just my name, low and rough.
“Don’t.” It comes out softer than I mean it to. “Don’t stop touching me.”
He kisses me like I’m the only woman in the world. His kiss is the taste of rain, his stubble scraping my skin, and a small, helpless sound slips out of me before I can swallow it. His hands settle at my waist—firm, steady—but he never cages.
Kissing, we move together until my knees hit the mattress, and then I’m falling back onto the cool sheets, pulling him with me.
He could take control; he doesn’t. He waits. The space between each breath stretches thin until I nod.
My palms flat to his chest. His skin is warm and smooth, muscles tense under my hands. The feel of him makes me shiver.
He presses me deeper into the mattress, his weight solid but never heavy. My fingers thread into his hair; his breath catches against my throat. For once, the fear isn’t about being trapped. It’s about what happens if I let go and he doesn’t catch me.
So I do it anyway.
I let go.
His hand trails down my side, giving me one last chance to change my mind. I arch into him instead. My body answers before my head can catch up, like it’s known him longer than I have.
Then Rowan’s hands slide to my ass as he kisses me, and the world narrows to the slide of skin against skin, the catch of breath, the way he says my name like a wish he’s finally allowed to speak out loud.
I didn’t realize how much I needed this. Not just the sex—though God, that too—but the closeness. The way his hands map the shape of me like he’s memorizing every curve and angle. The way he watches my face, checking in without words, making sure I’m still here, still present, still choosing this.
“Look at me,” he says, and my eyes snap to his.
There’s something fierce in his gaze—possessive, but not in the way Nexus means it. Not like ownership. Like recognition. Like he sees me, all of me, and isn’t running.
He kisses a path down my body. Heat from his lips seeps into my skin, branding me in places I didn’t even know could burn.
My pulse hasn’t found a rhythm yet; it just stumbles, chasing his. He’s not just looking at me; he’s devouring me, piece by piece with his eyes, his hands, his mouth, and I’m letting him.
His knuckle drags along my collarbone, and I arch into it, shameless, wanting. He trails kisses and nips down my chest, over the curve of my ribs, and I gasp in half-shock, half-permission. And he takes it as the invitation it is.
His lips crash into mine again, softer this time, but deeper, hotter, like he’s trying to swallow my soul. The room tilts, and I’m drowning in the scrape of his stubble, the catch of his breath, the way his tongue claims mine like he’s starving for it.
His hand finds the clasp of my bra at my back, and the cool air rushes over my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his palm as it cups my breast, grounding me, owning me.
“Okay?” he murmurs, his voice rough, like gravel dragged over silk.
“Green, green light.” I nod, my voice shaky, breathless. “Keep going.”
Every move is patient, reverent, like I’m a goddess he’s worshiping. His mouth is everywhere—my throat, my jaw, the corner of my lips. I can’t take it any more. I want, I need him inside me.
I grab his face, pull him to me, and kiss him to show him how much.
In our kiss, I taste salt, air, and the steady hum of his restraint unraveling, and I want more. I want everything.
The mattress dips under him, his forearms bracketing my head, and I swear I can feel the effort it takes him not to fucking lose it. He’s shaking, and I love it. I love the power I have over him, with him.
“I’m right here,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
His hand traces the edge of my panties like a question, and I answer by lifting my hips. He slides the lace down—slow, careful—fingertips skimming my thighs, and I swear I ignite just from the light touch.
He curses under his breath. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
His gaze drags up my legs, molten and hungry, before he bends to kiss the inside of my thigh.
Then he settles between my thighs, the world shrinking to the places we’re connected.
He moves—slow, steady—sliding into me inch by fucking inch until I can’t breathe. The stretch burns, but it’s the good kind of burn, the kind that melts into heat, into pressure, into fullness.
I grab his shoulders, hold on, and claw at his back as he bottoms out. He’s deep, so fucking deep, and I feel every goddamn inch of him.
A low sound tears out of him. “You feel so fucking good.”
Rowan’s jaw clenches; his eyes flicker shut.
He stays still, letting me adjust, letting me breathe through the stretch, the shock, the fucking pleasure that blooms like a wildfire in my core.
I run my hands down his back, nails scratching the line of his spine until he exhales against my neck, ragged and broken.
“Jess,” he says, and it’s not just my name—it’s a vow, a fucking promise.
“Don’t stop,” I manage, my voice shredded, desperate.
He doesn’t. The rhythm starts slow, careful, building heat by degrees. The sound of us fills the room—our breaths, our heartbeats, the creak of the bed as we move together.
Each thrust is a reminder that he’s here with me, and I tighten my legs around him.
His gaze fractures—hunger and restraint colliding.
Then he kisses me again, softer now, deeper, and the room tilts around the pull of it as he pumps in and out of me.
I kiss his chest, his jaw and something in him breaks loose. The control, the distance, all of it.
His pace roughens, not careless but real, and I meet it with the same urgency. We move until thought dissolves, until there’s only pulse and pressure and the breathless edge of too much.
The world dissolves into heat and motion, and for one wild, reckless second I think—I love you.
The thought hits too hard, too soon. I bite it back, but it’s already out there, pounding in my pulse, daring him to hear it.