Chapter 28
Rowan's heart clenched when Annelise said, “I feel like a high-priced call girl.”
He had just slid the card into the reader, opening the door. Before he even stepped foot inside, he turned back and stared at her, and said, “No.”
He had booked the nicest hotel in Charlottesville. Well, not the nicest, but the nicest mostly anonymous one. He didn’t want either of them running into anyone they knew, and he tried not to think about what that said about his plan.
“Okay,” she replied, sunny and almost laughing. “I'm a mid-priced call girl.”
His heart stuttered until he realized she didn't mean it. Her hand pressed against his chest, shoving him backward into the room as she followed him in.
Wasn't this his dream? But something was off. She was here because she needed him—or maybe just needed sex. Not here because she wanted to be with him, to fix the mistakes of the past. This Annelise was high on Chianti, gnocchi, and maybe the idea that her grandmother wouldn't wind up destitute.
Just in case he hadn't picked up on that, she kicked the door closed behind her, plucked the card from his hand, and tossed it aside.
He didn't know where it landed and wondered if he would come to regret that.
But she was already reaching for the hem of her shirt—some kind of soft, wide-necked, professional-looking knit—and he lost all ability to think.
“This is all it is, Rowan.”
Fool that he was, he stopped. He should have been unbuttoning his own shirt, stepping out of his shoes, and what he said was, “I want it to be more.”
Her hands stopped, her head shaking softly back and forth. No. His heart broke as she said, “It can't be. I need some stress relief, and you can be it, or I can go find someone else.”
Was it meant to be a threat? It was delivered in a happy, clear voice, but it hit him as straight as an arrow to the gut. As if he could possibly stomach the idea of her finding someone else.
It had been fifteen years, and he sure as hell hadn't been alone the whole time, but no one had ever measured up.
The moment he'd seen her—wet from the pouring rain, bedraggled from the climb up the mountain, weary from fighting with her grandmother, and watching out for a woman who would never watch out for herself—the years had washed away. He knew. This was all he ever wanted.
The very idea that he would stop now, let her walk out the door, and go find someone else was a guarantee that he wouldn't. He would accept whatever level of intimacy she was willing to give him, and he wouldn’t complain. Couldn’t.
Her shirt hit the floor, and she stood there in her bra, a pale blue lace to light up her eyes even better than the mint-green sweater had.
Swallowing hard, he told himself maybe if they made love again—maybe if he did it right, slow, this time—she would remember too.
Maybe she could go back to what they’d been like before.
Like he wished for. Rowan held out his hand and pulled her close, thinking to hold on to her for just a moment, to whisper in her ear.
Anything except remembering how much he loved her, because he could not scare her out that door.
But he didn’t whisper anything. Her hands were roaming the front of his shirt.
He wondered if she would grab the sides and rip the buttons free the way he’d done to her last time, but she didn't. The soft, almost careless brushes of her fingers against his skin as each button came open held him mesmerized.
He would have said her touch alone made him hard, but the fact was he'd been wanting her since she said she’d meet him for drinks. He'd wanted her more when he suggested dinner and she agreed. And he'd been a goner when he offered to bring her back here and she said yes.
The elevator ride had been one of the most concerning of his life. She understood what he wanted—though he was hardly opaque about it. She stood on her tiptoes without touching him and brushed her lips across his.
Just that contact had released some kind of hold in him, and he'd leaned into her. Bending her backwards, he’d devoured her.
Her mouth tracing his stole all rational thought.
His tongue along her jaw and down the muscles of her neck sent him swimming.
Then he was biting lightly into her shoulder, his hips moving against hers, letting her know in no uncertain terms exactly what he wanted. Needed.
When she'd said “cameras,” he'd pulled back, like cold water had splashed between them. But she'd laughed.
The soft, sweet sound was one he remembered from when she was happy.
When she was angry, her voice could pitch low and carry for miles.
Her eyes could flare and her shoulders could set, but when she was happy, she was light.
Like now. Her fingers waved upward, and he watched as the light on the camera clicked off—permission for him to devour her again.
The door had opened and closed before they realized they were on their floor. He’d pulled her down the hall, smile on his face, so certain she wanted what he did. But then she’d said no. It was just sex.
Apparently, that didn’t change anything he did.
So here in the room, he found himself reaching for her.
Though she said it would be nothing more than stress relief, he'd been clear: It was more than that for him.
It always had been, and fool that he was, it always would be.
His only hope was to bring her around, so he tried.
He worked the zipper he found at the back of her skirt, and slid it off her, holding in the sounds he wanted to make as his fingers brushed the now bare curves of her ass.
He hadn't even noticed what she'd done, but his slacks from his day at work hit the floor.
He toed off his shoes and then his socks.
She was tugging at the elastic of his boxer briefs. Though she didn’t remove her underwear or her heels, she quickly had him fully naked. It took just a feather touch of her finger against his chest to push him backward onto the bed. Rowan tumbled as hard as his heart had earlier.
Holy hell, she was putting on a show. She reached for her bra strap, tugging it down one shoulder. Slowly, a little farther, a little further, until at last her breast slid free. Was he drooling? She did the same with the other side, the straps dangling near her arms.
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t be like a teenage boy in a haze of lust and sexual need this time.
But maybe that was a promise he couldn’t make her.
She brought it out in him. This was Annelise Lockheart.
She didn't even reach behind her, just moved one hand up by her shoulder and snapped, and he watched as the clasp and hooks opened and the scrap of fabric fell away.
Biting her lips, she tucked her thumb into one side of the strappy, lacy underwear and began to tug it down.
The groan was his. “You're killing me, Lise.”
She merely shrugged one shoulder and let go, the lace sliding back into place. She moved two steps forward, and he wanted to reach out for her, but she shook her head no.
“Take it off.” Jesus, had that command come from him? The low growl definitely had. If she was going to play, then he was going to take advantage. He needed her.
He wasn't sure if she followed his command or her own, because Annelise was never quite one to do what she was told. She slid the sides low until the lace dropped, and she stepped out, high heels still in place. His heart still on the floor next to their clothing.
One aching step at a time, she moved toward him, until she was at the end of the bed, standing between his legs, nothing on but the heels she’d worn that day. Had she thought about being here naked with him tonight? He had.
This time, when he reached for her, she didn’t tell him no.
His hands touched the smooth skin, trailing up her sides until her head fell back.
Until she let him touch her anywhere. Taste her.
She was a feast he’d gone too long without.
Last week had been a frantic rutting, just sex, as she said.
This time, he vowed to go slow. To make her need him as much as he needed her.
With his arms around her, he turned slowly, laying her back on the bed.
He said with his tongue what she wouldn’t let him say with words.
He spread her out like a buffet, tasting everything as he went.
When he licked at her soft folds she gasped, a sound he knew too well and remembered from years ago.
“Rowan.”
“Shhh.” But he didn’t want her to be quiet and did his best to make her scream out. When she writhed against his tongue, he licked harder. When she called out, he did it again. He laved at her until she came apart, her fingers laced into his hair, pulling with a pain that felt so sweet.
Then when he moved over her, he said, “Yes?”
Because God forbid she say no, but he needed to hear the yes.
“Yes, please.” It was soft, out of breath, needy, and he wasn’t sure if he could have loved her at seventeen like he did now.
She was wet and hot as he slid inside her, joining them in a way he hoped would last this time. He pressed himself to her as they moved together. His hands wound into her hair as his mouth traced hers.
Her hips lifted against him, but he could tell he’d exhausted her already. He smiled into their kiss, then slid his hands down her arms, pulling her hands up. Lacing their fingers together he pressed her back and tried to claim her for his own.
Her lips were full from his touch, open from her attempt to gasp for air.
Her head moved from side to side as they both made the soft sounds of the sweet need of being fully together.
But the feeling built inside him, pushing until he was moving faster, until her breath and his came in little gasps.
At last he hit the edge and watched as she opened her eyes, looking straight into his soul as she came.
And he wondered what she saw.