17. Wren #2
Rowan’s heavy, unfocused gaze lands on me. There’s no mockery in his eyes, no clever redirect. Just a terrifying, ancient honesty that has my breath stuttering. He reaches out, his hand hovering over mine for a second before he lets it settle on the blanket. His skin is warm, even through the wool.
“You are very bad at lying to yourself, Wren Cassidy,” he says softly.
The air in the room seems to thicken, the sound of the storm fading into a dull roar that doesn’t matter anymore.
I glance from his broad, steady hand to his face.
He’s waiting for me to be sure. Rowan isn’t the type to push or demand.
He won’t accept my offer of sharing the bed until he’s absolutely certain that it’s what I want.
I reach out, fingers trembling as I touch the line of his jaw.
His beard is rough, a reminder that he is here, in this moment, with me.
“I’m not lying,” I whisper, my thumb tracing the curve of his lip. “I’m just... negotiating the terms.”
He leans forward, closing the distance until his forehead rests against mine.
His breath is warm against my mouth, and I ache to close the distance.
I’ve imagined his lips on mine since that first time I felt his breath brushing over me.
But he doesn’t kiss me yet. He waits, giving me every second I need to back away, to make a joke, deflect and revert back to the curator of the myth.
I don’t do any of that. I lean in, my eyes fluttering shut as my lips finally meet his.
The kiss is slow, unhurried, a gradual unraveling of weeks of tension.
It’s everything I wanted but was too scared to admit.
Rowan moves with the same quiet confidence he uses to navigate the forest, his hands finding the curve of my waist and pulling me flush against him.
The heat of him is staggering, a furnace that makes the cold outside seem like a distant memory.
I pull back just enough to breathe, my hands tangling in his dark hair. “You know, this is going to make the business partnership very complicated, right? I’m going to have to update the spreadsheets.”
“Forget the spreadsheets, Wren. Just for tonight,” he murmurs, his mouth moving against the sensitive skin of my neck.
I arch my back, a low sound escaping my throat that I don’t recognize as my own.
Every point where he touches me feels like it’s being calibrated to a higher frequency.
The scratchy wool of the blanket is gone, replaced by the solid, grounding reality of his skin.
He pushes me back gently until I’m lying against the thin pillow, his body a heavy, welcome weight over mine.
His eyes are dark with a hunger that’s both ancient and focused.
There is no hesitation in him, none of that human awkwardness.
He is a creature of the mountain, and right now, I am his entire world.
“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice a rough whisper. “There is no bridge back from this, Wren.”
“I don’t want a bridge,” I say, pulling him down to me. “I want to stay right here.”
His hands move to the hem of my sweatshirt, sliding underneath to find the bare skin of my waist. His palms are warm, infusing me with heat, the callouses from centuries of work a tactile map against my skin.
I help him pull the fabric over my head, the cool air of the cabin hitting me for only a second before his body covers mine again.
Under his gaze, under the intensity in his eyes, I feel more seen than I ever have under a ring light or a camera lens.
When he cups my breasts, thumbs lightly grazing my nipples, I gasp.
He moves down, lips dragging over my jaw, my neck, until his mouth closes over one peak, and I feel the pull of it all the way to my center.
The sensation is sharp and sweet, a jagged line of pleasure that makes me arch off the bed.
“Rowan,” I breathe out, his name a prayer and a plea.
I grip the waistband of my leggings, my fingers clumsy with urgency.
He takes over, his own fingers trembling as he strips away the last of the barriers.
He quickly sheds the rest of his clothes, his boots thumping onto the floorboards, his heavy trousers discarded until we were skin to skin, heart to heart.
He’s beautiful. There’s no other word for it.
Rowan is a masterpiece of function and form, every muscle tuned for survival, and yet he’s looking at me as if I’m the miracle.
He traces the line of my hip, his touch so light it’s almost a question.
I answer by pulling him closer, my legs tangling with his, the sheer size of him both overwhelming and perfect.
He slides his hand between my legs, finding me wet and aching for him.
The low sound he makes in his throat has me groaning into his shoulder, my head lolling as he begins to explore, his fingers finding a rhythm that makes the rest of the world dissolve.
Body humming with need, I reach down, my hand closing around his length.
He’s hard and thick, a pulsing weight in my grip that makes my breath hitch.