Chapter 5
Merry
Rowan is an amazing kisser…
Not desperate. Not hurried. Just steady and certain, his mouth warm and firm against mine, like he's finally allowing himself something he's wanted longer than he'll admit.
I lean into him without hesitation, my hands sliding up his chest to grip his flannel, anchoring myself there because my knees have gone weak.
The whole world disappears. There’s no storm outside. There's only the heat of the fire, the solid press of his body, and the way my heart is pounding like it's found its answer to a question I didn't know I was asking.
He breaks the kiss first, resting his forehead against mine. His breath comes rough, matching mine. "We can stop," he says quietly. "Say the word."
I don't hesitate. "Don't."
That's all it takes.
His hand slides to my waist, firm and possessive, pulling me closer until there's no space left between us. I can feel how much he wants me, the hard evidence of it pressing against my hip, and the knowledge sends a shiver of anticipation through me.
"Are you sure?" he asks again, his voice rough with restraint.
Instead of answering with words, I kiss him again, harder this time, my hands moving to the buttons of his flannel. I work them open one by one, my fingers trembling slightly, and he helps me by shrugging out of it.
Underneath, he's wearing a thermal shirt that clings to his chest and arms, showing the definition of muscle earned through actual labor. I run my hands over him, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin fabric, and he makes a low sound of approval.
"Your turn," he murmurs, and his hands find the hem of my sweater.
He pulls it off slowly, deliberately. The cool air hits my skin for just a moment before his hands are there, warm and rough and perfect. He traces the line of my collarbone, down to the swell of my breasts, and I arch into his touch.
"Rowan," I breathe.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, slow and thorough, and when his tongue brushes mine again, I make a soft sound I don't recognize as my own.
He groans, low and rough, and lifts me easily, like I weigh nothing at all.
I wrap my legs around his waist without thinking, instinct taking over as he carries me down the short hall to the bedroom. The room is small and simple—a bed with a thick quilt, a window with frost creeping at the corners, a single bedside table with a lamp casting warm light.
He sets me on the bed gently, like I'm something precious, then pauses, eyes dark as they roam over me. The way he looks at me makes me feel beautiful, desired in a way I haven't felt in my whole life.
"You're sure?" he asks again, and I love him a little for asking, for giving me the choice.
I reach for him, fingers curling into his thermal shirt. "Rowan, yes. I want this. I want you."
That's enough.
He undresses me slowly, deliberately, like he's savoring every inch of skin he reveals. His hands are warm and capable, lingering at my hips, my thighs, my waist, leaving goosebumps in their wake. When he unhooks my bra and slides it off, his gaze darkens further.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on my skin.
He kisses down my neck, across my collarbone, down to my breasts. When he takes one nipple into his mouth, I gasp, arching into him, my hands clutching at his shoulders. He takes his time there, alternating between gentle and firm, until I'm writhing beneath him.
"Please," I whisper, not even sure what I'm asking for.
He knows.
He slides my jeans and underwear off in one smooth motion, and then his hands are everywhere—tracing the curve of my hip, the inside of my thigh, higher. When his fingers finally find where I'm already wet and ready for him, I cry out.
"Shh," he soothes, his mouth returning to mine. "I've got you."
He touches me with careful precision, learning what I like, what makes me gasp, what makes my hips lift off the bed. The pleasure builds steadily, wave after wave, until my thoughts scatter and all I can do is hold on to him and trust where he's taking me.
When I come the first time, it's with his name on my lips, my body trembling as the orgasm crashes through me.
He doesn't stop. He gentles his touch, drawing it out, making it last until I'm boneless and gasping.
Then he pulls back just long enough to strip off his remaining clothes, and I get my first full look at him. He's beautiful in a rough, masculine way—broad shoulders, defined chest and abs, strong thighs. And he's hard, so hard it must be painful.
He reaches into the bedside table and pulls out a condom, tearing it open with his teeth.
"Let me," I say, sitting up.
He hands it to me, and I roll it on with shaking hands, taking my time, enjoying the sharp intake of breath he makes when I stroke him.
Then he's over me, his weight perfect and grounding, and I feel him at my entrance.
"Okay?" he asks one more time.
"More than okay," I whisper.
He pushes in slowly, giving me time to adjust. The stretch is perfect, the fullness exactly what I need. When he's fully seated, we both exhale, and he drops his forehead to mine.
"God, Merry," he groans.
Then he starts to move.
He sets a pace that's slow and deep, filling me completely with each thrust, each movement deliberate and sure. One hand braces beside my head, the other grips my hip, holding me steady as he rocks into me.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans again, the sound vibrating through both of us.
"Harder," I breathe, and he complies.
The pace changes, becomes more urgent. The bed creaks beneath us, and the room fills with the sounds of skin on skin, our mingled breathing, the soft cries I can't hold back.
The storm rages outside, the wind rattling the windows, but inside there's only heat and connection and the undeniable sense that this is exactly where I'm meant to be.
The pleasure builds again, tighter this time, more intense. I can feel it coiling in my belly, spreading outward.
"Rowan, I'm—"
"I know," he says, his voice strained. "Let go. I've got you."
I come apart with his name on my lips, my body trembling and clenching around him as the orgasm crashes through me, bigger and more intense than the first. He follows moments later, groaning my name, his hips stuttering as he finds his release.
Afterward, he stays close, his arm heavy and comforting around my waist. He pulls me against his chest, tucking me into his side, and pulls the quilt over us both. The fire crackles softly in the other room, and the world feels quiet again.
I trace a slow line along his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm. "That felt… like it meant something. Like it wasn’t just a matter of convenience, being stuck in a snowstorm together with nothing to do.”
His arm tightens around me. "Good," he says simply. "Because that's not what this is."
I smile into his shoulder, warmth blooming in my chest. "What is it, then?"
He's quiet for a moment, his hand tracing idle patterns on my bare shoulder. "I don't know yet," he admits. "But it was something.”
“It sure was,” I agree.
It was everything.