Page 122 of At First Dance
“You taste better than anything I’ve ever made in this kitchen,” he murmurs with a wicked smile.
And then he buries his face between my thighs.
I gasp, hips rocking forward into his mouth. He groans low, like he’s starved for this—starved for me—and God, the way he eats me? It's not fair. One hand spreads me open while the other grips my thigh, grounding me as his tongue strokes and circles, relentless and skillful.
I reach for his hair, threading my fingers through the soft strands, tugging just enough to make him growl. The sound vibrates through me, and I cry out, head falling back as he sucks my clit into his mouth and flicks with a rhythm that makes my knees weak—even though I’m not standing.
And I let him worship me because love looks a lot like this. Like pancakes cooling on the stove. Like laughter and whispered promises. Like flannel and bare feet and the soft groan of wood as the past finally gives way to something new.
“You’re gonna make me—” My voice breaks off in a moan.
Rowan doesn’t stop. He leans in harder, sliding two fingers inside me with delicious precision, his mouth working me in tandem until I fall apart, breath catching, legs shaking around his shoulders.
I come with his name on my lips, his beard rough against the inside of my thighs, my fingers clenching tight in his hair like it’s the only thing tethering me to this world.
He slows his strokes, gentle now, like he’s coaxing me back to earth.
When I finally catch my breath and lift my head, he’s staring up at me, mouth glistening, eyes dark with heat.
“I’m not done with you yet,” he says, voice rough and thick with promise.
My pulse stutters. “Oh?”
He stands, tugging me into his arms effortlessly, and I wrap my legs around his waist.
“Not even close,” he murmurs, carrying me through the kitchen like I weigh nothing, past the still warm stove and the forgotten pancakes.
He sets me on the kitchen table with a soft thud, wood creaking under my weight. His mouth crashes into mine as he undoes the tie of his pajama pants, his tongue tangling with mine, desperate and commanding.
When he presses into me, slow and deep, my breath catches again. There’s nothing between us—no space, no air, just the raw ache of wanting and finally, finally having.
He moves with measured control, hands braced on either side of my hips, his forehead pressed to mine.
“Look at me,” he pants. “I want to see you fall apart this time.”
I do. And when I come again, it’s with his name on my tongue, his body wrapped around mine, and a love so real it makes my chest hurt.
We collapse together, sweat-slick and tangled, chests heaving, breathless in more ways than one.
Rowan brushes his lips against my temple, still inside me. “You are everything, Ivy Quinn. Everything.”
I smile against his neck. “Don’t let the pancakes burn.”
He laughs, and that deep, gravelly sound makes me want to do it all over again.
“I guess you’re hungry now?”
“Oh, I’m starving,” I tease, curling my fingers around his biceps. “But not for food.”
His eyes darken again, and suddenly, I’m being hauled off the table and spun toward the hallway.
“Bed. Now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter Twenty-three – Rowan
The night smells like grilled meat, honeysuckle, and summer sweat. It’s the kind of scent that settles into your skin and stays like a memory. The sun’s dipped low behind the pasture, the last of its light glinting off the rusted fence posts and catching the gold threads in Ivy’s hair as she laughs beside me.
