Page 73 of At First Dance
I want to know how she tastes when she’s mine. Want to hear her say my name like it’s the only word she remembers. I groan, low and rough, the sound echoing off the tile. It doesn’t take long. The tension coils. Snaps.
I brace a hand on the wall, eyes squeezed shut, breath ragged as everything inside me shudders loose.
When it’s done, I lean against the tile, chest heaving, forehead wet with sweat and steam.
And still, she’s there. In my head. In my chest. Inme.
I rinse off fast, then shut off the water. Wrap a towel around my hips and move through the dark house barefoot and dripping. I don’t turn on any lights. Because I know what I’ll see if I do.
The empty porch swing. The space beside me where she should be. The ache that lingers long after release.
I fall into bed still damp, towel half loose around my waist, hair wet against the pillow.
Sleep doesn’t come.
Not with Ivy etched into every thought, every beat of my heart.
Chapter Fourteen – Ivy
The ache in my body is a slow, deliberate thrum—like a warning bell in my muscles, reminding me that I spent the night before hauling wet towels, dragging buckets, and running across a field that had no business being that steep.
I’d expected soreness. What I hadn’t expected was the other ache—low, persistent, and entirely Rowan’s fault.
Or maybe it’s my imagination.
Because I swear, just after I ran back to my car to get my phone that I’d stupidly left in the cup holder, I’d turned to head back to the guest cottage under the cover of night, when I heard him. A groan. Deep. Guttural. One that had no business being that filthy unless someone was doing something filthy.
And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
Now, as I tiptoe around the small kitchen, trying to pour tea without spilling it down my tank top, the image won’t leave me alone.
Rowan. Naked. In the shower. Water sluicing over every inch of that strong, broad body. His hand wrapped around himself, jaw clenched, breath stuttering out as he thinks about—
“Dammit,” I mutter, burning my tongue on the first sip.
It’s too early for these thoughts.
Too early to be staring out the window toward the main house, hoping to catch a glimpse of him moving past the kitchen window, shirtless and smug like nothing happened yesterday. Like he didn’t nearly kiss me. Like I didn’t nearly let him.
I set the mug down harder than necessary, the sound echoing off the small counter. This back-and-forth is giving me whiplash.
It’s not just the lust swimming in my bloodstream. It’s the confusion. The push and pull. The way he looks at me like he’s starving, then closes the door in my face.
The way I came back here thinking maybe—just maybe—he’d be waiting. And all I got was silence.
Fine.
If he wants to act like nothing has happened between us, then I’ll confront him like something did. Because I’m tired of pretending. Tired of playing nice and tiptoeing around the burn in my chest every time he walks away without looking back.
I throw on a loose button-down over my tank and head out, not bothering to brush the sleep from my eyes. The morning air is sharp, biting against my legs as I stomp across the gravel toward the barn.
And of course, there he is.
Rowan stands beside the feed bins, sleeves shoved up to his shoulders, sweat already darkening the collar of his T-shirt even though it’s barely nine. He’s wrestling a wheelbarrow like it insulted his mother, muscles flexing with every motion.
He doesn’t see me at first.
Which is probably a good thing, because I need a second to collect the breath he’s knocked from my lungs. Even angry—maybe especially angry—he’s devastating.
