Page 75 of At First Dance
Rowan doesn’t take me back to the barn or the couch or press me up against the wall like I half expect him to. He leads me inside the house—quiet, steady, with his fingers still wrapped around mine like he’s afraid if he lets go, I’ll disappear again.
I trail him, breath caught somewhere between my ribs and my throat. The door swings shut with a finalclick, the tension between us thick and electric, humming louder with each step.
He doesn’t say a word as he leads me through the hallway and into his bedroom. The door closes. The air shifts. And we’re alone.
The room smells like cedar, old cotton, and him. There’s something unbearably intimate about it—his boots kicked beneath the bed, a flannel tossed across the chair, the sheets rumpled from a restless night.
I barely have time to absorb it before he’s on me.
Rowan kisses like he’s starved. Like he’s been holding back for too damn long. His hands bury in my hair, angling my head just right so he can deepen the kiss, tongue slipping past my lips and dragging a moan straight from my chest.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
His hands slide down my sides, lifting the hem of my shirt. I shrug out of it, breath hitching when his palms brush over the thin bra I’m wearing beneath. His thumbs graze my nipples through the fabric, slow and deliberate.
“You’re beautiful,” he mutters, like it’s a confession.
I reach for the bottom of his shirt, tugging it up, and he lets me. His body is exactly like I remembered it—broad and carved from labor, with a thin trail of hair leading down from his chest to where his jeans hang low on his hips.
My mouth waters.
Rowan’s hands cup the backs of my thighs, lifting me like I weigh nothing, and he lays me gently across the bed. His body comes down over mine, heat to heat, pressure against pressure.
I arch into him, moaning when he rolls his hips. There’s no denying what’s between us. How hard he is. How wet I already am.
“You sure?” he asks, voice thick.
“Rowan,” I whisper, wrapping my legs around him, “I’ve never been more sure.”
He groans and kisses me again—slower now, deeper. Like we have time to savor this.
And he takes his time.
He kisses down my throat and nips the sensitive spot just beneath my jaw. His hands explore me like he’s memorizing every inch—soft swipes, reverent touches, rough palms, and gentle mouths.
When he finally unhooks my bra, he pauses.
“Goddamn,” he mutters, staring at me like I’m priceless art.
He mouths over one nipple, tongue flicking, sucking, until I’m arching beneath him.
“Please,” I beg.
He chuckles, low and sinful, dragging his lips down my stomach.
“Patience, songbird.”
He kisses lower, hands skimming down my hips, hooking in the band of my shorts and panties. He pulls them off in one smooth motion.
And then he kneels between my thighs, eyes dark and reverent.
“Lie back,” he murmurs. “Let me taste you.”
My breath catches. He doesn’t wait for permission. Just dives in, tongue parting me, slow and steady, licking me like he’s starving for it.
I cry out, hips lifting, hands fisting in the sheets.
He groans against me, the sound vibrating through every nerve ending I have. His mouth is skilled—methodical, purposeful, worshipful. He flattens his tongue and laps up everything I give him, sucking my clit until I’m unraveling and shaking beneath him.
