Page 88 of At First Dance
I don’t move.
I don’t want to.
His thumb shifts against my stomach, like a reflex, and I feel the softest press of his nose against my hair. My heart lurches.
God, I could get used to this.
To him.
To waking up in his bed, tangled in his sheets, with the scent of cedar and cotton and Rowan wrapped around my skin.
I close my eyes and try to memorize the weight of this moment. His heat. His heartbeat.
And then I remember—I wasn’t supposed to stay.
I’d crept over from the cottage after midnight, barefoot and breathless, still aching from the way he’d touched me in the shed. Still reeling from the feel of his body pressed to mine, the low gravel in his voice when he whispered how badly he wanted me.
I’d knocked once. Quiet.
He hadn’t said a word. Just opened the door and pulled me in like he’d been waiting all night.
There hadn’t been another storm. Not outside, at least. But in his bed, we’d found a different kind of thunder.
This time, it had been slower. Softer. Like he needed to prove something but whether to himself or to me, I didn’t know. That I wasn’t a regret. That he wasn’t a mistake.
That this—whatever this is—could be more.
A groan stirs behind me. Rowan shifts, arm tightening once before his voice comes rough with sleep. “You’re still here.”
The words hit sideways. Heat crawls up my neck. I start to push the sheet back, mumbling, “Sorry, I fell asleep. I’ll just get out of your hair.”
His arm bands around my waist and hauls me straight back against him. “Where do you think you’re going?” he rumbles into the curve of my shoulder, nose nuzzling the spot that makes my breath stutter. “I’m so fucking happy you’re still here. Right where I want you.”
The panic drains out like a pulled plug. He tucks me in closer, one big palm splayed over my stomach, thumb sweeping slowly. He presses a lazy kiss behind my ear, then another, softer. “Stay,” he says, sleepy and certain.
“I’m staying,” I whisper, letting my weight melt into him as the morning settles around us, warm and sure.
“I didn’t dream it,” he whispers, lips grazing my skin. “You were here.”
I twist toward him slowly, facing him now, our noses inches apart on the pillow. “I’m still here.”
His hand lifts to cup my cheek, thumb stroking once before it drops again.
For a minute, we just lie there. With a reluctant groan, he rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling.
“I have to get the horses fed,” he mutters. “And the north pasture needs checking.”
I prop myself up on my elbow, watching the way his chest rises and falls, his jaw tightening like he’s trying to hold something in.
“I can help,” I offer quietly.
Rowan turns his head to look at me, eyes narrowing slightly, like he doesn’t know what to do with that. With me.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
He studies me for another long second.
