Page 173 of Knot Baked Out For This
"What's so funny?" he asks, nipping lightly.
"Just imagining Levi's face if he finds us like this. He'd probably cheer."
Rowan snorts, his hands sliding down to cup my ass through the leggings. "He'd join in, the idiot." There's no jealousy in his tone, just fond exasperation—pack dynamics at their finest. We've come so far from my hesitance at the start of the day, when the idea of "officializing" us with photos felt too exposed. Now, it feels right, like belonging.
I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle, my fingers clumsy with anticipation. He helps, his jeans pooling at his ankles, and then he's pressing against me, hard and ready. My leggings are next, peeled off with a bit of awkward wiggling that has us both laughing—me half-tangled in the fabric, him steadying me so I don't topple into the hay. "Graceful," I mutter, self-deprecating as always.
"Adorable," he counters, pulling me close again. We're skin to skin now, his warmth chasing away the evening chill, scents mingling into something intoxicating. He lowers me onto the hay bale, careful, always careful, but there's urgency in his touch as he positions himself between my thighs.
"Ready?" he asks, eyes searching mine.
I nod, pulling him down for another kiss. "Yes."
He slides into me slowly, inch by inch, and I gasp at the stretch, the fullness. It's perfect, overwhelming, our bodies fitting like they've always known how. He starts moving, a steady rhythm that builds heat between us, my nails digging into his back as pleasure coils tight in my belly. The hay pricks at my skin, but it's a grounding contrast to the softness of his touches, the way he whispers my name like a prayer.
We're lost in it, the maze forgotten, when suddenly—crunch. Something gives way under us, and the hay bale collapses in a puff of dust and straw. I yelp as we tumble, Rowan twisting to take the fall, me landing on top of him in a heap of limbs and laughter. Hay sticks to my hair, my back, everywhere, and I can feel it in places it definitely shouldn't be.
"Oh my god!" I burst out, giggling uncontrollably. "Did we just break the hay bale?"
Rowan groans, but he's laughing too, hands brushing hay from my shoulders. "Apparently we're too hot for it to handle." His eyes sparkle with mirth, that quiet humor of his shining through. "You okay?"
"Yeah, just... hay in my bra now." I fish out a strand, still straddling him, our bodies still connected in the chaos. It's ridiculous, clumsy, but so us—cozy bickering even in the middle of passion.
He sits up, pulling me with him, and kisses me through the laughter. "Worth it. Now, where were we?"
We manage to rearrange ourselves on the scattered hay, less graceful but no less eager. The interruption only heightens the urgency; our movements are faster now, chasing that peak together.
I brace both hands on Rowan’s chest, feeling the hard, rapid drum of his heart beneath my palms.
My thighs clench tight around his waist and I rock against him deliberately, finding the rhythm that makes his lips part and his eyes nearly roll. He’s so steady, always so in-control—even now, holding himself motionless, letting me take the pace, the lead, as if willing to surrender just this once.
There’s a power in that, in watching this mountain of a man come undone beneath me, in the way his hands grip my hips so hard it’s a miracle my leggings don’t fuse to my skin. I make a show of it, grinding down and lifting a little, teasing him while I arch my back and toss my hair.
It’s mostly for effect, but when I chance a look at his face, I see only awe, reverence, and something deeper, star-bright and dangerous.
He tries to say something—maybe my name or a joke—but it comes out as a strangled sound that’s half growl, half plea. The sight is enough to set my skin buzzing. Every nerve ending in my body is tuned to Rowan:the smoky-cedar spike of his scent, the warmth of him inside me, the way his breath hitches every time I squeeze just so.
Ilet myself go a little wild, pace staccato and messy, not caring if I look silly or if my thighs are quaking from the effort. If anything, I want him to see it, to see me like this—sweaty and flushed and beautiful, not because it’s staged but because I’m finally allowed to feel.
He meets me halfway, his hands splaying wide over my hips, then up to my waist, then splayed over my ribs as if he can't decide where he most wants to touch.
The control slips. I see it happen, his head tipping back as he lets out a groan that makes my toes curl. He’s so close, and I want to push him further, to see just what it takes to break Rowan Cambridge all the way.
I lean in, panting, and find his pulse with my tongue, biting there because I know he likes it. His hands fly to my back,dragging me closer, and, for a second, we’re just clinging to each other, nothing holding us up but friction and mutual self-destruction.
I’m loud—I can’t help it, not after the day we’ve had, not after everything I’ve pretended not to want—and the sound of my own voice sets me off, pushes me right to the edge. I chase the heat, let it build and crest and crash down over me in wave after wave.
When I come, I clutch Rowan’s shoulders and cry out his name, muffled against the stubble of his jaw. The world goes white and then gold and then soft, the fairy lights overhead blurring, the scent of trampled hay and autumn and Rowan swirling around me. He thrusts up one last time, holding me in place, and I feel him spill inside me, the shudder that rips through him like a distant clap of thunder.
He says my name again, quieter this time, reverent, and I know—deep down, where all the broken pieces of me still live—that he means it.
We collapse together in a heap of tangled limbs and hay.
My legs are shaking, my lungs are burning, and I’m laughing because I can’t believe we just did that, out here in the middle of a corn maze, under a sky of party store fairy lights. Rowan wraps both arms around me, pulls me down so my face presses into his neck, and for a moment, we just breathe.
It’s not awkward, not even a little; it’s inevitable, like everything in my life was supposed to scramble and come back together just like this.
I slide off him eventually, rolling to a bed of scattered straw, and prop my chin on his chest. He strokes my hair, slow and tender, as if he’s not entirely sure I won’t vanish if he stops.
