Page 57 of Oracle of Ruin

“Needy,” he taunts, withdrawing just long enough for me to miss him. “Do you always want me this badly?”

“Yes,” I breathe.

Rowan pauses his ministrations with a bastard’s smile. Tension coils in my core and I gasp as he allows a finger to barely graze over my sensitive skin. So close to where I need him and yet…

“I can’t hear you.” He leans closer, his breath skittering across my exposed sex. “Tell me you need me as badly as I need you. Tell me I’m not the only one who died without you in my bed every night for the past month.”

“I need you. Gods, I need you,” I whine, the need for release clawing up my center.

“Good girl.”

Rowan plunges his fingers into me as his tongue flicks, a shattered cry tearing loose from my throat.

Mavis was right in saying that sex is a power, because here, with Rowan on his knees and my back arched with pleasure, I have never felt more fucking powerful.

Rowan makes love the same way he does everything—perfectly. He molds himself to my body like an artist, his hands doing the gods’ work with each flick or stroke. I can feel myself coming undone with each motion, each groan against my center bringing me closer to a release until my hips buck and I shatter with his name on my lips.

Rowan works me down slowly, his praises never ceasing even as his hands still and he lays my leg down beside my other. He rocks forward, taking my face in both of his hands. “I need you to taste how fucking sweet you are,” he whispers before he crashes his lips to mine.

I don’t know how he can expect me to focus on anything other than him. The gentle weight of his body pressing into mine. The scent of citrus and leather. The hard length of his desire pressing into my stomach.

I lean forward to take him, to make him feel as good as he has made me feel, but he stops me.

“Tonight is about you.”

“But I want you to enjoy it too.”

Rowan takes one look down my body, his gaze lazily trailing every mark he’s left before he brings his eyes back up to mine. His tongue swipes over his lips and he brushes across my mouth with his thumb. “Trust me, I did.”

Heat creeps into my cheeks, and the space between my thighs still feels… sensitive. Satisfied, but tingly. I slowly close my legs and rise to my knees, kissing Rowan’s forehead then his nose. “I love you,” I breathe.

His lips find mine again as he wraps his arms around me. “I love you.” This time, his kiss is slow and sweet. I’ve noticed he never says, “I love you too,” only “I love you.” As if it is a fact and not a repetition of a sentiment. Like he does.

My heart swells as he pulls me to my feet and wraps the towel around my shoulders. My knees buckle as I stand and I brace myself against his forearms.

He chuckles, a low and dark sound. “Sorry,” he murmurs, not sounding sorry at all.

I bite my tongue in order to keep from poking it out at him and instead reach for my clothes. I drop the towel slowly, making a show as I bend over for the discarded garments. I dress slowly, Rowan’s gaze hot on my back. His hands find my hair the moment I am clothed, pulling me back towards him. His fingers weave through the inky strands, pulling gently until it is tied atop my head in a neat braid. I don’t ask where he learned to do that.

As we walk, his hand lights on the small of my back. When it isn’t there, it is on my elbow, my shoulder, my upper arm. Touching, always touching me, even as we settle in the main room of the inn. Everyone else gathers around an unlit firepit, bowls in their hands.

Blaine ladles the soup into a spare wooden bowl, chunks of tender white chicken and wild rice splashing in the broth. His hand stills on the spoon, his eyes trailing to my still-wet hair and skin and the door where Rowan and I just walked from. He notices the flecks of soap and water staining Rowan’s knees. My cheeks flush as his stare turns hot and accusatory towards the mercenary.

I accept the bowl with a small, “Thank you.” I inhale deeply and nearly moan, but stop myself as I catch Rowan staring at my face intently. Gods, he couldn’t be more obvious if he tried.

“How did you manage to find chicken?” I ask, settling on the ground beside Kya. I withhold a flinch as I sit and curse Rowan’s skill while trying to maintain composure surrounded by my newfound family.

A smirk lifts the corners of the blond’s lips. He helps himself to dinner as Blaine recedes to stand by Torin, then settles beside me. His thigh brushes against my own.

Gods.

“They had some out back,” Amír answers between spoonfuls.

Kya leans back, her inky tresses spilling over the gunslinger’s shoulder. Amír brushes her lover’s hair to the side, careful not to sully their silky sheen with her dinner. They are open with their affections and bedroom activities, yet there has never been any of this awkward tension. Maybe there was the first time. I’ll have to ask Kya later.

“Very descriptive,” Rowan drawls before dodging an expertly thrown piece of bread.

Emilie smiles behind her spoon, tucked into a worn blanket. She says nothing about Rowan’s wet knees, nor the small water stain on his shoulder where my leg was. She avoids looking at us in general, actually, and I begin to wish that the earth would swallow me whole.

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