Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

KENNEDY

I’m awakened by a light knock on the door. My first fuzzy thought is to be surprised that I managed to fall asleep. I spent the whole evening a big bundle of nerves, unable to do anything other than finish searching the room. There were no visible bugs, although would I even know what to look for? I flipped listlessly through the holiday romance Jeff gave me, followed by the biography of Jonah’s similarly named relative. I wasn’t surprised to discover he was a horrible man—the kind historians write cautionary tales about.

I was physically exhausted, so I finally lay down on the bed and studied the little tree, counting the lights as if they were sheep jumping over fences.

The knock lands again, and terror rips through me. It’s clearly very late. Does this mean something awful happened? Something so bad Rowan couldn’t get away until this very second?

The door cracks open before I can say anything, just an inch or so, and I see his face through the opening, his strong jaw, his short beard, that turbulent intensity in his eyes that made me half afraid of him when we first met.

“Rowan,” I say, sitting up in bed.

“You were sleeping.” He shuts the door behind him. “I didn’t mean to wake you, but I knew…”

“Harry,” I say, as worry snakes through me like toxic vines. “How—”

“He’s okay, Princess,” he says, sitting on the edge of my bed and running a hand down my hair. “He’s okay. He was in the emergency room, but—”

“What?” I squawk.

His mouth firms into an angry line. “My grandmother’s a bad woman, Kennedy. She’ll do anything to get what she wants. The sooner you realize that, the better.”

“What’d she do to him?” I ask, horrified.

“She gave him a cream he was allergic to. I guess he slathered it on his face and arms, and he broke out in hives. Oliver went to the hospital with me, and he drove him back to my place. I talked to them both just now, and Harry’s fine.”

“Oh, thank God,” I say, but it registers that Harry’s first romantic encounter with Oliver ended with the gas situation, and their first official date was interrupted by hives. “Poor Harry.”

Rowan strokes my hair again, his fingers brushing my scalp and sending tingles of awareness through me. It suddenly dawns on me that he’s here in my room. Sitting on my bed .

“My sister’s decorating the tree with her boyfriend and his kid, so I guess they helped. Now, they’re watching a movie,” he says, still touching me, like he can’t help it or doesn’t want to. “Oliver’s good at making people comfortable. It’s his gift.” He gives me a wry smile. “One I’d like to borrow from time to time.”

“You make me comfortable,” I say, even though it’s slightly untrue. He unsettles me. He makes me want things. But right now, with his hand in my hair, I’m exactly where I need to be. I pause, soaking him in, then say, “Did you talk to your sisters?”

“I did.” He lowers his hand, and the loss of his warmth feels almost criminal until he leans down to remove his shoes. Once they’re off, he shocks me by lying down on the mattress and pulling me to him. Snuggling me close so my head is tucked under his chin, my back to his hard chest, and his strong arms around me. “Is this okay?”

“It’s more than okay,” I say, because it feels like bliss. I was so alone tonight, so worried and scared. And now I’m engulfed by Rowan’s warmth and scent. I feel safe. I feel cherished. I clear my throat. “How’d it go?”

“It was awful,” he says gruffly, then laughs. “But I guess it was okay, too. Willow…” He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I can practically feel the emotion he’s suppressing, a great big cloud of it trapped in his chest. I want to tell him that the people who say men—and “proper little ladies”—shouldn’t express their feelings are full of crap. Those same lessons were poured into my ears ever since I was old enough to understand language, and they never served me or my brothers well. The opposite. If I weren’t afraid he’d stop talking, I’d assure him that he can always be himself around me.

I want to look at him, so I nudge him slightly. He releases me, and I roll onto my side next to him, tugging his arm until he turns to fully face me, our bodies still pressed together.

Lifting a hand to my cheekbone and tracing it, sending out pulses of warmth like sugar dust, he says, “Willow said she wishes it had come out sooner so that I could have gone to live with him like Ivy.” I feel his chest shaking a little, and tears press against my eyes, because I know his sister’s words snarled through him. He swallows. “I told her that of course I wouldn’t have left her. I never would have left her. Then Ivy seemed upset.” He swallows again. “I can’t seem to stop hurting people, Kennedy.”

I lean forward and kiss him because I have to. Because I’ve never wanted to soothe someone so much, to give back to them what they’ve given to me. “ You didn’t hurt them. None of you are responsible for what your parents did. You were just left to deal with the fallout.”

He nods slightly and pulls me closer. Even as he does it, he says, “I shouldn’t be here, Princess. I know I shouldn’t be here. But I can’t bring myself to regret it.”

“Good. Did you see Jay?”

His jaw firms, but he gives a slight nod. “Yeah, I saw him for a few minutes with my sisters. I…he seems like he’s doing okay. He’s going to make it, but Ivy says he’ll have to retire early. He can’t do site visits anymore. He does environmental site inspection, so that’s his whole job.”

“That’ll be a hard transition,” I say. I know nothing about Jay’s job or his attachment to it, but I’m certain my father will die in his desk chair. It’s the only thing he knows or wants to know. And when he finally passes, my big brother Phillip will step in for him. He’s the type who’ll probably die on the job too, although I wish more for him.

“Ivy’s going stick around for a while,” he says, his voice almost plaintive.

“You don’t have to be there for Jay, Rowan,” I say, rubbing his back, registering the cords of muscle as I do. Who knew a back could feel like this? “You don’t have to. But I think maybe a part of you wants to be.”

“You’re too sweet for your own good,” he says, but in a way that suggests he’s happy to take me as I am, just as I’m happy to take him as he is.

Maybe that’s why I slide my hands beneath the hem of his shirt, looking into his eyes, soaking in the surprise and then the flash of hot wanting, and say, “So let me be sweet to you.”

“Kennedy,” he says, his voice shaking slightly. I know what he’s going to say, and I don’t want him to, so I kiss him—it’s a soft kiss, but when he kisses me back it’s fierce, like he needs to kiss me, like kissing me is giving him air rather than stealing it away.

A little hum of pleasure escapes my throat because no one has ever kissed me like this. No one. Brandon made me believe he loved me, before I discovered the truth about him, but he never made me feel wanted . Rowan’s making me feel like I’m a glass of water discovered by a man in the desert. His mouth is hot and possessive as it arcs over mine, his hand spearing through my hair.

I pull away slightly, but only because I really want him to take his shirt off. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what he looks like without one, the stacked ridges of thick muscle, the sprinkling of chest hair that he hasn’t waxed away like other men I’ve dated.

“Your shirt,” I say, my voice breathy and strange to my ears. “Take it off.”

“There’s my princess, telling me what to do,” he says, but his tone is warm. Fond. “I’ve never been good about following instructions, though.” He lifts me to sitting before tugging off my night shirt, a desperately unsexy gift from Olive that says Is it too late to be good? over a drawing of the Naughty List.

Yes, it’s definitely too late to be good.

A groan escapes him when he sees I’m not wearing a bra underneath—that, in fact, I only have on a pair of silky green underwear—and he lobs the shirt at the floor, his mouth lowering to my nipple. As he sucks and nips at it, sending sensation uncurling toward my core, he reaches up and palms my other breast, his warmth engulfing it, his fingers tweaking, and I’m so ready for him. I’ve never wanted a man this much. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything this much. Maybe it’s selfish, but I don’t care that there are six other men in this house who are supposedly here for me. I only want this one.

He switches his mouth to my other breast, but his hand reaches down between my legs, dipping under the silky panties. I feel the sound he makes—a rumble from his chest—when he discovers how desperately turned on I am.

“Fuck,” he says, with feeling. Stroking his fingers through my folds and then circling my sensitive spot, he elicits a gasp from me. “You’re so wet for me, Princess. I need to taste you again. I haven’t been able to think about fuck all else for the past week.”

I want that too, obviously, but I need him to be naked. I need to see all of him. I need…

“I don’t just want your mouth on me,” I say in a stranger’s voice. Because there’s no control left in the woman who’s speaking, no hint of propriety. “I want more of you.” And I reach down to touch him through his pants. His hardness is straining to escape, and the feel of it against my hand sends a shiver through me, because I can hardly think beyond getting him inside me. Getting all of him. I reach for the button of his pants.

He swears again, but he moves my hand away.

I frown. “I want you. I want your—”

“I don’t have a condom,” he says. “We can’t. I can’t—”

“You can,” I say. “I’m clean, and I have a birth control implant.” Self-consciousness nips at me, and I look down. “I mean, as long as you—”

“Oh, I fucking want you,” he says, grabbing my chin and pulling it up so I’m looking into his intense eyes, beating into me. I can see that he does want me, and the sight only makes me wetter. “And I’m clean, but Kennedy…I can’t do this and then watch you flirt with the seven dwarves. If they touch you—” There’s a hint of menace in his voice, of possessiveness, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t turn me on even more.

“There are only six of them,” I say, earning one of his grumpy looks. “Besides, what’s the difference? If you go down on me, it’s still sex.” I’m pretty sure I know the answer, but I want him to say it. If he makes me come with his mouth and his hands, I’m the only one relinquishing control. If he takes me with his dick, then he will have relinquished some measure of control too.

He gives me one of his grumpy looks. “If we cross that line, if I come inside you, then there won’t be any coming back from it for me. I won’t be able to watch from the sidelines as those assholes touch you.”

Judging from the way he’s avoided the set, I’m guessing he already has a problem watching me interact with them, but I don’t argue. I like the thought of him feeling possessive of me, because I feel possessive of him.

I reach for his pants again, undo the button. This time, he doesn’t stop me. “I’m not going to flirt with them,” I say. “I don’t want any of them. I wouldn’t be interested in them even if you weren’t around to always make them come up short.” I undo the zipper, savoring the sound he makes as I free him. “But we can talk about all of that later. Right now, there’s only one thing I want.”

He’s looking at me with something like wonder. “Are you telling me you want my cock, Princess?”

I’ve never talked like this before, so directly, so crudely, but I like the feeling of naughtiness when I reach down and touch him again, this time with only his boxer briefs in the way, tracing his hard length from root to tip before pushing the band of his underwear down so I can feel his hot flesh in my hand. He’s long and thick, not that I’m surprised. Everything about him is big. “I want your cock, Rowan. I want all of you.”

A growl escapes him, and he gets up, and in one rough movement shoves down his pants and his underwear. His shirt goes next, dispensed with as if it offended him. He pauses only to take off his socks.

He’s glorious like this, and if I had my choice, I’d spend several minutes just admiring him—touching and kissing him everywhere, from his Adam’s apple down to his muscular thighs. But he’s only still for an instant before he’s on the bed again, shoving my underwear to the side, his fingers curling up into me. Surprise and then something deeper roils through me when he finds a spot inside me, just a couple of inches in, that sends waves of pleasure coiling up and out. He pulses his fingers there, and when my lips drop open with a moan of pleasure, he leans in and captures it in his mouth, giving me those thirsty kisses again as he continues to pulse his fingers, pressing the palm of his hand to my clit. My mind is consumed by him, my body owned by him, and I feel myself—

He pulls back slightly, staring at me with that intense gaze. “You’re going to come for me, Princess. I can feel your sweet pussy clenching around my fingers.”

And hearing him say that is enough to send me over the verge.

“Rowan,” I call out as pleasure spirals through me, and he kisses me again as if needing to swallow his name from my lips. I can feel him pushing down my underwear. I help, using my legs to get them the rest of the way off, and then, while pleasure is still pounding through me, I feel his tip pressing at my opening.

Oh my God, yes. Yes.

He pushes in slowly, as if he knows he’s big even though I’m so ready for him. There’s a delicious tightness that sends fresh pleasure coursing through me as he finally bottoms out. His mouth is still on mine, giving me soul-sucking kisses that make me feel like I can never go a minute without kissing this man, but he pulls back slightly, his eyes on me.

“Are you okay?”

Am I okay? I’ve never felt better—fuller and more satisfied, yet filled with the need for more. “Better than okay,” I say on a gasp. “You feel amazing.”

He’s propped on one elbow, looking down at me, but he lifts his thumb to my lips and traces them. “You feel so fucking good I can’t stand it,” he says. I capture his thumb in my mouth and suck, mesmerized by the way it makes his pupils dilate. When he pops it out, he kisses me again, his hard length pulsing inside of me, his tongue in my mouth.

He starts moving again, slowly, the friction driving me insane, and I wrap my legs around his hips to bring him in even deeper. I still need more of him. He’s moving slowly, consciously so, and the thought flits into my head that this isn’t sex, it’s making love. I tell myself to stop being delusional, because I’ve only known this man a week, and he’d probably laugh at the term “make love.” But the slow rhythm is driving me insane, hitting me exactly where I need him to—until it’s not enough either.

I break our kiss. “I need you harder, Rowan, faster.”

His grin is radiant. “As you wish,” and I feel his muscles contract as he pushes into me hard, pulling a surprised sound out of. I reach back and grab one of the fancy swirls of metal from the bedframe, tightening my grip as he keeps up the faster rhythm.

He sucks in a breath and grabs my hand with his, pinning it, and it turns me on even more, making me buck up to meet him. “I like seeing you splayed out for me,” he says in a harsh whisper. But he thrusts into me only twice more before grabbing my hips and rolling onto his back, putting me on top of him.

Still inside of me, he cradles my hips with his hands. “Take what you want from me. I want to watch you ride my cock.”

And as I start to move over him, setting the pace, reveling in the sensual power he’s given me, he props himself up and starts kissing and sucking on my breasts. “That’s it, Princess,” he whispers. “You feel so damn good.”

“So do you,” I say, gasping as he thrusts his hips up, hitting the perfect spot. “There, there.”

He listens, his face knit with concentration. He hits that spot again and again, sending bolts of pleasure through me. It’s never been this easy for me before, this good.

He’s watching my face as I come, his hand palming my butt, and then he urges me to lower my upper body to him so our chests are pressed together. He keeps moving inside me, his movements intense and fast now, urgent, and fresh pleasure spirals through me. To be needed and wanted by him is a joy like nothing I’ve ever known.

“Kennedy,” he says, his voice guttural. “I’m going to come.”

“Come for me,” I say, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like I’m the kind of person who says things like that. If I am that person, it’s only for him—for this man who’s sensitive, even if he doesn’t want to be, and sweet, even if he’d never admit it. For this man who brings out a different side of me.

He kisses me fiercely and thrusts one more time, his hand pushing my butt to him, so he’s even deeper, and I feel him come inside me. We stay like that for a long moment, pressed as closely together as two people can be, and then he rolls us onto our sides.

I immediately want him back inside me after he pulls out, which is stupid, because I know we can hardly go about our days connected to each other.

“I need to go wash up,” I tell him, because Olive told me she once got a horrible UTI because she didn’t pee after sex. No thank you. I’d prefer to keep my illnesses in this house fake. I take care of business in the connected bathroom, pausing only to look in the mirror. My cheeks are full of color, and I look happy. Something I haven’t felt a lot of in this house other than in this room, where I can celebrate Christmas and be with Rowan and Harry, the only two people here who care about me.

Are my feelings about Rowan so intense because I’ve been stuck here, unable to see anyone else or work or do the things that usually fill my life with purpose? Would we have hit it off if our paths had crossed in a different way?

It doesn’t take me long to dismiss the thought. I may not have given Rowan any serious thought if I’d met him a different way, but that’s only because I wouldn’t have been given the opportunity to form any intimacy with him. He’s not someone who gives himself away to just anyone. Most people would look at him and see a grump, an old man living in a young man’s body, but he’s so much more than that. And I never would have known if not for this stupid show.

I leave the bathroom and take a moment to admire him. He hasn’t gotten dressed, but the white sheet is pulled up to his hips, and the Christmas lights from his gift are casting multi-colored light onto it.

“Come here,” he says, smiling at me. I’m so relieved there’s no regret in his eyes that I do it without thinking, lying beside him and snuggling close like it’s where I’m supposed to be.

Like I’m not the star of a TV show who’s supposed to be engaged to another man inside of a month.

Good thing I have an idea for how to fix that.