Chapter 17

LIAM

I make do with gripping the barrier while his new boss is still speaking. "I will need you later to keep up the on-site staffing ratio, but it wouldn't be a bad idea to get out yourself until then." His gaze shifts my way for a moment before landing back on Rowan. "Because we'll be keeping you very busy this weekend."

I'm not sure if that's a subtle warning. Has he heard the same walk-of-shame gossip as Dom and is letting me know not to mess with his newest staff member?

Maybe not.

He makes a good suggestion. "You've got time for a short hike, at least. There's nothing like the moors for blowing the week away, especially up on the tors."

His favourite place, I remember. He qualifies that.

"You probably won't have time to climb High Tor, but Whisper Tor has some unique acoustics you might enjoy."

"Acoustics?" Rowan drifts closer, something in his box jingling. "What do you mean?"

"Go and find out for yourself. Make some noise at its base and see what happens. Just watch out for the quarry." He nods at the box Rowan carries. "What's this?"

"All the child-sized percussion instruments I've found so far." Rowan tilts it towards us. There aren't many. "Wish I had Mum's old box of tricks."

His students leave for the day and, after a quick dash back to his rooms to change, he meets me back at the barrier. His hair is shower damp, water trickling down his neck that he wipes at. "Sorry, sorry. I was a mess. Busy afternoon crafting. Now I just need to grab my boots from the classroom." He does, only to hesitate as soon as the door closes behind him with a loud click.

He suddenly stills, his smile gone, and if I didn't already know that he's too fearless for his own good, I'd guess he was nervous. That makes me speak up. "What was in your mum's box of tricks, then?"

"Oh." He's back to smiling, although this one is wistful. "All kinds of things to make noise with. Some beautiful wooden instruments, but some simple ones that we made together as well."

"Like?"

"Like empty Pringles tubes. She'd get me to fill them with dried peas. I'd always spill them in the van." He laughs, and that's better. Whatever cloud covered his sunshine is gone. "I'd forgotten that."

I steer him towards the car park. "Why'd she get you to do that?"

"Fill Pringles tubes with peas? Probably to keep me busy on road trips."

"To those music festivals you mentioned?"

We reach my van, where he looks back over his shoulder. "Yes," he says once he turns back. "She ran kids' music sessions at loads of them every summer." He also spills the real reason for that hesitation. "We really don't have to do what Luke suggested. My… my rooms are that way. If you came back to?—"

"To pick up where we left off?" I do want him naked in the worst way, but it seems like he needs to hear this even more. "I've been thinking about that all week." I've also been thinking of what led up to me getting to my knees for him—about how he'd walked me through a garden and then listened to everything that flooded out, and fuck me, there'd been plenty. But floods are what happen when dams breaks, aren't they?

That's what I've had to face all week long with only tinnitus for company.

The truth is that I've been running away from the meetup offer Matt keeps extending.

Six or seven hours to Blackpool? I'd have driven to the moon to avoid going back to Devon with him. Meanwhile, Rowan just keeps sprinting up to the edge of what should scare him. He does it right now by darting in for one of his too-quick kisses and saying, "Let's go find this quarry." Death wish, I tell you. "And you can tell me how your week went in Blackpool."

"You want to hear about it?" What I really want is his dazzling smile back. It re-emerges as soon as I start talking and is still there every time I glance sideways on the drive to the moors.

Rowan listens all the way, and I wouldn't have said I had a lot to tell him, but his attention means I talk him through my week and find extra detail even after parking, like how it felt to be on the outside of a work crew compared to Dom's teasing welcome. That's when he speaks up.

"His little girl is a sweetheart." He gets out of the van. "She must get it from somewhere. I bet his crew makes you just as welcome when you get started with them." He rounds the van to join me. "They'll include you."

I don't tell him that the men I worked with this week tried to. It's me who can't ever wait to leave wherever I wash up. I settle for crossing moorland with Rowan beside me.

"You're quiet," he says after a while.

"Just being careful." This moorland terrain roughens as it climbs towards rocky outcrops, and Luke Lawson was right, we'll have to save High Tor for a different day. One when the sun is brighter, instead of setting like now, so it's easier to spot rocks hidden by bracken. Rowan still finds each one like he's trying to break both ankles.

I slide an arm around him. "You might want to try that once in a while."

"Being careful?" He snorts, but he's also a good reason to keep one eye on the edge of the deep quarry we come to. That's where I hold him tighter. It's also where we kiss in the shadow of a sleeping granite giant, and I'm glad I turned down the York job. It means I get to see what happens after we walk some more, and I turn him to face the base of a tor his boss suggested would surprise him. "You want to try something risky? Go ahead and make some noise. Go for it, Row. Sing your fucking heart out."

"I don't. Can't," he says bleakly. "Performance issues, remember? I don't sing in front of people." He hurries to add, "Not that you're the same as ‘people.' You're…" His forehead creases, and I can't let him struggle to describe this difference. It's only what I've had hours to mull over on the way back.

This is different.

We'redifferent to every hookup I've had while running from my old life, so that's what I tell him. "You know how many people I'd drive all the way back only to spend an hour or two with?"

He shakes his head slowly before nodding quickly. He also quotes me. "You never come back. You get the job done and then get gone."

"But here I am. A hearing-impaired soldier." I touch my ear. "Probably the worst person to listen."

"And here I am." He snatches off his glasses, pressing the heels of his palms to eyes that are tinged with pink when he shoves those scuffed frames back on. "Probably the worst choice of singer for a soldier."

He still glances at the base of this tor like he's tempted.

I don't care if he's got a shit voice. I've worked with plenty of tone-deaf Sappers who bellowed away like they were Mariah Carey. I back off and say so. "You can't possibly sing any worse than Matt. His voice curdles milk. If he really goes for it, dogs from miles around come running."

Rowan's grin is sudden. He also flushes. "Just… Just don't listen, okay?"

I'm already backing away. I point back towards the quarry. "I'll go guard that." And that's what I do, striding through bracken and dodging ankle-breaking hollows, marching for a hundred yards or so until I reach the quarry edge, and shock means I almost fall in.

Probably the worst choice of singer?

The base of that tor sends his voice soaring—gliding—spiralling, and not only higher. It's rich and raw, and I've never heard these lyrics or I'd remember.

Love lifts, pure and simple.

Loss falls, and my eyes prick.

It's regret, my old friend, only out loud instead of internal.

I let mine go. I have to. I can't keep clinging to it if I'm gonna have both hands free to hold Rowan when this is over.

No one could stand upright after this much pain, only he isn't done yet.

The song turns a corner, and if I thought his voice was raw before, that barely skims the surface of what next rises. Of what spreads wings and takes flight, carrying a promise to never forget someone special.

I've felt the earth move under my feet more than a few times.

Felt the crump of buildings collapsing.

Been shaken by shells that split soul from soul like earthquakes.

Rowan's song?

It's seismic.

I'm still shakenon the way back to the van, still reeling, and just like every time we're together, a clock's still ticking.

This time it comes with the sun sinking and Rowan's on-duty deadline fast approaching. That has to be the reason he says, "Can we hurry?"

"To get back?" I press my key fob, sidelights flashing as the van unlocks, only Rowan doesn't get in the passenger side. He grasps the side door handle instead. He also wets his lips. "N-no. I mean, can we be quick?" His knuckles whiten before he lets go of the door handle. "Forget it. We don't have to?—"

I'm pretty sure it isn't the sunset that leaves him rosy. I'm also on a sudden mission to check I'm on the same page because my ears are ringing so much that I could be mistaken. Not for tinnitus reasons. I'm still replaying lyrics that made me want to gather him up and tuck him inside my ribcage.

"Can we fuck?" I guess this has to sound harsh in comparison to all those spiralling yet soft notes. I start over. "I mean, yes. We can do anything you like, Row. Is that what you want?"

"I want..." He takes off his glasses. Scrubs at his face. Looks at me with nothing between us, and forget about that quarry, I could drown in what all this honey-gold depth shows me. His song has done a number on him. He's close to tears. He's also happy, so, so happy. We're both in the back of the van in moments, and I've never been more grateful I took the time to build this sturdy bed because Rowan says, "I just really want you."

He's just as pink in here with the blinds drawn as when sunset flames licked him on the moorland. "Only quickly, yes?"

I haven't been in the armed forces for years. Apparently, I'm still built to follow orders.

Undressing him takes no time. Him undressing me takes longer. He yanks at my belt and almost gives himself a black eye. Shoves up my shirt, and almost brains me, which is no reason for him to cackle, but here we are, both in a tangle, both laughing and kissing. His mouth is molten, and I still don't know how I got this lucky or how any of this started.

My subconscious bleats a reminder, but it's Rowan's hair between my fingers, not wool, and Rowan who turns like he did in that hotel room, only this time there's no mistaking what he bends over my bed for. No mistaking that he checks his watch as well.

"Don't worry." Christ, I sound rough. This isn't much smoother. "I can be fast." Maybe not as fast as him. I don't usually have his hair trigger, but at least I do have supplies within arm's reach. I've also got his bare arse right here in my hands, and when he looks back, only a touch wary, I get on my knees to get him open the fastest way I know how.

I kiss his ink first, each wing and flame and ashy feather. Kiss where I hold him open second, and I'm not the only one of us who can sound rough. He just sang like a bruised and battered angel while facing stony granite. Now he groans each time I touch him there with the tip of my tongue, each slow poke making a shivering difference. Each soft press, each longer lick, each hum I can't keep in gets him where I need him to be, which is ready for me to get slick and savage.

I keep him spread, and go for it, until he falls forward.

He looks back again then, no sign of honey or gold left. It won't be fully dark for hours yet, so I don't know why there are so many stars in his eyes. I don't try to count them. Not while his gaze locks me in place, and I could do this forever—eat him open, and take hours about it—but my own watch catches my eye, setting a challenge. So does his gaze flickering to it, which means it's my turn to issue an order.

"Trust me." He nods before I get to say why, and that instant agreement? It hoarsens my voice. "I'll get you there. Then I'll get you back on time." I also get back to what I've barely started and don't intend to cut short, not when he's this responsive, and man, all of these surprised sounds from him are so good for my ego. Each moan cuts through my aural clutter, and he does exactly what I told him, trusting me to get him off…

…And get gone.

I've never wanted anything less.

All I want is more of these sighs and hitching breaths when I get a finger in him. He pushes back like he's waited all week for it—for me—for us to pick up where we left off. A second finger takes a while to slide in, but I'm a big guy all over, so I get why his next pushes back are slower. Are accompanied by low sounds I feel more than I hear. Are enough to mean I've never got a rubber on quicker. Then he's up on his knees and we're almost fucking.

One shove, two grunts, and we could be.

I'm inside him. Just the head, but that's plenty, and fuck that sunset being fiery, I've never felt anything hotter than Rowan this tight around me. "Are you…" I hold still, my breaths as shaky as his, even though I've done this plenty. Something inside still flutters like it's my first time. "R-Row. Are you…"

I'm scorched by his whispered answer.

"I'm good."

I sink deeper then, fraction by fraction, and he groans like it's everything to him—like I'm giving him something new too, and he loves it, so I take him at his word and fuck him.

He finds his voice again then. Not that he sings as I fuck him quicker than I'd usually start off with, but I'm glad this car park is empty. Every thrust finds a high note, each withdrawal grinds out a low tone matching the loss he filled the moors with, and I can't help gripping his hips and shifting mine even faster to chase out more of those high notes from him.

The sheets rumple under his grasping fingers, and something glitters. That quick shower he took also missed a splash of dried paint on his elbow, and I soak up every detail of someone who should fill that classroom of his with song and never hide it. I could fucking burst into song right now too. I would if I wasn't fighting the urge to come faster than he did our first time, and when he clenches around me, getting there before me, I sob and don't care who hears it.

He groans, "Don't stop."

Yeah, the army hasn't left me, because here I am following orders again by gathering him up to face me. He's on my lap, both of his arms around my neck while he sinks onto my cock. His own dick bobs like crazy, still drooling, still hard and fitting my fist like everything else about him fits me. His belly is already spattered, but I take his weight and change the angle, fucking up into him and searching.

Rowan shouts again, and I've never felt more of a hero. Never come so fast nor wanted to start over right away again either. Never wanted to embed an image more than of him flopping onto his back, spread-eagled, and smiling, and here's the thing about Rowan—for all that he can look wary, there's no mistaking when he's happy.

We've got a few minutes before we have to make tracks.

I use them to bask, pulling up a blind so the van is flooded with fire, and I'm as rough as earlier, as hoarse and as gruff. I'm also pretty sure I've never spoken this softly. "Where are your glasses?"

"Glasses?" He touches his face like he expects to find what must have fallen off mid-fuck, but that's okay.

I'm here to find them for him.