20. Rowan

20

ROWAN

R owan couldn't believe Conor had brought her somewhere so romantic. The entire greenhouse looked like something straight out of a fairy tale. She hadn't even considered that her song might be reviving more than just the Dark Garden.

Suddenly, a bloom opened with a giant puff of glittering pollen in a rainbow of colors. It burst into the air and the light cast by the glowing luminary orbs made it sparkle as it floated down like iridescent snowflakes.

Rowan tipped her chin up, holding her hands out to catch the glitter as it rained down over her. The luminary moved to the next flowers, and she followed. Conor trailed wordlessly behind her as she stepped in front of a pearlescent white flower that bloomed the same way. Rowan twirled in the falling pollen, for once not caring that it might stain her dress.

More luminaries floated up from the ground in tiny, golden glowing orbs. She could almost make out minute bodies in the center of the glow, but they were too bright to look at for long. Seeing them scattered throughout the greenhouse reminded her of fireflies she, Sarai, and Finn used to spend breathless summer evenings chasing around in Ashand Orchards.

The luminaries bounced from flower to flower, and Rowan followed. The air filled with sporadic puffs of pollen, the entire greenhouse abuzz with magic and joy, and Rowan relished the thrill of it.

She jumped and spun, her hands in the air as she laughed. She almost forgot Conor was there until he caught her hand and drew her toward him.

"Will you dance with me?" he asked.

"Now?" Rowan laughed. "There's no music."

"I thought perhaps you could sing something."

"I thought you didn't like when I sang here. You said it attracts the spirits."

"I was wrong," he said as he drew her closer.

Rowan stared at him wide-eyed. "Are you feeling well?" she asked, pretending to feel his forehead for fever. "Can gods catch a cold?"

Conor laughed. "I have been wrong on very rare occasions."

"Let's mark down this one and hold a feast each year to commemorate this rarity, though one wonders if it's rare that you make mistakes, or simply rare that you admit to them."

He grinned as he pulled her flush to his body, one hand resting on her lower back and the other cupping her right hand. His proximity sent her heartbeat racing.

"What should I sing?"

"Do you have a favorite song?" he asked.

Rowan nodded.

"Sing that."

She couldn't bear to have his full attention on her at such close proximity while she sang. Instead of meeting his eyes, she leaned her head against his shoulder and started to sing a song about a witch who was forced to erase herself from the mind of the man she loved.

As she became more confident in the song, the entire garden erupted in a tempest of buzzing, pulsing energy, a symphony of rebirth. All the flowers started kicking up pollen in a frenzy, and the glitter floated around them in a stunning array of colors and patterns. It was too much—the beauty of the garden, the freedom to sing when she wanted, the way the plants reacted to her song, and the warmth of Conor's body against her. She'd never felt so at peace.

"Why do you like that song so much?" Conor asked.

Rowan sighed. "I like it because the woman in the song is brokenhearted as she steals the memory of herself from her love. He's so certain he couldn't possibly forget her. When he doesn't remember, she's crushed. But then he starts to notice that the absence of her left its own mark. He feels it even if he can't name it. He senses the lack of her. There's something beautiful about that."

She choked on the swell of confusion and peace that erupted from her chest. It took her a moment to realize that she felt safe. So much of her life had been spent in fear of saying or doing the wrong thing, of having something taken from her. It was strange to suddenly feel so entirely comforted and secure. She didn't even realize she was crying until she choked on a note and her vision went blurry.

"Rowan, what's wrong?" Conor asked.

"Nothing—I've never seen anything so beautiful in my life," she mumbled.

"Neither have I," he said, his intense blue-gray eyes fixed on her. He brushed tears from her cheeks and grinned. "You're so sparkly."

A giggle bubbled out of her as she brushed some pollen from his cheek. "So are you. I think it suits you."

"Does it?"

"Yes, I think it's a perfect look for you," she laughed.

Conor kissed her. The temperature in the room spiked, and Rowan's hand fisted in his tunic as she drew him closer. Conor cupped her face, tilting her chin so he could take the kiss deeper.

Rowan's fingers dug into his tunic frantically. She couldn't touch enough of him, couldn't get close enough. He tasted like whiskey and warm apple cider—sweet and bitter with the slightest hint of spice. She wanted to lose herself in it.

Conor trailed a line of kisses down her jaw and neck as she gasped. He guided her down to a bed of fern branches on the greenhouse floor. His arms bracketed her body, and her hands slid beneath the hem of his shirt. She paused, waiting for him to stop her, delighted when he didn't.

His skin was smooth and hot beneath her trembling hands. Theoretically, she knew what she was doing, but reading about something and actually doing it were two very different things. She hadn't counted on her heart pounding so hard, or the way she'd want him to keep kissing her, or the desperation she felt to feel him as close as possible.

Conor's lips trailed over her collarbone, and she moaned. The sound sent him into a frenzy. His kisses grew hungrier, more possessive as he slid the shoulder of her dress down. Rowan felt drunk on lust as she spread her legs wider, grabbing his hips to pull him closer. He rocked against her and her body responded on instinct, bringing her hips up to meet him the next time he moved. Conor seemed just as mindless with lust as he drew her into another breath-stealing kiss.

"Please," she whimpered.

"Mother slay me! You're killing me," he groaned, dropping his head to her shoulder.

He panted as she lifted her hips again, chasing something she didn't fully understand. He grabbed the hem of her dress, drawing it up over her thighs. She moaned as his hands skated up her bare skin. In all her hours of tutoring, she hadn't imagined that kissing someone could feel so good.

The magnetism between her and Conor took on a life of its own. It was a living, breathing thing. The pull to him was relentless. There was nothing but his hands and his breath hot on her neck, the searing heat of his kisses, the drag of his teeth, and the whiskey and the clean, soapy scent of him.

Conor's fingers dug into her thighs. It wasn't clear if he was holding on or holding back, but she didn't care. She wound a hand through his hair and brought his lips to hers, urging him to keep going.

"Is this okay?" he whispered as he trailed a line of kisses down the neckline of her dress.

"Yes, please don't stop," she begged.

His mouth moved lower, nipping at the skin at the very edge of her neckline, his tongue dipping underneath the fabric, and she sucked in a sharp breath, arching against him. He kissed down the front of her dress. She hated that she was wearing such heavy wool. She'd been so delighted to finally have clothes in colors, but now she longed for the scandalously thin silk dresses she wore when she journeyed through the Dark Wood.

Conor kissed down her stomach, and she tipped her head back and closed her eyes, just enjoying the sensation of the heat of his mouth, even through the heavy wool. His hands hiked her dress higher, and he pushed her right leg up, placing a kiss inside her knee. Her gaze snapped to his, and he froze. He was giving her a chance to stop him if she didn't want it, but she couldn't imagine halting the momentum of what they'd started.

"Don't you dare stop," she said.

Her voice was strange and husky in her ears. Conor smiled and kissed slightly higher, then higher, his teeth dragging over her skin. She moaned and her right hand shot to the back of his head, her fingers threading through his hair.

He paused again, startled by the contact. His gaze snagged hers, and she added the slightest bit of pressure on the back of his head to encourage him. She wasn't sure what he had planned. Her lessons had only explained how she might please him with her mouth, but not a single lesson had been focused on her pleasure. It didn't even occur to her that she might want something like that, but as he kissed his way higher, she got the sense that she might really enjoy it.

"Look at you. You are temptation itself, Rowan," Conor growled against her skin, and she whimpered at the way the vibrations sent a pleasant chill through her.

He bent her left leg up and gave it the same treatment. She tried to focus on his mouth and the sensation of his lips against her delicate skin instead of the fact that she was spread wide for him with nothing but thin silk and lace undergarments between them. He paused at the edge of the lace, his tongue darting beneath the fabric. She hissed in a breath, and he drew away, meeting her eyes.

"Rowan, please say you want this," he murmured. His eyes glowed with desire.

"I don't know what this even is," she rasped, suddenly self-conscious.

"Of course they wouldn't tell you about this." Conor sighed and shook his head. "I want to make you feel good."

"But it's my job to make you feel good," Rowan whispered. Her brain couldn't quite catch up, and the frenzy of kissing him had shut down all rational thought.

"This would make me feel very good. I want to kiss you…here," he said, running his fingers over the silk between her legs.

A violent flush spread through her whole body.

"Do you want that?" he asked.

She felt uneasy at the idea of Conor so close to such an intimate part of her, but she'd loved the feeling of his mouth everywhere else.

"I don't want to pressure you. If you're uncomfortable, we can stop right now?—"

"No!" she interrupted with an urgency that made her cheeks burn even hotter.

Conor chuckled. "If I do anything at all that you don't like, just tell me. We can stop at any time. I'm a fool to tempt myself like this, but I just want you to feel something good."

Rowan wanted that, too. Kissing Conor was the most dangerous and best-feeling thing she'd ever experienced. Her whole body felt aflame. She was burning from the inside out, and she wanted to ignite.

"I want it," she rasped.

Conor grinned and kissed her inner thigh before hooking his fingers around her undergarments and tugging them down. She lifted her legs, bringing them together to make it easier. He spread her legs wide again. His gaze raked over her in ravenous hunger.

Before she could second-guess her decision, he brought his mouth down on her. Her head fell back, and her eyes looked up at the glass ceiling. The sensation was like nothing she'd ever felt before. She felt hot all over, but her skin prickled in goosebumps, and she shuddered, her entire focus narrowing to the wet slide of his tongue. The feeling fulfilled the promise made by all his past kisses. The hint of pleasure in them was nothing compared to the staggering, explosive warmth that surged through her.

She moaned loudly, and he chuckled against her sensitive flesh.

"Fuck," he murmured.

The vibration of his voice against her sent her arching into him. His hands came to her hips, and she wasn't sure if it was to help ground her or hold her still, and she honestly didn't care which as long as he didn't stop. Heated tension coiled in her body, her muscles tensing and relaxing as if trying to hold on or let go. With every ministration of his mouth, the pressure wound tighter until she thought she might break in half.

Her hands threaded through his hair, holding him in place. Conor groaned, moving more urgently. Her pleasure climbed higher and higher, the sensation more thrilling and exhilarating than anything she'd ever felt. He feasted on her like she was his last meal, and she'd never felt more vulnerable and free.

All the tension in her broke at once, like a wave on the shore. She arched off the ground and cried out. Her toes curled until her feet cramped painfully and her body felt suspended in contraction as he continued to work her. A rush of warmth and tingling satisfaction settled in her body and she relaxed onto the ground.

Conor sat up, looking stricken.

"Did I do something wrong?" Rowan asked.

"Quite the opposite. You were perfect—too perfect," Conor murmured. He looked pained as he licked his lips. His gaze slowly traveled over every inch of her skin before meeting her eyes again.

"You can have me," Rowan said. "I—" She felt suddenly shy and over-exposed. "I want you to."

Pollen still sparkled in the air around them, and for the first time, she noticed how Conor was covered in her glittering handprints. It felt possessive. He'd just claimed part of her, and the handprints signaled how she claimed him back in some small way.

He hesitated a moment before pouncing on her. Suddenly, his hands deftly worked the buttons on the back of her dress as she fumbled with his belt.

Conor seemed unconcerned by her clumsiness as she reached for him. She stared for a moment, terrified of doing something wrong. She met his eyes as she wrapped her hand around his length and stroked him the way she'd been taught. He groaned and kissed her in a rabid, frenzied way that had her tearing at his shirt until he tossed it away and her hands could touch his skin.

He drew back and met her eyes. "Are you sure?" he asked, gritting his teeth as if pained.

She hesitated to answer. The brief pause sharpened her mind. Her dagger was hidden back in her bed. She couldn't kill him without it, and her mind was still so clouded with lust she wasn't sure she wanted to. How could someone truly evil bring out such intense joy and pleasure in her?

She stared up at him, unsure what to do. She desperately wanted to feel more of what he'd introduced her to. She'd never imagined feeling out of control could be so wonderful.

She wasn't thinking clearly. She should slow down.

She sighed heavily. The words of Orla's journal came screaming back to her.

He's so handsome it's easy to forget what he is. He doesn't care the way humans do. His care is possessive. It's ownership.

"I'm not ready," she mumbled at the same time Conor said, "I can't."

Relief washed over her. "I'm sorry," she stammered.

Conor shook his head. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't think you were ready, and I shouldn't have even asked. I also know it's a terrible idea. I don't just mean I can't now. I mean, I can't ever."

He rolled to the side, tugging her dress back into place as he fastened his pants. His face shuttered, morphing into something cold and indifferent. She cringed at how mercurial he could be.

"What just happened?" Rowan asked. "I'm fine. I loved what you did. I've never felt anything like that. It was incredible. I didn't even know anything could feel that good." She swallowed around the disappointment tearing through her.

Rowan had felt so little good in her life—pathetically little. She was inexperienced and foolish. She must have done something wrong for him to not want to continue, but she was frustrated that he wouldn't just tell her what. A lump formed in her throat and her eyes burned.

"Oh, Mother slay me, please don't cry. I don't know what to do when you cry." Conor ran a hand through his hair. "I can't, but not because I don't want to. In fact, it's almost all I can think about, especially with your taste still on my lips, Rowan."

She blushed and looked away. "Then why can't you?"

He brought his hand to her cheek, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes were stormy and incandescent, his face tortured.

"I can't take you because if I do, I'll suck the life force right out of you, and you'll die. That's how it works. That is what it means to be devoured by the Wolf."