“I’m right here,” I whisper. I rake my fingers through his hair with one hand and glide my touch beneath his chef’s coat to trace the muscles of his back with the other. He leans away enough to pull the thick fabric over his head and I press my touch to every taut muscle and jagged scar.
Rowan bands an arm across my back and yanks me off the table, never breaking our connection as he pulls me down to straddle him on the bench. “You’re going to take my cock as deep as you can. You’re going to ride it the way you want until you come all over it. And these tits,” he says as he unzips the back of my dress and pulls the low neckline down along with the cups of my bra, “you’re going to bounce these glorious fucking tits in my face.”
I grip the top of the booth with one hand and lean closer to guide my breast to his waiting mouth with the other. He sucks on my nipple and rolls his tongue across the piercing, his moan a vibration in my flesh as he pinches the other one to a firm peak.
I glide on his erection, filling myself with his length. I want to make this pleasure last. I want to savor every long stroke of his cock, every grind of my clit against his flesh as I take him deep, every touch of my piercings against sensitive nerves. But he drives me right to the edge with his kisses on my breasts and the filthy demands he makes every time he surfaces from my skin. That’s right, baby, take me deeper in that tight little cunt. You’re going to be dripping my cum down those pretty thighs all the way home.
My orgasm shatters my vision with a burst of stars as I press my eyes closed and scream. I break apart as Rowan thrusts up, hitting even deeper as he spills into me, his hands gripped tight to my hips as he holds me down on his pulsing cock. Our foreheads are pressed together, our breath shared, our gazes fused. When we finally come down from the euphoric fog, I smile and trace Rowan’s cheeks with my fingertips.
“I missed you too.”
Rowan sighs, and I realize this is the first time I’ve seen him truly relaxed since I got back. He lays a kiss to the tip of my nose. “Let’s go home and do this again. And again, and again, and again.” He guides my hips up until he slides free, his cum leaking from my entrance.
“Napkin?” I ask as I dart a glance down to my legs.
Rowan traces a line up my inner thigh. Two fingers gather the milky rivulet and slide up to my pussy, his eyes already dark with desire as he watches my reaction.
“Fuck no,” he rasps as he finger fucks the cum back into me with slow thrusts. I shudder and moan, my sensitive flesh already desperate for more. “I meant what I said. You’ll be walking home with that mess on your thighs, little bird.”
After a final, deep thrust and a roll of his thumb over my clit that has me gasping and clutching his shoulder, he withdraws his fingers and raises them to my lips to suck them clean. When he’s satisfied, he gently guides me to the end of the booth and pulls his clothes back into place before following.
We stand for a moment, hand in hand, looking at the space and the windows where thankfully no one has stopped to watch us in our sanctuary, the one that always seems to surround us when I’m alone with Rowan. I let my eyes travel over the space, and when my attention flows in his direction, I feel Rowan’s gaze pressing against my face like a gentle caress.
“I’m so happy you’re back, Blackbird,” he says as he pulls me into his chest and wraps his arms across my back.
I close my eyes. We shift in our embrace, moving together like two dark creatures intertwined, flowing with the current of the world around us.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper. “Just home with you.”
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20
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TOWER
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ROWAN
It feels like I’ve walked through hell the last two weeks to get to this exact moment—opening night of Butcher & Blackbird.
We’ve had the normal pre-launch growing pains. Issues with the POS system. Problems with suppliers. The usual things, but nothing major—just a lot of shit that adds up. But 3 In Coach has been another beast entirely. Equipment breakages. Electrical problems. Faulty appliances. It’s like an endless pain in my ass, when it should be running smoothly. I’ve tried to brush many of the issues off to stay focused, but the stress is still there, and there’s not even been time to let off any steam like the Butcher of Boston normally would. If I could just pick off an easy target like some shitbag drug dealer, I know I’d feel so much more at ease. There’s just no time.
But thank fuck, the one bright light is Sloane.
If she’s bothered by my long hours or my exhaustion and stress, she doesn’t let on. I know she’s worried about me, but there’s no irritation or demands for more attention and presence than I can give right now. In fact, she seems to be thriving, even though it’s hard for me to believe.
“I feel terrible, you coming all this way, upending your life and I’m barely even here,” I’d said as I stared through the dark toward the ceiling when we laid in bed two nights ago. But what I didn’t say was how worried I constantly feel that this isn’t going the way I envisioned at all. I’ve wanted Sloane for years, and now that she’s finally here, it gnaws at me that I might not be giving her what she needs. What if I’m just coming home every night to fuck enough stress out of my system that I can fall asleep but not providing anything tangible in return? Is that what I’m doing?
“I’m happy,” she’d replied simply, as though it should be obvious. “I like solitude, Rowan. I feel safe when I’m alone. Maybe not always with that furbag over there looking like he wants to shred my face off,” she’d said as she flailed a hand toward the bedroom door, “but Winston aside, this is good for me. I don’t feel lonely. Actually, it’s the first time in a long time that I don’t.”
She had pressed a kiss to my cheek as though punctuating her point and then she fell asleep where she always does, resting on my heart. But I stayed awake long after that, with a single question rolling through my mind:
What if she’s lying?
I blow out a deep breath and refocus on the task at hand, namely not burning the pan-fried foie gras for the appetizers as Ryan, the maître d’, enters the kitchen for a time check for the appetizers. Two minutes. Two minutes and the first guests will be eating at Butcher & Blackbird. Two minutes until the next step in my career becomes reality.
I place the foie gras on the toasted brioche prepped by the sous-chef, Mia. We dress every plate, five in total, and place them on the pass for the server who’s already waiting, and we’re immediately on to plating up the next orders that are already cooking.
Then we hit our stride.
Soups. Appetizers. Salads. Fast and nimble. Plate after plate. I keep watch on the table numbers but there’s no seventeen, and that table is permanently reserved for Sloane.
I glance at the clock mounted on the wall.
Seven forty-two.
A pang of worry hits my ribs and twists my guts. She’s forty-two minutes late.
“Is Sloane here?” I ask when Ryan enters the kitchen with one of the servers.
“Not yet, Chef.”
“Feckin’ Christ,” I hiss.
Mia chuckles next to me on the line. “Put the Irish accent away, chef. She’s just late.”
“She’s never late,” I bark with a glare.
“She’ll be here, don’t worry.”
I want to call her, but I can’t stop, not even to check my phone. I’m in the middle of the first round of main courses with more appetizers coming in as the restaurant fills to capacity.
