We head back to the car, and it’s full dark outside now. “We’re staying at the bed and breakfast tonight,” he says, helping me into the truck. “After your fall, the last thing you need is an air mattress.”
I exhale, relief flooding me. “Thank you.”
The drive through town is quiet, the headlights cutting through the dark. Rowan’s hand rests possessively on my thigh, and I don’t pull away, even though a part of me thinks I should, because I like all of this way too much.
The bed and breakfast is the same one I stayed in before the dig—cozy, with floral wallpaper and the faint scent of cinnamon. The front desk clerk smiles when we walk in.
“We’d like two rooms for the night,” I tell her as Rowan hovers behind me.
“Only one room left, I’m afraid,” she says, tapping at her keyboard.
Rowan seems unperturbed by this, and slides his credit card across the counter. “That’s fine.” When I stayed here before, my room had two twin beds in it. Maybe this one will be the same. I hope it is, because despite all of the I’m her husband, you’re so brave, so perfect talk, I still have no idea where we stand.
Once we’re officially checked in, we take the stairs up, Rowan’s arm around my waist. I don’t need steadying, but I’m not complaining.
We arrive at room number seven, and it’s cozy and clean, with floral curtains and polished hardwood floors.
There’s only one bed, though. One queen sized bed, sitting right in the middle of the room.
Nine
Norah
The door snicks closed quietly behind Rowan, and I can tell he’s noticing the whole one bed situation, too. We look at the bed. Then at each other. He shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it on one of the brass hooks by the door.
Everything is utterly silent in the room, but my body is in chaos. I can feel the tug of the bond between us, making me painfully aware of him, of the fact that we’re alone together. It’s torture. I hate it.
But I know I’ll miss it when the bond is severed in just a few days’ time.
Rowan paces to the small fireplace in the corner of the room and sets to work getting a fire going with the wood and matches provided. It only takes him a few minutes before a fire’s crackling merrily in the hearth, filling the room with warmth and soft crackles and pops.
The firelight flickers across Rowan’s face, casting shadows that make him look even more unreadable than usual. He nods toward the bed, his voice low. “You should rest.”
I swallow, my fingers twisting in the hem of my shirt. “I’m all dirty.”
He shrugs. “Then take off the dirty clothes.”
My stomach flips. The words hang between us. The bond pulses lightly, and my skin tightens—nipples hardening, warmth pooling low in my belly. I should argue. I should insist on…on what? Finding another hotel? Going back to the dig site?
But I’m too tired. Too worn out from from the fall, from the panic attack, from the stress of getting stitches, from the hurt and doubt and stupid, stupid hope that won’t die.
I hold his gaze, my heart hammering so loud I’m sure he can hear it. I toe off my boots first, the thud of them hitting the floor loud in the quiet room. I grip the hem of my shirt and peel it off, letting it drop to the floor. My pants follow, pooling at my feet, then my socks until I’m standing there in just my bra and panties.
Rowan’s breathing grows visibly uneven. His gaze flickers over me, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for me. Just stands there, his hands in his pockets.
Inhaling a shaky breath, I turn and slide into the bed, the sheets cool against my overheated skin, and I pull the blankets up to my chin. It feels very intimate, being alone with him in this hotel room, looking up at him from bed, wearing only my underwear.
He rakes a hand through his hair. “Can I…” He clears his throat. “Can I hold you? You’ve been through a lot today, and I just think—“
“Yes,” I say immediately, the word coming out soft and breathless. “Please.”
He starts to slowly undress himself, pulling off his sweater, and then the T-shirt underneath. I bite my lip at the sight of Rowan standing half naked before me. He’s not just fit—he’s solid, the kind of strength that comes from years of physicalwork, not just a gym. His shoulders are broad, his arms thick with muscle, and they flex and shift as tosses his shirt to the floor. A smattering of dark hair dusts his chest, trailing down in a line that disappears beneath the waistband of his pants.
I swallow hard.
He undoes his belt next, the leather whispering as it slides free. He thumbs open the button of his pants, then lowers the zipper. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and pushes them down, stepping out of them until he’s standing there in nothing but tight black boxer briefs. The fabric clings to him, outlining the thick length of his cock, already half-hard.
I bite my lip, trying not to react. I don’t know where we stand. I don’t know what we are to each other. I don’t want to let myself think that this could be…something.
