“Until you come apart,” he agreed.
His hands reached my thighs—carefully avoiding the bandaged tattoo—and gripped with that familiar strength I’d told myself to forget. Told myself I didn’t crave.
I’d lied to myself about a lot of things.
My legs spread wider involuntarily, my body making decisions my brain wasn’t ready to endorse. His hands moved roughly up my sides now, all pretense of massage abandoned. No more therapeutic massage—this was pure possession, pure claim.
He sank deeper between my thighs, his torso pressing against my core. I could feel him—hard and thick against my wet heat through his sweats—and I wanted those clothes gone. Wanted him inside me. Wanted to feel that delicious stretch, that perfect fullness.
When his fingertips applied pressure along my ribs—right where the rope sat—I nearly came apart from that alone. This was pure desire, raw need, both of us caught in the gravity of wanting each other.
“Rowan. . .” His name came out desperate, pleading.
“I know,volchok.” His mouth found mine, and we kissed like we were drowning. Like we could breathe each other in, and somehow that would be enough oxygen.
Tongues clashed. Teeth scraped. His hands tangled in my hair while mine gripped his shoulders, nails digging into muscle.
We were the storm-driven sea and the crumbling bluff it loved to ruin—every crash between us eroded the line where he ended, and I began—and I never wanted it to stop.
He pulled back suddenly, both of us panting. His eyes were wild, pupils blown so wide that barely any blue-gray remained visible.
“We cannot do this.” The words came out strained, pained.
Reality crashed back in. “What?”
“Jules.” He closed his eyes, jaw clenched. “We promised to meet her for dinner before your shift. If we do this now—if I start fucking you the way I want to—we will not have time to do it properly.”
Frustration and arousal warred within me. “Rowan—”
“No.” He opened his eyes, and the hunger in them nearly undid me. “You deserve better than a rushed fuck because we lost track of time. You deserve to be thoroughly wrecked, Violet. And that takes hours I do not currently have.”
His hand cupped between my legs—not penetrating, just resting there with possessive certainty. I was soaked, and we both knew it.
“So you are going to wait for my cock.” His voice dropped into that commanding tone that made my cunt clench. “You are going to sitthrough dinner wet and wanting, knowing exactly what I plan to do to you when we get back here tonight. And then—only then—will I fuck you until you forget every name but mine.”
I whimpered, my hips trying to grind against his hand despite knowing he was right.
“Do you understand,volchok?”
“Yes.” The word came out broken, desperate.
“Good.” He removed his hand, and I actually whined at the loss. “Now let me get you out of this rope before we both do something we will regret.”
He began untying me with the same methodical care he’d used to bind me. Each knot released slowly, each loop of rope removed with delicacy.
And with each section that came free, I felt an unexpected sadness.
The pressure eased. The embrace loosened. The sensation of being held—truly held—faded with every inch of cerulean fiber that unwound from my body.
It felt like a lover’s hug ending too soon. Like safety being peeled away layer by layer, leaving me exposed to the cold reality of a world that didn’t care if I lived or died.
By the time the last rope fell away, I felt bereft.
Rowan noticed—of course, he noticed—and pulled me into his arms. Skin against skin, his chest warm against mine, his hands stroking down my bare back with soothing repetition.
“I know,” he murmured against my hair. “I know it feels like a loss. But the rope will be here when we return. And so will I.”
I buried my face in his shoulder, breathing him in. Pine and clean male musk and something that was uniquely Rowan.
