And I wept for a long time after he finished, but he held me then, too. He held me and shushed me, kissing away tears that wouldn’t go away, not really; not when his own were building onto mine, and neither of us was able to stop this onslaught of emotion.
Why? Why were we like that? What was that hot, horrible, desperate emotion coursing through me as I was wrapped in Rowan’s arms, as I felt him still settled so deeply into my core?
It doesn’t compare to the sorrow and the lust I have been feeling. In fact, if I had thought I was finallyfeelingbefore last night, I was wrong. I’m surprised I didn’t go into shock with the overload of emotion I was gifted, with the hurricane of pleasure, pain, and desperation that was vibrating my entire body.
And now, the very next day, as I sit in Tabitha’s Place, it feels as if every moment he is not touching me, I am committing a grave sin.
I don’t know how to make sense of what happened in that bedroom. And now here I am, staring out this window, replaying every time he’d hold me as close as he possibly could—replaying the moment he’d said:
“Just looking at you makes me feel weak. So pure, so brilliant to look at. I don’t think I deserve even this much.”
As if I am something he’s not worthy enough to lay his hands upon. As if I am just that beautiful, that pure.
I want to cry again. I want to be what Rowan sees when he looks at me.
“Hey.”
My eyes are drawn from the window, turning in my chair to him there behind me. I’d recognize that voice anywhere. I will never be able to get it out of my skin.
“You’re so beautiful. Fuck—you’re so beautiful. I’d do anything, anything you asked. Anything for you. On my knees, I’d beg you for a single touch.”
“Hey.” I shove the memories away, focusing on his present attention, not the way he gave himself to me just last night.
Rowan stares at me for a moment, calculating and calm. As if he’s already wrestled with and understood the events of the night before. All dominance and sincerity.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I woke up, and you were gone, and things were a bit intense after we… you know.” He’s referencing the crying, the desire, the comfort, and the misery. None of which were applicable or comprehensible, yet felt so right.
“Right,” I draw nervously. “I’m okay. Thank you for asking… and you? Are you okay?”
He shrugs, then blushes.“I’m fine.”
I give him a nod, then say, “Okay.”
“Alright.”
We stare at each other. Some kind of electric current is shooting back and forth between us; I can feel it, almost taste it.
His eyes are on fire, so fucking hot—it feels as if he’s asking me for something. Pleading, almost.
And again, I can’t help but think,do you remember me now?
“I—”
“Well, have a good day then,” Rowan interrupts, spinning on his heel and leaving the diner.
My chest hurts so badly. So badly that when I lift my hand, I can feel the hot tears that are slipping down my cheeks, and I am not shocked.
What is happening to me? I cannot seem to stop crying. After spending my entire life feeling almost nothing, to feelingeverythingat the hands of a man I’ve just met, yet feels far too familiar, I think I’m being crushed under the weight of this emotional whiplash.
But one thing I do know: I want Rowan to come back. I want him to wrap me up in his arms and tell me to cry for as long as I feel the need. I need to see this same sorrow reflected back at me, mirrored in his own eyes.
And since that will not be happening, I turn my attention back to the window, swallowing the burning emotion as I watch the blue birds settle into their nest on the tree branch outside. So peaceful, so simple.
Rowan would love to capture this moment.
Fuck… I’m screwed.
I want him to touch me again.
