Page 46 of Second Song

“Don’t worry.” Christ, I sound rough. This isn’t much smoother. “I can be fast.” Maybe not as fast as him. I don’t usually have his hair trigger, but at least I do have supplies within arm’s reach. I’ve also got his bare arse right here in my hands, and when he looks back, only a touch wary, I get on my knees to get him open the fastest way I know how.

I kiss his ink first, each wing and flame and ashy feather. Kiss where I hold him open second, and I’m not the only one of us who can sound rough. He just sang like a bruised and battered angel while facing stony granite. Now he groans each time I touch him there with the tip of my tongue, each slow poke making a shivering difference. Each soft press, each longer lick, each hum I can’t keep in gets him where I need him to be, which is ready for me to get slick and savage.

I keep him spread, and go for it, until he falls forward.

He looks back again then, no sign of honey or gold left. It won’t be fully dark for hours yet, so I don’t know why there are so many stars in his eyes. I don’t try to count them. Not while his gaze locks me in place, and I could do this forever—eat him open, and take hours about it—but my own watch catches my eye, setting a challenge. So does his gaze flickering to it, which means it’s my turn to issue an order.

“Trust me.” He nods before I get to say why, and that instant agreement? It hoarsens my voice. “I’ll get you there. Then I’ll get you back on time.” I also get back to what I’ve barely started and don’t intend to cut short, not when he’s this responsive, and man, all of these surprised sounds from him are so good for my ego. Each moan cuts through my aural clutter, and he does exactly what I told him, trusting me to get him off…

…And get gone.

I’ve never wanted anything less.

All I want is more of these sighs and hitching breaths when I get a finger in him. He pushes back like he’s waited all week for it—for me—for us to pick up where we left off. A second finger takes a while to slide in, but I’m a big guy all over, so I get why his next pushes back are slower. Are accompanied by low sounds I feel more than I hear. Are enough to mean I’ve never got a rubber on quicker. Then he’s up on his knees and we’re almost fucking.

One shove, two grunts, and we could be.

I’m inside him. Just the head, but that’s plenty, and fuck that sunset being fiery, I’ve never felt anything hotter than Rowan this tight around me. “Are you…” I hold still, my breaths as shaky as his, even though I’ve done this plenty. Something inside still flutters like it’s my first time. “R-Row. Are you…”

I’m scorched by his whispered answer.

“I’m good.”

I sink deeper then, fraction by fraction, and he groans like it’s everything to him—like I’m giving him something new too, and he loves it, so I take him at his word and fuck him.

He finds his voice again then. Not that he sings as I fuck him quicker than I’d usually start off with, but I’m glad this car park is empty. Every thrust finds a high note, each withdrawal grinds out a low tone matching the loss he filled the moors with, and I can’t help gripping his hips and shifting mine even faster to chase out more of those high notes from him.

The sheets rumple under his grasping fingers, and something glitters. That quick shower he took also missed a splash of dried paint on his elbow, and I soak up every detail of someone who should fill that classroom of his with song and never hide it. I could fucking burst into song right now too. I would if I wasn’t fighting the urge to come faster than he did our first time, and when he clenches around me, getting there before me, I sob and don’t care who hears it.

He groans, “Don’t stop.”

Yeah, the army hasn’t left me, because here I am following orders again by gathering him up to face me. He’s on my lap, both of his arms around my neck while he sinks onto my cock. His own dick bobs like crazy, still drooling, still hard and fitting my fist like everything else about him fits me. His belly is already spattered, but I take his weight and change the angle, fucking up into him and searching.

Rowan shouts again, and I’ve never felt more of a hero. Never come so fast nor wanted to start over right away again either. Never wanted to embed an image more than of him flopping onto his back, spread-eagled, and smiling, and here’s the thing about Rowan—for all that he can look wary, there’s no mistaking when he’s happy.

We’ve got a few minutes before we have to make tracks.

I use them to bask, pulling up a blind so the van is flooded with fire, and I’m as rough as earlier, as hoarse and as gruff. I’m also pretty sure I’ve never spoken this softly. “Where are your glasses?”

“Glasses?” He touches his face like he expects to find what must have fallen off mid-fuck, but that’s okay.

I’m here to find them for him.

18

ROWAN

I barely see Liam for his first few days on site. I don’t stop thinking about him for a single minute.

Maisie tells me what’s keeping him so busy while making a shaker with me, a project inspired by a camper-van conversation with the man I keep looking out for. To be honest, I’m not the most focussed helper—every time I hear workmen pass by, I lurch up on my knees, which is dangerous. If sex always leaves this kind of lingering reminder, I’d forgotten. Today’s ache is only a faint echo, no reason for me to spill dried peas while in the process of sitting again.

Maisie’s little tongue poking out in concentration suggests she has fun sweeping them into a dustpan for me. She also shares a secret. “Daddy didn’t have breakfast with me this morning.”

“No?” I’m more intent on holding a Pringles tube steady for her next attempt at making a shaker than on what she shares until she adds more detail.

“He had his breakfast with his new friend. On the beach. His friend’s camper van has a big white wave on the side.”

So does Liam’s.

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