Page 61 of Stolen Harmony
I wantedhim.
Not the idea of him. Not the obligation. Not the ghost of the boy I’d met at Elaine’s funeral.
I wanted the man in that bed.
I wanted to run my hands down the line of his spine, to mouth at the bruise on his shoulder, to bury myself in the warm space where his thighs met and make him forget every stranger who’d ever touched him like he didn’t matter.
The thought turned my stomach—and hardened me further.
What thefuckwas happening to me?
I shifted my stance, trying to ease the pressure in my jeans, but even the smallest movement felt like betrayal. I didn’t deserve this arousal. Didn’t want it. But my body didn’t care about right or wrong, not when the sight of Rowan—flushed and fucked and content—was burning itself into memory like a brand.
The stranger murmured something, leaning in to press a kiss to Rowan’s shoulder, and Rowan laughed again—tilting his head back, exposing the column of his throat like an offering. He was beautiful in that moment. Truly, viciously beautiful. And it gutted me.
My cock ached.
My jaw was tight from clenching, and I felt a sting in my eyes that I couldn’t blame on the light.
This wasnotwho I was.
And yet here I was.
And I couldn’t fucking look away.
Rowan shifted again, rolling halfway onto his stomach, dragging the sheet with him until it barely covered anything atall. His ass was round and firm, marked faintly by fingernails—someone else’s claim. His legs stretched out, one bent at the knee, giving me a glimpse of his cock nestled between his thighs, half-hard and curved toward the mattress.
I swallowed hard. My hand twitched—wanting to reach for the bulge in my pants, to ease the pulse building with every second I stood there, watching something I had no right to see.
I curled my fingers into a fist instead.
The man beside him was stroking Rowan’s lower back now, tracing lazy patterns over his skin. Rowan made a soft, pleased sound—a hum that tightened everything inside me. It was too intimate, too casual, tooeasy.
I’d never seen him like this.
Not guarded. Not angry. Not self-destructive or flippant or baiting. Just... young. Alive. Soft.
He looked nothing like the man who snapped at me in doorways and accused me of projecting my shame. He looked like someone who knew what it was to be wanted and took pleasure in that knowledge.
And I hated that it wasn’t me.
I hated how easy it seemed for him—how unburdened he was in this moment, this life, this bed. I hated the stranger’s hands on him, the way Rowan accepted touch without flinching. I hated the quiet, almost reverent way the man pressed his lips to Rowan’s shoulder, like he couldn’t believe his luck.
And most of all, I hated the way I couldn’t look away.
I told myself to step back, to walk away with whatever shred of dignity I still had left, but my body refused to move. Every sense was pinned to that narrow view, to the flickering candlelight inside the room, to the sounds of sheets rustling and breath catching and Rowan’s voice dropping into a soft, teasing murmur.
Then movement. Sudden, decisive.
The stranger sat up, his silhouette a blur, and Rowan followed, rising to his knees.
His cock hung heavy between his legs, already hardening, flushed at the tip. My breath caught. I didn’t mean to make a sound, but I felt it—felt the hitch of something primal in my chest. I gripped the doorframe hard, my nails pressing crescents into the wood.
Rowan leaned in, slow, deliberate. The stranger’s legs opened to welcome him, and Rowan moved between them like he belonged there. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.
And then—God help me—he bent forward.
I could only see parts of it, the angles and shadows shifting as they moved, but it was enough. I saw Rowan’s lips part, saw him lower his mouth, heard the man’s soft, stuttered gasp as Rowan took him in.
