Page 62 of Stolen Harmony
I froze. The heat that had been coiled in my gut burst into wildfire. I was hard—painfully, angrily hard—and I couldn’t pretend it was just tension anymore. Couldn’t rationalize it as misplaced affection. This wasn’t fatherly. It wasn’t anything that could be buried beneath excuses.
This was want. Raw and immediate.
I watched Rowan’s head bob slowly, reverently. The man’s hand fisted in his hair, and Rowan didn’t flinch, didn’t resist—he moaned. Soft and low, like helikedbeing used like this. My cock pulsed against my zipper, leaking, aching. I could feel the wet patch forming at the front of my jeans, sticky and humiliating.
Rowan pulled back briefly, laughing softly at something the man said, then licked a stripe up the length of his cock before swallowing him again. This time, the sound that broke from the stranger’s throat was loud—almost a sob. His hips lifted, and Rowan didn’t stop him.
I couldhearit now.
Wet, obscene sounds. Breathing, ragged and desperate. The creak of the mattress. Rowan’s low, throaty hums of approval.
My pulse roared in my ears. My knees felt weak. I pressed myself against the wall beside the door, trying to ground myself, but the pressure only made things worse. My cock throbbed, desperate for friction, and I hated myself for how badly I wanted to touch it. Just a moment. Just enough to take the edge off.
But I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
I wouldn’t let myself cross that line.
Even though everything inside me screamed for release.
Through the narrow crack in the door, Rowan’s face came back into view. His eyes were closed, brows drawn in concentration or pleasure—I couldn’t tell which. He looked like he wasworshipingthe man beneath him. Like this act wasn’t just sex, but something sacred. His cheeks were flushed, lips swollen, spit slicking his chin and pooling at the base of the other man’s cock.
I imagined what it would feel like to have him look up atmelike that. To feel that mouth—those lips—wrapped around me, hot and wet and eager. I imagined fisting my hands in his hair and pulling him deeper, hearing him choke and moan andwantit.
I bit down hard on my knuckle to keep from groaning out loud.
My hand drifted toward my belt, fingers hovering, shaking.
No. No, no,no.
I couldn’t touch myself. I couldn’t make this worse.
But I also couldn’t look away.
The man gasped—sharp, almost startled—and then his voice: “Fuck, baby, just like that…”
Rowan moaned around him, and I felt that sound like a punch to the chest.
My control splintered.
I slid my hand over my zipper, not unbuckling—just pressing, applying enough friction to keep from losing my mind. It didn’t help. It only made things worse. My cock throbbed under the pressure, slick with precome, demanding attention I refused to give.
Rowan pulled back again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked up at the man with something dangerously close to affection. His voice was low, teasing.
“Wanna come in my mouth, or should I ride you?”
I nearly stumbled backward.
The image that sentence painted was too much—him, on top, taking what he wanted, grinding down until his body swallowed someone whole. Until he came undone around them, loud and messy and absolutelyfuckingglorious.
My hand dropped to my side, curled into a fist again.
I didn’t deserve this. I shouldn’t be here.
But I couldn’t unsee it now. Couldn’t unknow it.
I’d seen Rowan in a thousand lights—drunk and grieving, sharp-tongued and self-sabotaging, curled into himself with sadness too big to name.
