Page 62 of The Knotheads Next Door
I stretch out on my bed, one hand sliding beneath the waistband of my pajama pants almost of its own volition. I grip my cock-- hard and aching-- I stock myself twice, up and down and feel the pleasure lick up my spine. I close my eyes, and immediately see Rowan—her face turned up to mine this afternoon, her body warm against my chest, her scent drawing me in like a siren's call.
I imagine how it could have gone differently. How instead of pulling away, I might have pulled her closer. Buried my face in the curve of her neck, tasted her skin, felt her pulse race beneath my lips.
My hand moves faster, grip tightening as I picture her eyes darkening with desire, her scent spiking with arousal, her body arching against mine. In my mind, she whispers my name, her voice breathy and urgent, her hands clutching at my shoulders as I—
Release hits me with unexpected force, intense and consuming. For a few blissful moments, my mind goes blank, free of the constant analysis and control that define my existence.
Then reality returns, bringing with it a wave of guilt and confusion. I clean up mechanically, my thoughts churning with the implications of what just happened.
I'm attracted to Rowan. That much has been clear, if unacknowledged, for weeks. But this feels like something more, something deeper. Something that scares me with its intensity.
Jasper's obvious interest in her, Theo's growing attachment, the way her scent complements all of ours in a harmony that feels almost predestined—it's all pointing toward a conclusion I'm not ready to face.
Because if this is what I think it is—if she's who I think she might be to us—then the neat, ordered life I've built is about to become infinitely more complicated.
As I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, I can no longer deny the truth that's been building for weeks: I'm already in trouble. We all are.
And when Rowan's trial month ends in ten days, none of us will be the same.
Chapter 18
Rowan
I'm learning that there's no such thing as a casual coffee run in Vineyard Groves.
"So tell me more about the flower arrangements," Billie says as we walk toward Noble Grounds Café, her arm linked companionably through mine. "Lala says you've got a natural eye for composition."
"She's just being nice," I demur. "I mostly follow Crystal's instructions and try not to stab myself with the wire cutters."
"Don't believe her false modesty," Lala declares, walking backward in front of us with the confidence of someone who knows every crack in the sidewalk by heart. "Crystal says she's a natural. And Crystal never compliments anyone. I once recreated the Sistine Chapel in buttercream, and all she said was 'the cherubs are asymmetrical.'"
Avianna snorts. "That's because the cherubs were asymmetrical. You gave the left one biceps like a bodybuilder."
"It was artistic interpretation!"
I laugh, the sound surprising me with its ease. When did this happen? When did I start feeling so comfortable with thesewomen, with this town? When did Vineyard Groves start feeling like somewhere I belong?
The thought sends a pang through me. I don't belong here. Not really. I have nine days left in my trial month, and then... what? Back to Heraford? Somewhere new? The text from my dad still sits unanswered on my phone, a reminder that my past is catching up to me whether I'm ready or not.
"Earth to Rowan," Avianna waves a hand in front of my face. "You still with us?"
"Sorry," I shake off the melancholy thoughts. "Just mentally reviewing my to-do list for the festival."
"Liar," Lala says cheerfully. "You were thinking about your hot roommates. That's the only thing that produces that particular furrow between your eyebrows."
"I do not have a roommate furrow," I protest, even as my hand flies up to check.
"You absolutely do," Billie confirms. "Right there." She gently pokes the spot between my eyebrows. "We can see it from space."
"You guys are the worst," I grumble, but there's no heat in it.
"The worst, or the best friends you've ever had?" Lala challenges as she pushes open the door to Noble Grounds Café with a flourish.
The question catches me off guard with its accuracy. They are the best friends I've had in years—maybe ever. In Heraford, I had colleagues, acquaintances, people I'd grab an occasional drink with. But this easy intimacy, this feeling of being seen and accepted exactly as I am? That's new.
And terrifying, if I'm being honest. Because the deeper these connections grow, the more it will hurt when they inevitably end.
The café is busy this morning, filled with festival volunteers fueling up before a long day of preparations. I'm scanningfor an empty table when Lala suddenly squeals and waves enthusiastically.
