Rowan Read online

Then I watch as she turns on her heels and leaves the room, flustered.

  Oh yeah, it’s gonna be fun playing with that one.

  Raven

  The guy is an ass.

  An incredibly attractive ass but an ass nonetheless.

  What a jerk.

  I’ve read the phrase ‘she bristled’ a thousand times in my life in a thousand different novels, but I’ve never felt like that exact word.

  It’s a privileged word. Reserved for princesses and pretty, precious girlies. Not for the likes of me.

  But right now, this fucking minute, I’m bristling.

  How fucking dare he breathe on me like that?

  How fucking dare my clit respond to him breathing on me like that. And, oh boy, respond she did.

  I stomp almost all the way back down to the kitchen before I realize I’ve forgotten to give him the Wi-Fi password. Or to deliver the how-to-set-the-code-on-the-room-safe instructions. Or the how-to-leave-the-bathroom-after-you’re-done monologue. In short, any of the basic information I’m supposed to impart when showing a client to their room.

  It riles me that he has that effect on me and I’ll be damned if I let it go. So I turn around and traipse back up until I’m back at his still wide-open door. I take a step in and lift my hand to the wood for a courtesy knock but freeze the action midair when my gaze falls on his back and I realize what it is he’s doing.

  He’s discarded his jacket on the bed and is standing by the open dormer window, leaning forward, his arm resting over his head on the lintel above the window. He’s still wearing his cargo pants, but by the way they hang low on his hips now, I can tell he’s unbuttoned them at the front.

  His top half is covered only by a tight black tank top, so his arms and most of his shoulders are on show. The guy is pure hulking muscle. There is ink visible on his shoulder blades, but his arms are tat free and I can see his right biceps ripple as he moves his hand slowly back and forth.

  The hand that is hidden from my view.

  The hand that without a doubt is currently stroking his cock to satisfaction.

  I want to retreat. I really do.

  But fascination roots me to the spot.

  He’s so surprisingly gentle with himself.

  I don’t need to have the full visual to see that.

  The heavy scent of him, sweaty and salty and with a tinge of lemongrass, hangs in the air.

  A wave of arousal washes through me.

  I’m getting slick and the hum in my clitoris that started with him breathing on me is getting heavier.

  Shit.

  I need to leave.

  I’m watching a Halosan client masturbate.

  Instant dismissal.

  Instant debt of nursing school fees. Clause three in the contract. If for any reason the candidate is dismissed before the five-year tie-in, the school fees are to be repaid to the company in full.

  But I just can’t find the strength to back away. I’m bound, somehow part of this, even though he does not know I’m here.

  He’s speeding up now, making noises low in his throat. Animalistic grunts that go straight to my core. I helplessly clench my thighs and ass a few times to relief some of the pressure building up inside me, but it only makes it worse.

  And then he comes with a loud groan, shaking violently, making my heart beat as fast and erratically as if the orgasm had been mine.

  I need to get out of here before he sees me, I manage to think, as he puts his dick away immediately after his climax, buttoning up his fly.

  I’m about to make my escape when he speaks, his back still to me.

  “Nice view.”

  He turns and looks at me while he wipes the come off his hand onto his vest, all casual like, as if it weren’t even happening. As if he were merely drying sweaty palms.

  “I’ll need a shower before I come help with the cooking.”

  Rowan

  She doesn’t miss a beat before she replies, all casual.

  “No problem. You have a good hour before we congregate. Do me, and yourself, a favor and rinse the shower tray when you’re finished and run the squeegee over the glass. Towels are in the closet. And if you shave, rinse the sink properly. If you got valuables to lock away, you can set your own code for the safe. Instructions are in the guest manual. If you feel sick at any point and need medical assistance, there is an emergency button on the nightstand, but to be honest, it just goes next door, to me, so you might as well just holler. Wi-Fi code is Halo3579 with a capital H. Like I said, do not give it to Tristan under any circumstances or let him have access to your phone or computer or whatever you’ve brought with you. Part of your rehab is to look out for each other,” she rattles off.

  She comes across as completely unflustered, but I’m not buying it.

  I’m sure she’s seen it all, being a nurse, and has probably had her fair share of people trying to touch her up or get her to touch them up. And she’s probably always quite blasé about it, but I’m also damn sure she doesn’t normally stop and stare.

  Or is turned on.

  And I know she is turned on.

  I could feel it, when she was standing there, could feel the other person in the room, could feel her becoming part of it.

  And now I can see it, too.

  In her flushed cheeks, in her slightly shaking hands, in the way she’s obliviously still pressing her thighs together.

  But there is no way in hell she’s ever going to acknowledge it. So I play ignorant. Won’t mention a thing. Even if I can see her nipples poking through the bra she’s presumably wearing, all the way into the heavy fabric of her tunic. I take a leisurely look at them, making sure she sees what I’m looking at, then I pull my spunk smeared vest over my head and fling it on the bed.

  “Right,” she says and clears her throat before she turns away. “I’ll be downstairs. Join us when you’re ready and settled in.”

  I watch her scurry off and curse the fact I’m hard. Again.

  Shower, here I come.

  It’s gonna be a long four weeks.

  Raven

  It’s gonna be a long four weeks with this guy next door to me.

  I already got his number. He likes to provoke. And I’m a sucker for a provocateur. I like to resist. I like the fact that I get the choice to resist. And I like the tension. Not sure I like that much of it, though. I might just break.

  It’s been a long time since I got to fuck someone. Over a year. It’s tricky working for Halosan. You are not allowed to fraternize with the clients, obviously, but relationships between staff are also discouraged, unless you are already married to one another, like the Denyers. Dating people at work is not exactly forbidden but the bosses don’t like it. And if the bosses don’t like one thing you do, they quickly find other stuff they don’t like about your conduct. And before you know it, you’re out on your ass with a ginormous student debt and a bad reference.

  So I’ve always been good and played away from the clinics. Hooked up with a local wherever I was. There’s nothing easier to find in the world than a repetitive one-night stand with the same person. The last one of those, Jason, was over a year ago, when I was posted to our clinic in the Rockies.

  Jason was a chef in the nearest town, ran his own restaurant. No time for a girlfriend. Always so exhausted, he never once challenged my need to be on top. Perfect match for mutual itch scratching. He had ink, too. Lots of it. I recently saw a meme that made me think of him. A tattoo sleeve used to mean you were a biker who’d kill. Now it means you’re a chef who makes a lovely pork belly with balsamic drizzle. Tagged him. He didn’t react. Which illustrates why he was perfect. Absolutely no sense of humor. No chance of falling for him.

  Funny that, because Rowan up there has humor by the bucket load in his eyes and only the one tat as far as I could see, but there is an edge to him that tells me he might just kill. For the right cause. Or the right person.

  It’s a fucking huge thing his tat. As soon as he took the tank off, I saw
what it was. A python, winding itself around his torso and over his shoulder, where the head emerges in a canvass of jungle flowers and skulls. It’s all one single image that comes alive when he moves in a way that a whole lot of patchwork ink never can.

  I stop as I reach the kitchen and rub my hands over my face trying to rub the image away, refocus on my job.

  I hear the front door open and the subdued voices of my other three guests as they step over the threshold and take their boots off like good little lambs. I go and switch the kettle on. Something I learned in my time here: when in the UK and people come in, you switch the kettle on ─ even if it’s a hundred degrees outside.

  Rowan

  I take my time showering, unpacking and then sending a message to Silas, letting him know I arrived alright.

  It feels funny doing that after all the years we didn’t have contact, but I promised him I would.

  I hold my breath until he pings a message back. It’s a thumbs up. Nothing more, nothing less. But it means the world to me. That bloke will never know just how much I love him. It’s good to have him back in my life, no matter how wary he is of me.

  I sit on the bed for a while longer, reading the guest manual, stalling. I could hear voices downstairs when I came out of the bathroom, so I know my other ‘housemates’ are back, and I can smell the acrid stench of barbecue coals being lit outside wafting in through the window. Somebody is using a liberal helping of methylated spirit to get it going.

  Having jerked off a second time in the shower means I feel spent and less on edge now. Tired.

  I could do with a snooze, but according to the timetable at the front of the Halosan guest manual, dinner prep starts at 5.30pm and everybody is expected to pitch in. Not quite sure what there is to prep for a barbecue, but I guess I’ll find out. Once I move my arse downstairs. I’m still not moving. Because of her. Now that the lust has been serviced, at least for a while, I’m kind of scared of her. Not sure why.

  My phone pings again and it’s another message from Silas.

  May the force be with you.

  It makes me smile.

  And gives me the boost to push myself off the bed and go meet the others.

  Showtime.

  Raven

  Food prep is already in full swing when Rowan finally graces us with his presence. I quickly introduce him to Tristan, Charlie and Simon then hand him a knife, so he can chop salad bits, like everyone else.

  That’s our contribution tonight.

  Behind the houses, the once individual gardens have been opened up to become a communal space with a long patio running the entire length of all eight cottages. In the summer, the individual houses cook for themselves during the week and eat either indoors or at their own patio table. Saturdays is communal barbecue night. On Sundays, it’s a two-mile hike to the next pub for a carvery lunch, then fend for yourself in the evenings.

  The pub is tricky for our alcoholics, but it’s all part of the Halosan concept. Dr. Alma Halstroem, the founder of Halosan, strongly believed that part of rehab is being exposed to normal everyday activities. She had this idea that a rehab clinic is not just a place to sober up. In actual fact, we only take people after they’ve detoxed in a hospital setting already. No, Halosan clinics are educational facilities where people concentrate on retraining their mindset for the real world, venturing into the real world included.

  Still don’t much like taking alcoholics to the pub, but at least I understand the theory behind it.

  To be frank, I don’t much like the Sunday carvery at The Windchimes, period. It’s pretty much everything that gives British food a bad rep around the world, on a plate with soggy gravy. It’s a shame because I know that not all English cooking is terrible, but at The Windchimes it definitely is.

  I usually like the hike, though. It’s a great way of getting to know the guests, walking and talking.

  But that’s tomorrow. First, we have to get through the awkwardness that is the first barbecue on arrival day.

  I watch as my house finishes putting the salad together.

  Rowan chops cucumber, peppers and beetroot like a pro, fully absorbed in his task. He’s not in any way trying to dominate the room, but he still takes up a whole load of space with his sheer size.

  Charlie is shaking the vinaigrette, talking up a storm about how he met the Foo Fighters at a festival last month and can die happy now.

  Tristan is zoned out, painstakingly disemboweling tomatoes at such slow speed that Simon, who was draining olives and corn, steps in and takes over.

  I shouldn’t really allow Simon to do that, but since we want to eat this side of midnight, I let it go.

  Once we’re done, we join the growing numbers outside.

  Forty people sounds like a lot, but in reality, it’s a pretty small number of faces to be milling around, and it’s easy to keep track of one person in that crowd. And I’m keeping track, whether I want to or not.

  I can’t help it.

  I watch Rowan all evening, always hyper aware of where he is, how far or near in relation to me, who he’s talking to, what he’s doing.

  And he surprises me.

  He appears much easier to be around than I would have thought. He has a knack for wry comments that make people laugh and they instantly like him for it. In particular, Charlie and Elias seem to be drawn to him like moths to a flame. Charlie looks less like a rock star in Rowan’s presence than a young buck deep in the throes of hero worship, and normally cocky Elias is all demure and hanging on every word dripping from Rowan’s lips. What the fuck is that all about?

  But to my surprise, Rowan doesn’t exactly bathe in their adoration. He seems uncomfortable with it, as his main focus appears to be on trying to prise Tristan out of his shell.

  The boy is so far out of his comfort zone, away from his console and among real people, it’s painful to watch. He sits in one chair all evening, hardly touches his food and keeps looking at his hands, his longish fair hair falling forward into his eyes, sewing machine leg going into overdrive. The first time Rowan talks to him, he almost jolts out of his chair with shock. I’m watching them from afar as Rowan patiently keeps trying to engage Tristan in a conversation, when Elias suddenly appears by my side.

  “If you weren’t so pretty, lass, I’d have the right hump with ye,” he says, and I roll my eyes.

  He’s really laying on the Irish thick tonight and I have a funny feeling it’s to do with the rather pretty ballerina in his house who’s come here because of an addiction to heavy duty prescription pain meds, following a back operation. Elias has no misgivings about openly flirting with guests. He’s been warned off by the Denyers twice already, but he just doesn’t give a fuck.

  And unlike me, he’s a free agent. Halosan doesn’t own him the way it owns me. If he gets fired, he gets fired. But he doesn’t end up with instant debt. Lucky him.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask and watch his eyebrows wiggle.

  “Ye don’t know, do ye?”

  “Know what?”

  I can barely suppress my irritation. Elias annoys the fuck out of me ninety percent of the time. Good for him that he’s charming, helpful and funny the other ten. It also helps that he is easy on the eye, in that brown wild locks, blue eyes, Irish kind of way and that he’s a damn fine nurse.

  Back in April, we would have lost a guy to a heart attack if it hadn’t been for Elias’ lightning fast reactions and tenacious dedication to keeping the guy alive until the air ambulance arrived. Typical, in The Village we have not one but two hospital grade defibs, but where were we when it happened? Out on a hike. So Elias kept the guy alive with good old-fashioned CPR. We took turns but, really, he did most of it.

  He slings an arm around my shoulder and gently steers me, so I’ve got a clear line of sight on Rowan.

  “Not only did ye get the rock star, lass, you got yourself a fuckin’ legend in yer house.”

  He nods in the direction of Rowan who thankfully remains oblivious to u
s as he is still trying to extract words out of our gamer.

  “That there, Ray, my sweet, is none other than The Python.”

  The Python?

  What the ever-loving fuck?

  The guy is nicknamed for his tattoo?

  I honestly want to crack up laughing. But then a small voice inside me tells me that that’s not so different from having my name kind of tattooed all over my back and that I should probably shut the fuck up. Pot, kettle and all that jazz.

  “Enlighten me,” I manage to say evenly instead. “Who is The Python? Is it like The Rock?” I mock.

  Elias chuckles.

  “No, nothing like The Rock. Dwayne Johnson is a pussy compared to this guy. We’re talking bona fide, illegal fight club, gauge-your-eyes-out, squeeze-the-last-breath-from-ya, leave-ya-for-dead champion.”

  I laugh.

  “What a load of baloney, Elias. I’m not that gullible.”

  His face turns serious and his accent slips into meticulous British English, which is the first clue he’s being serious.

  “Straight up, Ravenna. I’m not joking you.”

  As soon as he calls me Ravenna, I know for certain he’s not fucking with me. I think of my notion earlier that Rowan looks like a guy who would kill. For the right cause, the right person. Maybe I wasn’t that far off. But maybe it’s more about the right price. I blanch at the thought.

  “Hey, you’re going a bit pale there, Ray,” Elias comments, giving my upper arm a bit of a rub. “Don’t worry, lass, as far as I know he hasn’t actually offed anyone. Though, truth be told, I wouldn’t be surprised. The guy is ruthless. His choke outs are legendary.”

  I frown at him.

  “How do you know about him?”

  He takes his arm off me and shrugs.

  “Bloke’s gotta eat and illegal fight clubs need patcher-uppers. It’s well paid work.”

  “You?” I ask in disbelief. “You patched him up?”

  “Not him, no,” Elias answers in that typical tone people have when they suddenly distance themselves from something they claim they’ve been involved in. “Others. Didn’t do it for very long. But everyone who’s had anything to do with that scene knows of The Python. Like I said, the guy’s a legend.”