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She slowly, slowly raised a finger on her free hand and drew a smooth, deliberate swipe of mud down the bridge of his nose. Her chin quivered as she restrained a laugh. Harry’s jeans had soaked through at the knees, mud oozed into his shoes, and he was fuckingcold.
He kissed her, hard.
Rowan surged upward to meet his mouth. It was chaotic and primal, a frantic collision of lips and force and teeth and tongues. Her hand clutched at the bare skin under the hem of his sweater. Harry squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled every atom of the moment: the smell of wet earth and clean sweat, and the primitive, pristine scent of the woman kissing him back. Mud slithered down the back of his neck, sliding out of his hair.
Lust detonated through him like a bomb. He took her mouth like it was a battlefield, and Rowan answered in kind. When he pushed his thigh into the denim seam between her legs, she responded with a visceral moan. His hips thrust forward in involuntary response, seeking friction, seeking heat, seeking home.
His dick was indifferent to the cold and the filth around them, but Rowan began to shiver beneath him. Harry wrenched his mouth from hers, wincing at the bereft little sound she made. When he pulled them both to their feet, she dipped her forehead to his chest, and her strong arms twined around the back of his neck like grapevines gripping a post.
“You okay?” he said to the top of her head.
“You pulled me up so fast, I got a little dizzy.”
“I’m sorry.”
Rowan raised her head. This time, it was her pinning him down, though she did it with her eyes. “I’m not.”
Even covered in mud and as wet as a waterbird, she was so beautiful it made his breath come short.
Water dripped from the eaves of the barn, and rivulets of runoff burbled in tiny streams through the mud all around them. Standing there with her felt like some kind of pagan baptism, and Harry never wanted to leave.
“Pulp or no pulp?” He was still breathing hard.
Rowan’s teeth chattered. “What?”
“When we danced. At the Everetts’ festival. You mentioned fresh-squeezed orange juice.”
“Oh.” She stiffened, confusion passing over her features. She nudged backward, out of his arms. “Extra pulp. I want to feel like I’m drinking an actual orange.”
Harry nodded. For a few moments, they stood in silence. Snow gently eased down around them in clumps the size of postage stamps, melting as soon as they hit the ground. He didn’t want her to go, but they couldn’t stay here.
“Well. Thanks,” she said. “For the help with the lamb. I know you were—busy.”
“I’m never too busy for you.” Another long stretch of silence. “We’re going to have to burn these clothes.”
Rowan’s quick laugh turned into a grimace. “I’m not sure how I’m going to get all this mud out of my hair.” She smiled a tired smile and turned to walk away. She slipped twice, catching herself with artless, balletic grace.
Back in December, she’d told him she was having trouble with her shower’s hot water, and with keeping the woodstove burning for heat in the cottage. Harry shivered, imagining her crouching, filthy and cold, trying to rekindle the fire alone in the dark. Something in him broke loose.
“Hey,” he said.
Rowan turned, brushing her cheek with the back of her hand. It smeared more fresh mud onto her face than it cleared away.
“My shower has plenty of hot water for both of us. I mean, ah—not at the same time.”
She lifted her chin and tipped her head to the side, waiting for him to continue.
He talked fast. “I hate the thought of you being cold. Stay at my place tonight.”
Rowan’s exhale made a little white wisp in the air. Harry extended a muddy hand. When she hesitated to take it, he stopped breathing.
Then, she did.
“I’ll take the couch,” he said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Rowan
