Page 180 of Twisted Knight

Her even breathing.

Her face on my shoulder and hand resting over my chest.

I freeze and try to clear the cobwebs from my head but nothing shakes loose. They’re not cobwebs, it’s Rowan.

Simply put, it’s fucking Rowan.

What is happening, Knight?

You don’t spend nights with women. You have a good time. You mess up the sheets or the counter or wherever the fuck we find ourselves landing … then you leave. And even when you find yourself going back to the woman, over and over, you sure as shit know better than to blur the lines.

But lying here with Rowan on my chest and no desire to bolt the fuck out the door, I know I blurred the lines. But fuck if I’m struggling to find where the problem is?

But there is a problem.

A huge one.

One that has nothing to do with the scent of her skin and the feel of her body against mine and everything to do with the confusion in my head and pressure in my chest waking up to her. With her.

Fucking complications, man.

I didn’t want them and I’m walking head-fucking-first into them.

Rowan shifts in her sleep and rolls off of me. It’s my chance to escape. To distance myself. To put myself in check.

And yet when I sit up in bed, I can’t take my eyes off of her. The soft lips. Her thick lashes. The pink of her nipples peeking just above the sheet.

What if we’d met under different circumstances? What if she weren’t a Rothschild?

Would that make any difference?

No. It doesn’t change who or what you are, Knight. It only adds a weak spot you can’t risk. An Achilles’ heel when you’re a mere mortal.

But still I sit and watch her. Still I wonder. Still I want.

Get out of the bed, Holden. Get out of the fucking bed.

Rowan shifts against me. Her legs are curled up and her back is against my side, my arm wrapped around the front of her chest. We’re both staring out the jet’s window as we taxi down the runway and prepare for takeoff. Prepare to get back to a different reality.

We’ve both been quiet this morning.

I’d like to think it’s because we had a late night and we’re both exhausted. I may be clueless when it comes to a lot of things, but I’m well aware our quiet comfort has little to do with being tired and a lot more to do with last night.

The dinner. The concert. The sex on the patio. The sex in the bed. Rowan curling up against me and falling asleep, me with the scent of her hair in my nose and the feel of her hand on my heart. Waking up with someone.

I tried to step out of the bedroom. To busy myself with my phone, with work, but I was drawn to her.

Sleepy yawns, pillow-creased cheeks, and crazy bedhead. Morning coffee overlooking Central Park led to another round of sex. Another bout of confusion for me.

Her eyes on mine. My cock buried in her. My fucking cold heart beating when it shouldn’t be.

I spooked. Spooked to the point that I lied about an unexpected business matter I needed to take care of to create a needed distance.

She went shopping for a bit. I stared at the fucking door she left through.

She came back. I still had no answers as to why my head was so fucked up.

But I can guess. I’m a man who likes to take risks and anything beyond just sex with Rowan is one I can’t take.