by Whitley Cox
So, that leaves me and J.J. I mean me and Juney.
He opened his bedroom door. Luck was on his side. Her room was right next to his. Was she up? Light peeked out from beneath her door, and he heard the random shuffling of papers.
Oh sweet baby Jesus, was she writing?
His fist came up before he could think twice, and he rapped lightly with a knuckle. More papers jostled, and he heard the floor creak. The brushed brass knob jiggled slightly. The door opened, and there she stood, illuminated like a pajama-clad angel from the lamp on her nightstand, wearing a skimpy little white spaghetti-strapped tank top, black shorty-shorts, thick black-framed glasses, and a messy bun. His cock jumped in his flannel pants. Fuck, she was hot in glasses. He spotted a laptop on the bed behind her. She was writing.
Rowan swallowed. “Hi.”
Juney lifted one eyebrow in interest. “Hi.”
“Whatcha doing?”
Nooooo, no more dorky rhetorical questions. That was your last one. Otherwise you are no longer allowed to be around people, especially women. And most definitely not gorgeous women.
She huffed a laugh through her nose. “Writing. I had a sudden surge of inspiration, and when the characters are talking, it’s best to let the voices speak than attempt to silence them until morning. I’ve had many a sleepless night trying to ignore the voices in my head.”
“Well, as long as they’re not telling you to kill.” He chuckled at his own mirth. Juney grinned. “Unless of course they’re telling you to kill Lord Dorfell of the Second Command, then by all means, murder, woman, murder, and the more violent the better. I hate him.”
A ghost of a smile coasted across her face. “Did you knock on my door for spoilers?” She pushed the door open and invited him inside. He went in without hesitation. The laptop sat on her turned-down bed, while a notebook and a pen perched on the nightstand and a scattering of papers quilted the bedspread. He was witnessing his favorite series in the making.
Rowan shook his head. “No. Well, maybe. I . . . I wanted to thank you for the autograph and apologize for my dorky hard-core fan behavior. I hope it didn’t embarrass you at all. I also wanted to thank you for helping me in the kitchen today. You’ve got some mad knife skills.”
She chuckled. God, how he loved her laugh. Husky and low, a little throaty. Not a high-pitched girly giggle. No, Juney laughed like a woman.
“You’re welcome. And no, you didn’t embarrass me. It’s always nice to meet a fan.”
She wandered back around to her side of the wrought-iron framed bed and climbed on, pulling her laptop onto her lap. She nodded at the vacant side of the bed, inviting him to sit down. Rowan licked his lips and swallowed, but he didn’t waste any time deliberating on the decision.
“What are you writing?” he asked, nestling in among the cream-colored pillows and trying to read her chicken scratch on the pieces of scattered paper.
“The latest Endless Souls.”
His jaw dropped. “Really?”
She nodded and nibbled her bottom lip, giving him the side-eye. “You want to read a passage or two? I don’t normally let anyone read it before I send it to my two trusty beta-readers and my editor, but . . . ”
His eyes went wide. “Will it spoil anything? Wait! What I mean is, fuck yes, but . . . Will it ruin the book for me? I—I love the surprises. The complete one-eighties you throw in, the suspense. I don’t want to ruin the experience by reading something that will tell me too much. But yes.” He ran his hands through his hair and shook his head, letting out a nervous, breathy laugh. “Oh God, I’m torn.”
She chuckled and passed her laptop to him. “It won’t ruin anything. In fact, I could use a second opinion on this passage. I’m wondering if it’s too passive. Let me know what you think.”
Rowan’s hands trembled slightly as he took the computer from her and settled it on his lap, the words of his favorite story, raw and fresh from the mind of the creator, laid out before him. Was he betraying himself, sneaking a peek before the masterpiece was finished? But he also couldn’t look away. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t. Like a moth to flame, his eyes were drawn. He began to read.
Juney studied Rowan as he read her latest work. Would he know that the character she’d created, the personality that had kept her from being able to fall asleep, was based on him? An under-appreciated, talented, slightly ornery half-man half-Shefling who, although his father was the commander-in-chief of the Shefling army, his mother had been a lowly handmaid. And thus, Rowarn as she had named him, had been forced to live a life as a cook in the castle kitchens. Even though his dishes were known and praised throughout the kingdom, he was still looked upon as no more than a half-breed and castle staff scum.
Rowan’s eyes drifted across the screen. He finished the six paragraphs, scrolled the page up and read it again. He did this twice before handing the laptop back to Juney. Her pulse pumped hot and quick through her veins at the thought of someone reading her unfinished work.
Rowan looked at her, his mouth open in awe. “You . . . you based a character on me?”
She pursed her lips for a moment before smiling and glancing down into her lap. “Maybe. Your story earlier about how hard you’ve worked in the industry, only to be continuously overlooked . . . it spoke to me. I’ve only eaten two of your meals so far, but you’re incredibly talented. Innovative. I like that.”
She could tell he was excited. The rapidly throbbing vein in the side of his neck was proof. But he hid it well and simply offered her a raised eyebrow. “Rowarn?”
She snorted. “Well, none of my characters’ names are conventional. Medila, Yolgo, Starklan, you get the drift. I thought Rowan might be a tad too obvious and not fit with the fantasy made-up name theme. Are you mad?”
“Mad?” His eyes flew open wide.
Damn, he was handsome, with longish curly blond hair that wrapped around his ears, dark brown eyes and dimples on either side of his face so deep it was as though someone had taken pushpins to his cheeks.
“I’m not mad at all. In fact, I’m . . . ” He was shaking again. Suddenly, caught up in the excitement of it all, he leaned forward in a flurry of enthusiasm and kissed her.
When Rowan’s lips found Juney’s, she was surprised. Surprised, but not the least bit upset. She’d invited him in, after all. Invited him to climb onto her bed, read her work. No one read her work.
No one.
Not until she finished her first draft, then she’d give it to her father and her sister, Rose, for beta reading. They were the only two people she could rely on to be the most honest, tell her when something was good or absolute garbage. Only then, after some re-working, would she send it to her editor.
She’d shocked herself when she allowed Rowan to read her work. But she liked Rowan. She liked that he cooked, that he was an artist of sorts, like herself, and that he, too, felt under-appreciated. Because even though Juney was essentially at the top of her game, running a thriving winery and was a USA Today and New York Times best-selling author, in a lot of ways she was still “Little Juniper Davis,” the ugly duckling of the Davis family, with buck teeth, frizzy hair and braces on her legs until she was seven. It wasn’t until she was in her early twenties that she had finally “blossomed,” as her mother called it. And by that time, she had two novels and six short stories written, along with the outline for the first two books of her Endless Souls series.
While her sisters and high school friends were out getting drunk, high and finger-banged on Friday nights, little Juniper Davis was at home wearing her headgear and writing her stories. Needless to say, when it came to men, Juney wasn’t exactly beating them off with a stick. She’d had relationships over the years, a boyfriend here and there. She almost got engaged to Marshall Tanner, who’d taken a keen interest in the family vineyard and even made noise of clear-cutting some of his own family’s land in Tanner Ridge to build a vineyard of his own. But the long distance had been what killed them. They’d met at a big wine tasting
event in Vancouver, hit it off immediately, dated for almost three years. But Juney wasn’t willing to move to the tiny town of Tanner Ridge, and Marshall wouldn’t leave his family home or property for anything, so they’d ended things.
Marshall had been her last relationship, and that had ended over a year ago. She was ready to date again. Ready to find Mr. Right. Otherwise, she decided, if she didn’t find him by the time she turned thirty-five, which was in September of this coming year, she was going to make an appointment with the sperm bank and do it on her own.
Juney wasn’t sure what to do. Should she wrap her arms around Rowan’s neck and pull him down on top of her? Open her mouth and invite his tongue inside? He hadn’t really initiated anything past the hard, fast, and startling peck. She was about to make a move, a move she still wasn’t entirely certain about, when Rowan pulled away, his eyes glassy and his cheeks an adorable rosy pink.
“Sorry,” he muttered, licking his lips and swallowing.
Damn, he was handsome. Never in her wildest dreams did Juney ever think a man as good-looking as Rowan would find her attractive.
She shook her head. “Don’t be.”
His eyes flashed up to hers. They were hooded with arousal, and the pupils had dilated so wide, she was having a hard time seeing any of the beautiful light-brown iris.
“I like you, Juney,” he said. “And not only because you’re one of the most talented writers ever, or that you can julienne a carrot like Bobby Flay. You’re cool, you’re beautiful, and you let me read your work. That . . . It’s an honor and one I won’t take lightly. Thank you.”
Juney’s lips parted with rapid breaths. Her skin was hot. She liked him too and had all but determined, after their big group discussion earlier, that she and Rowan were matched by Daisy’s algorithm. They were so much alike, wanted the same things, shared similar interests. He was her match; she was certain of it.
Then she did another thing that night that shocked the hell out of her. She began tidying up her papers, the papers that held plans and doodles, random thoughts and quotes that she wanted to use. She had everything in a file on her computer, but sometimes she preferred to refer to the hard copy rather than bounce between windows on her laptop.
Rowan quietly watched her, one eyebrow drawn up sexily in mounting confusion. She loved the smirk he sent her as she snagged his gaze out of the corner of her eye. She gave him one right back. Once everything was put away on her nightstand, she grabbed his hand and pulled him on top of her, shivering beneath him, even though her skin felt feverish. But his desire for her soothed her own raging need.
He went willingly but not without a sincere look of surprise on his face. She spread her legs, and he settled between them while he braced himself, his arms on either side of her. He wasn’t huge, but he was still bigger than Juney, and the man had muscles. As he held up his weight, she could see his biceps and forearms bulge and strain.
“A—are you sure?” he asked.
She smiled and lunged forward with her mouth, dragging his bottom lip down with her teeth. His excitement and heat pressed eagerly into the apex of her thighs. Only their pajamas got in the way of skin-to-skin. The friction was nice, but she wanted more.
“I’m sure,” she whispered. “I like you too, and isn’t this what this week is all about?”
Rowan swallowed hard. “I didn’t bring a condom.” Panic enveloped him. “Fuck, how could I have been so dumb as to leave my room without protection?”
Laughing, she reached over and opened the drawer of her nightstand. “It would appear Daisy thought of everything.” She drew out a strip of condoms.
“I’ve always liked that nutty Canadian,” he said with a chuckle, finally finding his confidence and offering her a big, mischievous smile.
Juney liked him. He liked her. There was no need to be nervous anymore. They had this.
Gentler than before, Rowan’s lips brushed hers. She opened for him and his tongue pushed inside, sweeping around her mouth as his lips softly sucked on her tongue. She mimicked his movements and kissed him back, swirling her tongue around his and enjoying the taste of him.
She was breathless when he lifted his head, his smile turned wicked, and her heart rate ripped into a gallop. “Now, I’m all for using those condoms, but . . . I’ve never tasted a New York Times best-selling author. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever tasted a Canadian. A double treat. Do you taste like maple syrup?”
“Oh, fuck!” Juney laughed, her entire body shaking with laughter at that ridiculous statement. Her belly ached from how hard she was laughing and the weight of Rowan on top of her. A couple of tears trickled down her cheeks.
Was this guy for real?
“Is that your idea of dirty talk?” She couldn’t let that line slide. Even if it killed the mood, stopped it in its tracks, she just couldn’t let it go.
Rowan blanched slightly and lifted his head to look at her. “Maybe. Not good?”
She was still laughing, her tight and achy nipples pressing against him as her body shook with continued laughter. “Uh, no. Funny . . . but not hot.”
His bottom lip jutted out into a fake pout. Damn, he was cute.
Rowan’s eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head. He deserved that mockery. There wasn’t much blood left in his head to function properly and filter out the nonsense before it spewed from his mouth. He was just glad she was laughing at him but hadn’t pushed him off and pointed to the door.
He ground against her, and her breath hitched in her throat.
Oh yeah, he had this.
“Well then, perhaps I shouldn’t talk at all.” Slowly, he inched his way down her body, planting warm wet kisses on her neck and chest, the swell of each luscious, perky breast. Juney wasn’t overly big-chested, but what she did have was perfect. Soft and creamy, with dark ruddy areolas and perfect scarlet nipples barely visible through the white of her ribbed tank top. They were so hard and tight, standing up and pressing against the thin material. He couldn’t wait to make them ache from the warmth of his mouth.
He drew her tank top up and swirled his tongue around her navel, watching her with hooded eyes and open fascination. She was beautiful, and when aroused, the woman was fucking stunning. Bright sapphire-blue eyes sizzled, big and so full of life and intelligence, with thick dark lashes that fell against her cheeks like raven feathers when she closed them. Her back arched as she pushed her body into his. He continued on his descent, drawing her shorts and thong down past her thighs, tossing them to the side, leaving her bare and exposed.
He took one final look at the woman before him. Her eyes were closed, and she was biting her lip, waiting for him.
My author. My beauty. My match . . .
He spread her lips with his fingers, flicked his tongue out and grazed her clit. She inhaled sharply, and Rowan grinned.
He dove in.
Up and down through her soft pink folds he swept his tongue, reveling in her little mewls and need-driven moans, in the slight tilt of her pelvis as she shamelessly pushed herself further onto his face, desperate for more pleasure. And he gave it to her. He drew Juney’s clit into his mouth and sucked before lashing hard and fierce at it with his tongue, until it swelled and hardened. She was wet, so wet for him. He took the opportunity and pushed two fingers inside her, pumping and scissoring, feeling her rippled walls contract and squeeze him.
He wanted her to come. He wanted her to come hard, to fill his mouth with her sweetness. He needed to taste her, all of her.
“You’re close, Juney, I can feel it. Come for me, baby,” he said in between lascivious licks, getting a serious high knowing her fingers were bunched in the sheets, her knuckles white as she grappled at the fabric and squirmed beneath him.
Then she let go. He alternated between circles and quick flicks. She seemed to like the quick back-and-forth flicks more, so he stuck with that. She swelled against his tongue as her wetness poured hot and sweet into his mouth.
“Oh . . . God!” she cried, bowi
ng her back and pushing into his face. He dove in again and went to town on her clit, sucking harder and harder, drawing the nub deeper into his mouth as his fingers continued to pump. Her walls contracted around his fingers, and another warm, silky gush filled his mouth. He lapped up her juices and hummed softly, loving the feminine and delicate way she came.
Once he knew her orgasm was over, he rose up onto his knees, shucked his pajama pants and boxers to the floor and knelt in front of her, waiting for her to open her eyes. She just lay there, her chest heaving and a small, contented smile dancing across her heart-shaped mouth. He leaned forward to kiss her lips, his cock laying thick and heavy between them.
Finally, she fluttered her lashes open and looked at him.
“Hi,” she said softly.
His balls tightened, and his chest clenched. This woman would be his undoing, he knew it.
“Hi.” He flashed her a big grin.
“Wow.”
“Yeah?”
She stretched beneath him, appearing sated and thoroughly devoured. Her nipples, still perky and tight under her white tank top, pushed up toward the ceiling. He wanted to draw one into his mouth and flick it with his tongue until she gasped. Only then would he bite it, not too hard, but hard enough to make her gasp again and moan.
“Mhmm,” she hummed, looking up at him all doe-eyed and sleepy.
“You’re beautiful, Juney. Gorgeous. Sexy, stunning.”
Her eyes opened wide at him, the placid laziness on her face from a moment ago gone.
“I mean you’re also smart and funny and creative and stuff. But . . . well, call me a superficial jackass if you must, but, damn, woman, you are hot.”
Juney’s voice caught in her throat as she gazed up at Rowan. His grin was wide and playful, and at that moment he reminded her of some surfer-dude beach bum. His skin was bronzed and tanned as though he spent countless hours shirtless at the beach, while his hair had that sun-kissed shine and windswept inhibition to it. Never in a million years did seven-year-old Juney, twelve-year-old Juney, hell, twenty-five-year-old Juney think a man that looked like Rowan would ever call her hot.