Page 64 of Stolen Harmony

My knees nearly gave out. I pressed my shoulder to the wall, palm pumping in a rhythm that matched his. My breath came in harsh, uneven pants, my whole body trembling from the sheer force of arousal and shame colliding like tectonic plates.

I didn’t want this. Ishouldn’twant this.

But I did.

God help me, I did.

I watched Rowan dig his nails into the stranger’s chest, watched his head tilt back as he rode him harder, more frantically. “You gonna come?” he whispered. “You wanna fill me up?”

“Christ,” the man gasped. “You feel so good—don’t stop.”

They were close. I could tell. The air in the room was thick with it—sweat, heat, want. Rowan was making these soft, broken sounds with every bounce, and I matched him beat for beat, stroking faster, harder, spit-slick and aching.

He reached between them and grabbed his own cock, jerking it in tandem with the thrusts. It didn’t take long. With a choked cry, he came, spilling hot across the stranger’s stomach. His whole body shook with it, muscles locking as he cried out?—

“Fuck, Daddy—fuck?—”

I came.

Hot and sudden, shameful and sharp. I bit down on my hand to smother the sound, but it didn’t matter. I felt it everywhere—white-hot release crashing through me, buckling my knees, dragging me under like a wave I hadn’t seen coming.

My vision went white at the edges. I slumped against the wall, chest heaving, come dripping over my fingers.

And all I could hear was Rowan’s voice in my head.

Daddy.

The sound of it wrecked me.

Because no one had ever said it to me like that.

Not with that kind of hunger. Not with reverence and filth braided into one breathless moan.

I stood there for too long, heart racing, guilt closing in like a noose. My jeans were open, my hand sticky, the taste of my own shame thick in the back of my throat. My skin prickled with sweat, the air too hot, too still. I needed to leave. Clean up. Pretend this never happened.

But I couldn’t stop staring.

Rowan had collapsed onto the man’s chest, lazy and sated, his fingers tracing idle patterns across sweaty skin. He looked so fucking content. Loose-limbed and unguarded and utterly unlike the boy who slammed doors and flinched from kindness.

And I wanted him all over again.

Not just his body.

I wantedthatversion of him. The one who smiled. The one who gave himself without fear. The one who looked like love had never broken him.

I wiped my hand on the inside of my shirt and zipped my jeans with trembling fingers. My legs barely held me as I backed away from the door.

The hallway was dark, quiet, but it didn’t soothe me. I felt raw. Unmade. Like a man who’d glimpsed the edge of something he wasn’t meant to survive.

I’d crossed a line. Not just once—but fully, shamefully, without a single honest excuse.

And the worst part?

It felt like a relief.

I knew, then, that this wouldn’t be the last time.

Because I’d seen the truth now.