Page 23 of Where the Roses Bloom

Willow, lips parted as she moaned.

Willow, pressed between me and the shower wall, tits bouncing as I thrust my cock into her.

Willow, Willow…

“Willow…fuck!” I groaned.

The release came hard, sharp, a low groan caught between my teeth as I braced myself against the tile. The water swept it all away—heat and tension and the ache I hadn’t let myself name. I stayed there for a while, panting, forehead still pressedto the wall, the aftershocks chasing each other down my spine like thunder rolling out over open fields.

And still, all I could think washer.

Not just the curve of her hips or the way she smiled at me like she trusted me with something fragile—but the sound of her laugh. The quiet kindness in her voice when she talked about planting things. The way she said the wordgnomonlike she was reciting poetry and didn’t even know it.

This wasn’t just lust.

God help me—it hadn’t been for days. Not since the moment she’d told me she didn’t want to be a bother, and I decided I wouldn’t mind her botherin’ me for the rest of my damn life.

I rinsed off slow, every nerve humming. And when I finally turned off the water, stepped out into the steamy hush of the bathroom and caught my reflection in the mirror—flushed, spent, still half-hard just thinking about her—I knew the truth.

She was in me now—in the walls, the garden, the damn air.

And no matter how long I stood there, staring at my reflection, nothing was going to wash her away.

CHAPTER 9

Willow

The rain woke me.

Not a storm. Just a steady, silver hush through the open window—soft enough to lull you back to sleep, if not for the scent.

Roses.

I blinked in the dark, covers pulled up to my chest, eyes adjusting to the faint pink glow spilling in from the sill.

The rose bush I’d planted in the little pot by the window—just a clipped starter from the garden by the sundial—had bloomed overnight. Not one or two tentative buds, but acascadeof blooms, blush-pink and dewy, spilling over the clay lip like they’d been waiting for me to dream.

The scent was everywhere. Sweet, wild, and full.

I sat up slowly, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. The hardwood was cool beneath my feet, the hem of my nightshirt brushing my thighs as I padded to the window.

I reached out, fingers brushing the edge of a petal.

Velvet. Real. Impossible.

And then—I heard it.

Laughter.

Light, high, the unmistakable flutter of a child’s giggle.

My breath caught. I turned, scanning the room, but it was empty—just me and the roses and the hum of rain on the roof.

Another sound: the creak of floorboards…footsteps.

Not mine.

I grabbed my cardigan from the chair, pulled it on, and stepped into the hall, heart thudding against my ribs.