Butcher & Blackbird: The Ruinous Love Trilogy
Butcher & Blackbird: Chapter 19

SLOANE

“Oh my God. It’s you.”

I look to my right where Lark stands at my side, expecting that this is probably a fangirl moment. Lark might be signed with a smaller indie record label, but she still has a significant following and it wouldn’t be the first time she was recognized while we were out together.

But when I return my gaze to Meg the Hostess, she’s staring straight back at me.

Flame engulfs my cheeks. “Umm…hi…?”

“I’m so sorry. When you came the last time, I totally got sidetracked and forgot to tell Rowan.” Meg’s pretty blue eyes widen as she shakes her head. “I still feel terrible.”

“Well, I hadn’t made a reservation, so you have nothing to apologize for.”

“But you have a standing reservation at 3 In Coach,” Meg says with a sweet, knowing smile. She pulls a thumbtack from her podium and passes me a sheet of paper.

Table twelve is PERMANENTLY RESERVED for:

– any reservation under the name Sloane Sutherland

– a beautiful, black-haired woman with hazel eyes and freckles, 5’8”, probably alone, shy, looks like she wants to run

Inform Rowan immediately of any reservations under this name or any guests fitting this description.

And then, in red text as though it was added at a later date:

IMMEDIATELY. I AM NOT FUCKING AROUND.

The word ‘IMMEDIATELY’ is underlined six times.

“That’s so cute,” Lark says as she lays her chin on my shoulder and reads the note, pointing to the red text. “It sounds like he’s going to cut people up for you. That’s so Keanu-mantic.”

I snort a laugh as I pass the paper back to Meg. “First of all, Keanu–mantic is so not a word. Secondly, Keanu doesn’t cut people up in a red-flag romantic kind of way.”

“He does in John Wick.”

“Sure. For a dog. I wouldn’t call that romance, Lark.”

Lark shrugs before she beams a smile at Meg. “Table for two, please, for Sloane Sutherland, black-haired, freckled, 5’8” beauty who looks like she wants to run.”

Meg takes two menus from her podium and grins as she motions us forward. “Follow me. I’ll let the Chef know you’re here as soon as you’re seated.”

Lark squeaks and grips my wrist as we follow Meg to the booth I sat in the last time I was here over a year ago. She can probably feel my pulse hammering into her hand. I stayed with Rowan for two weeks after extending my time off from work as Fionn had recommended. And those two weeks with Rowan just weren’t enough.

My body was still bruised and sore when I left for Raleigh to pack up my things and rent out my furnished house. I made arrangements at work to go fully home-based, and spent my evenings and weekends dismantling my storage container kill room that I’ve barely used since we started this game. It’s been three weeks since I saw Rowan, and my heart is nearly ready to burst through my chest as the seconds tick down to the end of our separation.

I don’t know if this is going to work—living with him, working from home every day, being in a new city, trying to build this foundation we’ve made into something more. But I’m going to try.

“You’re hella excited,” I say to Lark, trying to divert attention from my own blistering anticipation as we weave through the busy restaurant. The lunch rush has passed, but there are still more full tables than empty ones, even if many of the patrons have finished main courses and have moved on to desserts.

“Of course I am. My bestie is in l-o-v-e and I get to meet her man for the first time.”

I snort. “I never said anything about love.”

“Didn’t you sneakily install a security camera in the kitchen?”

“That’s stalking, not love.”

“To-may-to, to-mah-to. And clearly, he adores you, too. He knows my baby,” she says, gesturing toward the booth as Meg lays the menus on the table. “A perfect Sloaney choice. Sheltered and equidistant between the exits.”

Oh my fucking God. She’s right.

Lark slides onto the padded seat and Meg disappears to grab Rowan from the kitchen, and I’m still standing off to the side like a dumbass, staring at the table like I’ve never seen one before.

He permanently reserves the booth he knows you would want at his popular restaurant. He beats the shit out of an emo pervert for watching you masturbate. He has some random neighborhood kid bring you groceries.

Who the fuck are you kidding? You don’t just ‘more than like’ this guy.

Lark’s head tilts and a crease appears between her brows as her gaze travels across my face. “You okay there, Sloaney? You look broken.”

I’m about to say something. I open my mouth, manage a stuttered start to a sentence that never materializes. It dies on my tongue when I hear the subtle Irish accent rise above the conversations of diners and the clang of cutlery on plates, glasses on tables.

“Blackbird,” he says loud enough to carry across the noise. When I look over, he’s striding past tables of patrons, looking much like he did the last time I came to 3 In Coach, his chef coat rolled to his elbows and a white apron tied around his waist. But this time, there’s no look of shock, only a warm smile and his arms spread wide. “Get over here.”

I glance at Lark and her grin is electric, her eyes dancing. She jerks her head in his direction and even though I know I probably look like some lovesick teenager, I can’t help it. My heart is pounding its way up my throat. If it had its way, I’d already be running in his direction.

I might not run, but I still walk. Fast.

When we meet in the middle of the restaurant, Rowan grasps my face between his palms and takes a moment to just absorb the details of my face, as though he’s savoring every nuance. He’s radiant, clearly in his element in this space, his eyes bright and crinkled at the corners with the width of his smile and the depth of his relief.

The kiss we share doesn’t linger. But its heat does, infusing every cell with both comfort and the need for more than we can take in this moment.

“You look so much better,” he says when he pulls away.

I shrug. “A little sore still, but getting there.”

“Trip was okay?”

“Winston hated every moment of the drive from Raleigh. I think I’m going to hear his growl in my sleep for a week, but he’s settled down now that he’s in your place. He seems a bit weirded out but I’m sure he’ll adjust in a day or two. I left my stuff on the floor in the living room, so I’m ninety percent certain my cat will have all the luggage shredded in retribution by the time we get back.”

“Our place,” Rowan corrects, and loops an arm over my shoulder to guide our way back to the booth. “Our cat. I can’t wait to be kitty litter influencers together, what a great side hustle. We’re gonna be rich.”

I huff a laugh and roll my eyes. “You’re the worst.

“You’ll love me someday.”

One of my steps falters.

Today is that day.

Maybe yesterday too. And the day before that. Maybe for a while, in fact.

I can’t tell exactly when it started, but I don’t think it will ever stop.

I take Rowan’s hand where it lays over my recovering shoulder, the joint still a little tender but getting better every day. When I look up at him, I try to repress a smile but fail. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Rowan doesn’t call me out, doesn’t prod for more, but I know he can see it in me like it’s written in the constellation of dots on my skin, even when I try to force my gaze away.

“Told you so,” he whispers as he presses a kiss to my temple.

Lark slides out of the booth and gives Rowan a hug as though she’s known him for years, and the two fall into easy conversation from the moment we’re seated. And though I pretend to be immersed in my menu, I’m not. I’m watching Lark and Rowan with a heart more full than I ever thought it could be. The only two people I love in this world are sitting right next to one another, forging the first moments in a friendship, a foundation that will hopefully only grow with time.

I might not have a lot of people, but I have Lark and Rowan, and that’s enough.

We share a meal together. A bottle of wine. We split the fig phyllo Napoleon for dessert and sit with our coffees until the last guests have departed and the restaurant shuts down to prepare for the dinner shift. There’s no lull in conversation. There’s no shortage of laughter. And when it’s time to leave, we make plans to get together again over the next few days while Lark is in town—live music, dinners out, maybe a sailing trip around the harbor. As we make our way to the exit, Rowan gives me a wink, like this is all part of his grand plan to lure Lark here.

We hug her goodbye at the door and Rowan winds up with a gold star sticker on his cheek before Lark dances away.

“Come on, need your help,” he says, taking my hand when Lark turns a corner two blocks down, heading for her hotel. Rowan tows me along in the opposite direction. “Very important job, Blackbird.”

“What job?”

“You’ll see.”

“Are you going to leave that sticker on your face?”

Rowan scoffs. “Of course. Makes me prettier.”

Four blocks and one turn later, Rowan pulls me to a stop. Though I ask him what he’s doing and where we are, he evades my questions. Instead of answering, he maneuvers behind me to fold his palms over my eyes before he nudges me forward. I’m about to give him some little jab about how I’m not going to walk across the entire city of Boston blindfolded when he guides us to a stop and we turn to the left.

“Ready?” he asks.

I nod.

He lifts his hands from my eyes.

Before me is the front of a brick building where a new black awning with globe lights stretches over an outdoor seating area that doesn’t yet have chairs on the freshly painted deck. The interior is finished, the luxurious details of the furnishings and dark wood tables mixed with the exposed brick and unexpected pops of teal blue decorations. Massive ferns wave gently in the breeze of the air conditioning system hidden among the industrial network of black steel beams and ductwork on the ceiling. It’s beautiful and elegant, yet comfortable.

And across the full front of the restaurant, stretching over the door and the awning, a massive sign in block letters.

Butcher & Blackbird.

“Rowan…” I take a step closer, staring up at the sign and the stylized wrought iron raven and meat cleaver incorporated behind the first few letters. “Are you for real?”

“You like it?”

“It’s incredible. I love it.”

“Well, that’s a relief considering we’re two weeks away from opening. Reservations are booked up past Christmas. Would have been awkward to cancel.” With a flash of a grin, he takes my hand and tows me toward the door where a large poster details the upcoming grand opening and the contact details. He unlocks it and holds the door for me to step inside, the scent of fresh paint and new furniture greeting us. “Still need your help, though.”

As we head toward the kitchen, Rowan points out details, decorations that reflect his brothers’ influence, like the selection of Weller’s bourbon behind the bar for when Fionn comes for the opening, or the branded leather coasters that Lachlan made. But I am everywhere too. In the huge black leather wing, the intricate feathers spread across a wall above the booths, the exact spot where I would want to sit. In black-and-white paintings of ravens by local artists, a butcher’s knife or meat cleaver incorporated into every one.

It’s not just me. It’s us.

I pull Rowan to a stop in the center of the room. His eyes dart across my face and down to my neck as a burning swallow shifts in my throat.

“You…” is all I manage to squeak out. I gesture between us and then to the room. “This…?”

Rowan tries to bite down on a laugh as knowing smirk sneaks across his lips. “Eloquent. Is this another ‘man-guy’ situation? Can’t wait to hear what you come up with, Blackb—”

“I love you, Rowan,” I blurt out. I take only a moment to register the shock in Rowan’s expression before I barrel into him, wrapping his solid body in my embrace. His heart hammers beneath my ear as I press my face to his chest.

His arms fold around me, one hand threading into my hair as he lays a kiss to the crown of my head. “I love you too, Sloane. So fucking much. But the restaurant was probably a giant clue.”

I laugh into his chest and shimmy a hand between us to catch a tear before it falls. “I kinda got that vibe. Not sure what tipped me off. Might have been the sign out front.”

Rowan pulls away, his hands warm around my shoulders. When he stares down at me, I see everything I feel reflected back at me in his faint smile and soft eyes. There’s relief knowing I can love and be loved, after years wondering if I was so broken that there was only room for vengeance and loneliness in my heart. And I think I see the release of that burden reflected in Rowan’s eyes, too.

“Come on,” he says after pressing a quick kiss to my lips. “I still need your help.”

Rowan leads the way to the kitchen where brand new commercial appliances and stainless steel counters gleam beneath the recessed lights in the freshly-painted ceiling. He heads first to a row of hooks where aprons are hanging and tosses one to me before he disappears into a walk-in fridge.

“What are we doing?” I ask as he returns with ingredients stacked on a tray that he sets on the counter next to me.

“Building a spaceship.” He grins when I give him a flat glare. “Cooking, clearly. I’m still fine-tuning the lunch menu for opening week. I need your help tweaking it.”

“I thought we’d already established that cooking is not my strong suit.”

“No, we established that you cook perfectly well, we just need to do it together.”

And we do.

We start with simpler things, like making a red wine vinaigrette for one of the salads and prepping vegetables for a soup. Then we move on to harder things—pork loin with shallot rings, a salmon filet with cream sauce. And watching Rowan share his art with such passion and confidence is like injecting an aphrodisiac directly into my veins. My desire for him grows more powerful with every moment that passes, and he’s so immersed in what he’s doing that he doesn’t seem to notice any of the signs.

It only makes me want him that much more.

We sample the dishes we create together and Rowan presses the gold star from his cheek to the top of a fresh page in a stained, dog-eared notebook where he jots down ideas and feedback on everything we make. And then he declares that it’s time for dessert, the course where he needs the most help. When I try to protest that I’m full, he laughs me off.

“I know you can take more,” he says with a smirk, then strides off in the direction of the fridge.

He returns with another tray of ingredients, but this time the pavlova and crème brûlée and chocolate cake have already been made. They just need to be assembled with their presentation and sauces, which Rowan does with speed and precision before he sets them in front of me on the counter. He then takes a step back and lets his gaze flow down the length of me. I feel it in the center of my body, like he pulls an invisible string that tightens my core until it aches.

“Face the counter and pull your dress up, Sloane.”

My panties instantly dampen, even before my brain has fully processed his words, like my body knows what’s about to happen before my mind does. I suck in an unsteady breath and my mouth pops open, but I don’t know what to say.

Rowan raises his brows and flicks his gaze toward the counter. “You think I didn’t notice the way you tugged your dress down before you leaned over to show me your tits when we were making that white wine sauce? I always notice you, Sloane. Now do as you’re told.”

I shudder out my held breath, grasp the hem of my dress and drag it up my thighs as I turn and face the stainless steel counter, its polished edge cold against my heated skin. Rowan’s warmth envelops my back as he steps behind me to run a calloused palm up my leg and across the globe of my ass.

He pulls my panties to the side and notches his cock to my entrance, then slides into me with a single stroke to the sound of my gasp.

And then he just stays there, unmoving, lodged to the hilt in my pussy.

A whimper catches in the back of my throat. My clit throbs, begging for friction, my cunt desperate for motion. I try to move forward and back again, but there’s nowhere to go between Rowan’s unyielding strength and the sharp edge of the counter against my hips.

“No,” he commands when I try again. “Relax, Sloane.”

A strangled moan passes my lips. “How the fuck am I supposed to do that?”

Rowan chuckles, nonplussed by the fact that desire is burning me up, every cell torched with the need for more than he’s going to give. “Just try. See where it takes you.”

My pulse drums a galloping rhythm, my breaths are shaky and uneven. When I stop trying to move, Rowan lays his chin on my shoulder and takes up a dessert spoon.

“Such a good girl you are, Blackbird,” he coos into my ear as he slides the spoon through the crème brûlée and brings it to my parted lips. “And good girls get rewards.”

The creamy dessert and tart berry topping land on my tongue with a burst of flavor. Rowan remains still as I savor the taste.

“Did you like it?” he asks.

“Y-yes.”

“Missing anything?”

“I…” Fuck, I don’t know. I can’t think clearly with his cock thick and hard in my pussy, my arousal slick at my entrance, my clit demanding relief. When I shake my head, he seems to understand that I don’t mean ‘no’, but that I can’t be sure.

“Close your eyes. Try again.”

I do as Rowan asks and close my eyes. The scents of sugar and fresh berries flood my nostrils, aromas I didn’t truly notice the last time. Rowan traces the edge of the spoon across my lips to paint my pink skin in flavor before I open for him.

“What do you taste?” Rowan whispers against the shell of my ear.

“Cream. Vanilla. Caramelized sugar. Strawberries and raspberries,” I reply, my eyes still closed. It feels like I’m floating, not outside of my body but in places within it that I’ve never seen or felt before. There’s another realm inside that I didn’t even know existed. It’s as though I’m disconnected from the rest of the world, yet more present in it than I’ve ever been. Every sensation becomes clearer in the absence of extraneous noise.

“What’s missing?” Rowan tries again.

“Nothing. But…” I shake my head. Rowan’s hand glides down my arm in reassurance, that this place and my words are safe with him. “But it’s not unique.”

“You’re right,” he replies. An indulgent kiss lingers on my neck as his cock twitches within me. I notice every motion he makes, from the way his lips lift from my skin to the rise and fall of his chest against my back. “It’s not unique. It’s like every other crème brûlée in the city. It needs something different. Something new.”

“Thorsten Harris probably would suggest—”

“Blackbird,” Rowan says, punctuating his warning with a bite to my earlobe. “Do not even think about finishing that sentence or there’ll be hell to pay.”

My eyes remain closed as I grin. “I like your version of hell.”

“You say that now. But I could stay in this tight little cunt of yours for hours, and I think you’d feel differently if I spent all that time not letting you come.” Rowan shifts his hips, just a hint of movement that ignites my desperation for more. “Now be my good little bird and name me the most random fruit you can think of. The first thing that springs to mind.”

I don’t even really think about it. I just speak. “Persimmon.”

There’s a beat of silence. Rowan relaxes behind me, as though the pent-up tension in his chest has spirited away.

“Yes. Persimmon. That’s an excellent idea, love.”

And then he slides out of me.

I open my eyes and turn around as he takes a step back, tucking his erection back into his briefs before he tugs his pants up. My breaths come in shallow pants as I take him in. There’s heat and desire in his eyes, but he keeps it banked. Not like me. I know my desperate need for more is written all over my face.

“I thought you said good girls get rewards,” I say, my voice low and husky.

A slow smile tips up the corner of Rowan’s lips where his scar brightens in a straight line through his skin. “You’re right. I did say that. Go out into the restaurant and sit on your table.”

“Which one is mine?”

“You’ll know.”

He tosses me a wink and starts to gather the unused ingredients onto the tray. I watch for a moment before he nods toward the door and tells me he’ll be there as soon as he’s done.

I head out into the dimly-lit space and toward the booths beneath the black wing mounted on the wall. When I glance between the front entrance and the sign for the emergency exit by the bathrooms and the door to the kitchen, it’s obvious which one I’d choose—the booth that sits just beneath the vertex of the spread wing.

When I slide onto the seat, there’s a line of text in a simple cursive script, branded into the surface of the wood. ‘Blackbird’s Booth,’ it says.

My finger traces each letter as I look out at the space and take in every detail from this vantage point. I’m still absorbing the warmth spreading through my veins when I hear the swoosh of the kitchen door.

“I thought I said for you to get ‘on’ the table,” Rowan says as he stalks in my direction. I glance from him to the windows lining the front of the restaurant and back again. Anticipation rushes through my veins on a flood of adrenaline.

“But—”

“On, Sloane. Now.”

Fire crawls beneath my skin as I gesture toward the front of the restaurant. Rowan stops next to the booth with a stern expression that states he’s clearly unwilling to entertain any protest I’m about to make, not that it will stop me from arguing. “I just saw a woman walk by with her groceries,” I say. “She does not want to see that. No one does.”

“Of course they do. And even if they didn’t, there’s an important detail that you might be missing: I don’t. Fucking. Care. So are you using your safe word?”

“No.”

Rowan’s hands press flat to the surface as he leans closer, pinning me with an unwavering stare. “Then get on the fucking table, Sloane.”

I climb onto the surface with my back facing the row of windows as heartbeats hum beneath my skin, keeping my eyes on him the whole time. When I’m settled, Rowan slides onto the padded bench until he’s directly in front of me. My gaze is trapped in his, our connection unbroken, neither of us moving. He seems to enjoy that I’m waiting for his instructions as much as I enjoy obeying them.

“Pull your dress up to your waist,” he says, his eyes dark and brimming with lust. I do as he says, but I take my time, dragging the hem across my skin. “Spread your legs wide.”

Rowan’s gaze stays riveted to my damp panties and the outline of my piercings beneath the fabric as I spread my thighs as wide as my hips will allow. He grasps my knees and prompts me back a little closer to the center of the table.

“Remember what I told you?” he asks, not taking his eyes from the apex of my thighs.

I nod. “That you were going to devour me on a table in the restaurant.”

“Damn straight, Blackbird. And this is a meal I’ve been fucking dying for.”

Rowan stretches my panties to one side, lowers his head, and feasts.

He wasn’t lying. There could be people walking by. They could be staring in the window. They could be at the table next to us and he doesn’t fucking care. He ravages my pussy like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have. He lavishes every piercing with attention and sucks on my clit. He plunges his tongue into my cunt and moans. He tightens his fingers on my thighs in a bruising grip that only ratchets up my desire.

And if anyone is watching, I don’t care either.

I grasp Rowan’s hair in a tight fist and hold him against me to grind my pussy into his face. I’m rewarded with a throaty growl and two fingers plunged into my cunt, the immediate rhythm and his expert touch pushing me closer to coming undone. My ass squeaks against the wood as he surges forward and consumes me, body and soul.

I come apart with a cry of Rowan’s name, soaking his fingers, coating his face. And he leaves me no time to recover from the intense orgasm before he drags my panties down my legs and tosses them to the floor. The moment they’re gone, he’s tugging his pants and briefs down and sliding into me.

“Fuck, Sloane,” he grits out with the first full thrust. I can already tell it won’t be long before I’m coming apart for a second time. “I’ve missed you so fucking much. It’s been hell here without you.”

“I’m right here,” I whisper. I rake my fingers through his hair with one hand and glide my touch beneath his chef’s coat to trace the muscles of his back with the other. He leans away enough to pull the thick fabric over his head and I press my touch to every taut muscle and jagged scar.

Rowan bands an arm across my back and yanks me off the table, never breaking our connection as he pulls me down to straddle him on the bench. “You’re going to take my cock as deep as you can. You’re going to ride it the way you want until you come all over it. And these tits,” he says as he unzips the back of my dress and pulls the low neckline down along with the cups of my bra, “you’re going to bounce these glorious fucking tits in my face.”

I grip the top of the booth with one hand and lean closer to guide my breast to his waiting mouth with the other. He sucks on my nipple and rolls his tongue across the piercing, his moan a vibration in my flesh as he pinches the other one to a firm peak.

I glide on his erection, filling myself with his length. I want to make this pleasure last. I want to savor every long stroke of his cock, every grind of my clit against his flesh as I take him deep, every touch of my piercings against sensitive nerves. But he drives me right to the edge with his kisses on my breasts and the filthy demands he makes every time he surfaces from my skin. That’s right, baby, take me deeper in that tight little cunt. You’re going to be dripping my cum down those pretty thighs all the way home.

My orgasm shatters my vision with a burst of stars as I press my eyes closed and scream. I break apart as Rowan thrusts up, hitting even deeper as he spills into me, his hands gripped tight to my hips as he holds me down on his pulsing cock. Our foreheads are pressed together, our breath shared, our gazes fused. When we finally come down from the euphoric fog, I smile and trace Rowan’s cheeks with my fingertips.

“I missed you too.”

Rowan sighs, and I realize this is the first time I’ve seen him truly relaxed since I got back. He lays a kiss to the tip of my nose. “Let’s go home and do this again. And again, and again, and again.” He guides my hips up until he slides free, his cum leaking from my entrance.

“Napkin?” I ask as I dart a glance down to my legs.

Rowan traces a line up my inner thigh. Two fingers gather the milky rivulet and slide up to my pussy, his eyes already dark with desire as he watches my reaction.

“Fuck no,” he rasps as he finger fucks the cum back into me with slow thrusts. I shudder and moan, my sensitive flesh already desperate for more. “I meant what I said. You’ll be walking home with that mess on your thighs, little bird.”

After a final, deep thrust and a roll of his thumb over my clit that has me gasping and clutching his shoulder, he withdraws his fingers and raises them to my lips to suck them clean. When he’s satisfied, he gently guides me to the end of the booth and pulls his clothes back into place before following.

We stand for a moment, hand in hand, looking at the space and the windows where thankfully no one has stopped to watch us in our sanctuary, the one that always seems to surround us when I’m alone with Rowan. I let my eyes travel over the space, and when my attention flows in his direction, I feel Rowan’s gaze pressing against my face like a gentle caress.

“I’m so happy you’re back, Blackbird,” he says as he pulls me into his chest and wraps his arms across my back.

I close my eyes. We shift in our embrace, moving together like two dark creatures intertwined, flowing with the current of the world around us.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper. “Just home with you.”