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He dropped a bag at his feet, and before I even had a chance to look at it, he was kissing me, my back shoved against the cool door.
“Thanks for the flowers,” I said between kisses as he yanked my skirt up around my waist, fisting the fabric to pin me in place.
He paused for a moment, and stared at me, his eyes full of… I don’t know what. Desire? Appreciation? Whatever it was, I liked it, and I was about to ask what had gotten into him when he kissed me again, crushing his hips against mine so I could feel the extent of his longing.
“Finn,” I panted, my shallow breaths making it hard to speak as I laid a hand on his chest.
He pressed a finger across my lips and fixed his eyes on mine. “Don’t interrupt me again,” he said, his irises darkening with lust. “The roses were only part one of making you my Valentine.”
My chest rose and fell against his heavy forearm, and my wide eyes searched his. But before I could ask what part two was, he sank to his knees, draped one of my thighs over his shoulder, and made me so hot with his mouth I forgot my own name, much less how I came to be so lucky.
And he wasn’t kidding with that ready or not line. I never could’ve prepared myself for the way he devoured me against that door. Like his life depended on it. Like the fate of the human race depended on it.
And just when I feared my swollen bud might burst on its next pulse, I melted over his tongue, my hands gripping his hair and the doorknob to keep my jellied legs from giving out.
And by the time he was done with me, I was so much more than his Valentine. I was his lover, his biggest fan. His slave.
