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“Wait,” he bites out.

Something cool brushes my temple, and I go rigid before his fingers settle at the back of my head.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving you the rest of it.”

A visor comes over my eyes, the strap sliding over my hair as he adjusts it. For a second, the dark stays whole, then Fionn appears above me in colored heat.

His skin burns amber through the lens, his throat brighter where his pulse beats, his hands almost white where they hover near my face.

Lower down, his dick burns hotter, hard and thick in front of me, edged in white gold against the darker heat of his hips.

“The dark was kinder to you,” he says. “It let you lie.”

My nails dig into his thighs, and the heat at his throat flares brighter.

His hand fists my hair, and his voice drops until it belongs to the dark, the visor, and the part of me still trying to hate him.

“Lick your lips, nice and slow.”

I drag my tongue over my bottom lip at the same time as a needy little groan slips out of me.

His thumb comes to my mouth and drags across my wet lips.

“I can see the heat between your thighs. Open your mouth, little wild thing, and give yourself away.”

Every warning I grew up hearing about the Harringtons tells me to leave this house immediately, but my lips part for him.

I obey.

Chapter 22

Sera

I open my mouth and lean in, letting the weight of his dick press heavy on my tongue, taking him until the blunt head nudges the back of my throat.

The first thing that changes is his breathing.

I hear the break in his inhale when my lips close around the width of him and the low hiss of air through his teeth when I gag on it.

The visor turns him into a rainbow of color as heat warms his throat, his abdomen muscles flex under my touch, and his fingers tightens in my hair while his other hand reaches past me into the dark.

Something creaks under his grip, wood or leather, some expensive Harrington heirloom taking his weight while he tries not to put it on me.

“Don’t rush,” he says, voice low. “You’re so hot when you taste my dick.”

My nails dig harder into his thigh, scraping over his skin. I should bite him for making me so needy, so goddamn hungry for him.

Instead, I hum around the thickness.

His breathing goes shallow, but he doesn’t give me the satisfaction of losing it.

“That’s what I wanted to see,” he murmurs. “That flare of need in your pussy.”

My skin prickles under the visor, and I know from the way his grip tightens that he’s seen more than I meant to give him.

The taste of him fills my mouth, a hint of salt and clean soap beneath the darker pull of his cologne. It’s expensive, Harrington, too familiar already, and I hate that I know it well enough to crave more.