Page 17
I pull off just long enough to speak. “Good?”
“Don’t stop.”
I take my time. He didn’t ask for teasing, so I give him the opposite—deep, deliberate, relentless—and I watch Griffin Hall come apart by inches.
“Fox. Fox, stop. Stop, stop, stop.”
I pull off and look up at him.
“On the bed,” he says. “Now.”
I stand and peel off all my clothes. Finn kicks out of his remaining clothes.
“I prepped myself. When you said you were on your way.”
His eyes close for a second. When they open, his pupils have swallowed most of the green.
“Foster Crue, you are going to be the death of me.”
“You’ll survive.”
“How prepped?”
“Enough that you can quit staring and fuck me already.”
I lie back on the pillow and pull my knees up. His Adam’s apple bobs and he licks his lips. Now I’m wondering if I hadn’t been so fucking eager, would he have eaten me out before fucking me?
He reaches for the condoms I put on the nightstand earlier and rolls one on. Then he crawls up my body and kisses me hard. I taste malt and spice on his mouth and pull back.
“What?” he asks.
“Are you drunk?”
“Only for you.”
“Finn.”
“I had one drink. I’m not drunk.”
“Okay, then fuck me because I’ve been dying all day here.”
“Ready?” he murmurs against my jaw.
“Fuck me into tomorrow. That’s my level of ready.”
“I can do that.”
He pushes into me in one slow, careful slide, and my whole body arches to meet him. I don’t need slow, and Finn knows me well enough to know when I need it hard and fast.
The first stroke is painfully slow, but I let him have it without complaining because I know what comes next.
His forehead drops to mine.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Fox.”
“Move, Finn.”
The next few minutes are not gentle. Finn is attentive, patient, and generous, but when he’s been wound up all day, he goes somewhere else. His hips snap into mine. His hand rests on my throat. Warm and heavy and possessive. His mouth is on my collarbone, then my shoulder and up my jaw.
