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I thought that we would burn out. Flare up, then fizzle out.
Easy. Quick.
But the last two weeks have taught me better.
Finland Montgomery is not an easy man. Nor is he quick or simple.
And the thought of nothaving him hurts even worse than I ever thought possible.
The man takes what he wants, stopped asking questions after the first morning he woke up to find I was still by his side and is thrilled to try all the things I’ve ever wanted when it comes to sex.
And he doesn’t make me feel like a freak to want them.
I’d showed up at the headlining show for theSetlist Music Festivalwith every intention of saying my goodbyes after a night of fun. Walking away and letting my heart break over a man I never really had and moving on with a poor emotional state over ice cream and more ink that I don’t need.
But Fin had other plans for me. For us.
Instead of all that catastrophizing coming to fruition, the man I’ve always known was more than meets the eye, shattered all of the expectations, pulled out all the stops, and has shown me every night since what a real man does with a woman.
He hasn’t let me down once.
Except right now.
Paint covers almost every inch of the bedding, my body, and even some of the floor.
I think there’s even a painted handprint on the wall.
Correction:Body Paint.
The non-toxic, safe for sex kind.
Yet another one of my things I’ve always wanted to do—paint a picture with sex—and instead of jumping on me like I’ve asked for him to, Fin sits naked in the corner of the room with his now tainted guitar and a smeared notebook.
And a vibrating wand left pressed to my exposed pussy.
“Fiiiiin.” I roll my head to the side and lick my lips—is that cherry flavor?—and lift my hips from the mattress we are definitely going to have to replace after this. “It’s not gonna fuck itself.”
Fin smirks and snorts and lifts a colored brow, but not his eyes. “Beg like I told you to, Cedar.”
Ugh, I hate him.
Not really.
In fact, it’s more like the exact opposite.
I just don’t have the courage to tell him.
“C’mon, hotshot,” I taunt on a pant to hide the moan that threatens to crest my lips and pull on the restraints that prevent me from doing the shit myself. “Come get me.”
I’m losing the gumption I started out with. Lost to the sensations of my body climbing ever close to that cliff, but not so close that I dive off.
Not without him.
“Beg, Cedar.”
“Nuh-uh.” I shake my head against the pillow, my hair collecting static and clinging to my sweating face. “Just come fuck me, hotshot. Show me you can.”
Snorting is the only answer I get to my goading when Fin leans back over his notebook and scribbles something with marbled fingers.
