THE BOAT SEEMS ginormous, but Finn climbs aboard as if he’s stepping onto a dinky rowboat. Is it my imagination, or does he seem taller on deck? I stare at him while he talks to the captain, absently rubbing my finger over my bottom lip, remembering the teasing slide of his teeth when he kissed me at Oliver’s two days ago.
I swear my pulse hasn’t calmed down since—because it wasn’t just a kiss, it was a confession. That kiss told me I’m not the only one who’s moved into Feelings Territory. Now my mind is a pile of unfamiliar thoughts: If we both feel something, are we going to try to make it into a relationship? Finn argued against every idea I had to rescue his business, but if he signs on for the Adventure Channel show, then according to the contract, we can’t be together. And if he turns down the television show, he’ll most likely lose his family business and not be in the best mood for a new relationship anyway.
As the engine chugs and pulls us away from the dock and into the open water, my brain is a mess, my body is on fire for this hot fisherman version of Finn (which—I giddily recall—is everyday Finn) . . . and I have no idea how to handle a rod and reel as big as the one he retrieves for me.
He hands it over silently, giving me a patronizing pat on the head, and we step closer to listen to the safety guidelines with the other dozen tourists gathered on the deck. I expected Finn to space out during this, or carefully slip away to go check out the boat, but he seems riveted. Whether he’s seeing how sportfishing is handled on a professional level, or he’s just that in love with fishing, I can’t tell. But I love that he isn’t acting like it’s beneath him. He’s excited, even for this little half-day trip.
When Captain Steve has finished his spiel, we find a spot at the back corner of the boat, and Finn works quietly with the wind whipping his fleece flush against his chest. He sets up our rods, adjusts my line and my reel, and then leaves, telling me to “hang on.” A few minutes later, Finn returns with a pair of boots in one hand and a baseball cap with the boat’s logo in the other.
“It gets messy,” he says. He hands me the boots and puts the cap on my head, carefully feeding my ponytail through the back, whispering, “There,” once it’s situated. His hazel eyes dip down to my mouth, as if he’s considering kissing me again, but when he blinks, the look is gone. “Ready?”
“Am I ready to kick your ass in fish counts?” I ask, pulling the cap lower over my eyes before stepping into the giant boots. “You betcha.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Okay, you heard the captain say all of this but I’m sure you were thinking about my naked body or buying new makeup for your hair, so I’m going to remind you: This boat fishes halibut, rockfish, and bass. The halibut can get pretty big, but don’t worry”—he gives me a winning smile—“I’ll help you pull them in.”
“I’ll have you know I am a regular at kickboxing class,” I tell him, acting offended. “And I surf.”
“Right, but you won’t be pulling these fish up with your legs.” He grabs my skinny arm and shakes it like a chicken wing before taking my rod from its stand and casting the line deep into the water. The fish bait on the end lands with a heavy plunk and Finn grins as he hands the rod over to me. “Put it in the stand. Your arms will get tired if you’re fighting the water while we move.”
I do as he says and watch him cast his line out. He looks so happy, and I’m torn between wanting every viewer in America to see this expression on this face on their giant HD televisions and wanting his private joy to stay that way.
“Do you think you would hate having a camera on you while you do this?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It’s not that so much as the idea that the show wouldn’t really be about fishing.”
“But what if it was?” I ask. “What if that’s your condition?”
He pulls his cap off his head and scratches his scalp with his little finger. “Yeah. I don’t know.”
I think neither of us wants to think about it after that, because we fall quiet, watching the water and the birds and, probably more than anything, each other.
ALMOST AS IF the fish sense that Finn will more quickly put them out of their misery than I will, he catches three before I’ve even had a bite: two rockfish and a huge halibut. If I said it bothered me that he’s crushing it and I’m sucking, I’d be lying. Nothing is better than watching Finn reel a forty-pound fish up onto the deck.
That’s not entirely true. Sex with Finn on this very deck might be better . . . but only slightly. The sun is warm out on the open water and he’s taken off his fleece; the sight of his tanned forearms as he pulls and reels the line in . . . it . . . it might cause me to spontaneously orgasm.
“It’s going to be weird to leave, even though it’s only been a couple weeks,” he says, oblivious to my leering, and casting his line back into the water. I blink, clearing the fog of my Finn Lust and wait to hear what he means. It seems to me, from watching him today, that he would want nothing more than to get back to his life on the water.
“Weird how?”
He surprises me, saying, “I don’t think I’ll like not being able to see you whenever I want.”
This is not at all what I expected. I expected him to mean he’s going to miss the Southern California weather or awesome burritos or hanging with Oliver and Ansel.
I want more than anything to reach up, cup his face in my hands, and kiss him like I’ve never kissed anyone before, out of relief that he’s nearly perfect.
Instead I say, “I masturbated thinking about you last night.”
He bends over, bursting out laughing when I say this. Finally he manages, “You did?”
“Absolutely.”
When he straightens, I can see a hint of a blush on his face beneath the shadow of his baseball cap. That’s new. “Me, too,” he admits.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Was I awesome?”
He turns and looks at me. “You sucked dick like a champion, Ginger Snap.”
“I would, too.” I give him a proud lift of my chin.
He reels in his line a couple of feet. “You would.”
I always expected to fall in love and feel jittery or hyperaware or overwhelmed. I never expected falling in love with someone would just make me feel even more comfortable in my own skin. I sort of want to tell him, “I think I love you,” because I suspect he would make a soft sound of sympathy and agree that it’s unfortunate timing.
I glance over at him, at his angled, stubbly jaw, his long tan neck and the arms that give me an odd sense of safety I never knew I craved. But didn’t I? Isn’t that who my father has always been until recently—not only my sounding board, but my rock, my guardian? I did know I always wanted any man in my life to live up to that expectation.
My chest hurts with how tight it’s grown from recognizing that steady, passionate, loyal Finn is what I always hoped I’d find.
He looks out across the water, his eyes narrowing and I wonder what he’s thinking. His chest lifts with a deep inhale and he closes his eyes as he exhales, his expression looking as torn as I feel.
I know I’m right when he opens his eyes and glances over at me. And this is terrifying, because if there’s one thing I know about my heart, it’s that it isn’t fickle. Once someone gets inside, they burrow deep in there, permanently.
Just when I open my mouth to say something—and I have no idea what is going to come out, but sincere emotion has risen high in my throat—my rod jerks in front of me, the entire top half bowing sharply.
“Whoa, okay,” Finn says, eyes lighting up with excitement as he steps forward and guides me closer to my rod. “You’ve got one.”
Fishing with my dad in the rivers of Northern California when I was a kid in no way prepared me for the process of hauling a fish in from the ocean. When it’s a nine-inch trout in a river, your bobber dunks underwater and your skinny twelve-year-old arms can easily reel that sucker in. Here it takes every muscle in my body to pit myself against this swimming beast. I tug the rod, turn the reel in mere centimeters, each one a victory. Beside me Finn shouts and whoops as if I’m hauling in a great white shark. A couple of men gather behind us to watch, calling out their encouragements.
“Want me to take over?” Finn yells over the cheering.
“Fuck no!”
But now I know why he took his fleece off; I’m sweating, swearing, cursing the moment I decided deep-sea fishing was a good idea. But when I get the first glimpse of the halibut on my line—of the spikes along its spine, of the sheer size of it—I’m giddy.
“My fish is so much bigger than your fish!” I yell.
Finn steps behind me to help me pull, taking over the reel after about ten minutes, when my hand starts to shake and grow numb. With both of us holding the rod, we pull, and pull, and finally the halibut comes out of the water, glorious. It flops on the deck, and I hate that part a little, but then Finn holds it and does something so fast I can barely see, and it goes still. The fish is ice cold from the water when he hands it back to me, and with a little gesture he indicates that I hold it up by the gills so he can take a picture.
I need to use both hands, it’s that huge. It’s the biggest fish we’ve caught so far, and the feeling is amazing, though not nearly as good as when Finn looks at me as he lifts his phone.
“Hold it up, baby,” he says quietly, eyes gleaming in pride. “Let me see that fish.”
My arms are shaking under the weight but I hold it up for him to see. He snaps a picture and then moves to my side, taking the halibut and handing it to Steve to tag for us.
“We gonna talk about how you just called me ‘baby’?” I ask as he ducks down, getting my line rebaited.
I feel more than hear his quiet laugh as he stands and kisses the top of my head. “No.”
I do everything I can to tamp down the ridiculous smile that’s tugging at my mouth. Like murder it with my bare hands tamp down. I am so giddy right now I could burst into an enthusiastic Disney medley right here on a boat full of salty old men.
WHEN WE GET back to the dock, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, but really I need to call and check in on Mom. We’ve been gone all morning and into the afternoon, without cell service. It was both wonderful and terrifying. What if something happened?
Dad answers on the first ring, sounding relaxed and easy. “Hey, Tulip.”
“Hey, dude. How’s the queen?”
“Good,” he says. “We’re out for lunch.”
“So nothing going on? No complications?”
Dad sighs on the other end of the line and I wince, knowing I’m sounding like a maniac. We’ve been told at least five times by her doctors that this first round of chemo should feel relatively easy for Mom. It’s the later rounds that get hard.
“You have to pace yourself,” Dad says, and I can tell he’s smiling but I also know he’s serious. “This is the long haul.”
Sighing, I say, “I know, I know.”
“How was fishing?”
“It was awesome. I’m smitten.”
“With the sport, or with the guy?”
It’s my turn to sigh. “Maybe both.”
“Good. Bring Finn tonight. I’ve told Salvatore I’ll be available when Release Horizon begins filming in April.”
Tonight is a party hosted by Dad’s colleague and good friend Salvatore to celebrate the launch of Sal’s new production company. Release Horizon is their new Oscar-hopeful-baby, the sweeping drama Dad told me takes place on—drumroll—a ship. I honestly can’t even imagine Finn at the party, but that knee-jerk reaction makes me feel surly and rebellious against my own instincts. If Finn is one of My People, then he belongs there, whether he knows anyone or not.
Besides, Dad signing on for a project that begins principal filming in just over six months makes my heart soar. It’s so optimistic regarding Mom.
I return to the dock to find Finn snacking on a giant bag of chips. He offers some to me, and I grab a handful. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I got a whiff of the salty vinegar deliciousness.
“Want to go to a party tonight?” I ask around a mouthful.
He speaks through an equally huge mouth of food. “What kind of party?”
“Movie people. Fancy. Martinis and olives.”
Shrugging, he says, “You’re my date?”
I shove another handful in my mouth and nod.
He smiles, wiping some salt from my chin. “Sure thing, Snap.”
FINN IS DRESSED and waiting outside Oliver’s when I pick him up at seven. He’s wearing the same clothes he wore for his meeting in L.A., but tonight he manages to look infinitely better. He’s more relaxed and has clearly been outdoors all day. Sun-kissed Finn is deadly.
He climbs into the passenger seat, grumbling about my tiny car, and then looks over at me.
“Whoa,” he says. “Get out.”
“What?” I panic, looking down at my dress to make sure I didn’t spill OJ all over myself when I chugged it straight from the bottle just before sprinting out the door.
“I want to see you,” he says, leaning across my lap to open my door from the inside. “Get out so I can see you.”
“Oh.” I climb out, smoothing my dress down my thighs, and walk to the front of the car. Finn doesn’t follow me out, he only slumps back against the seat and stares at me through the windshield. I watch his mouth say, “Jesus.”
“What?” I call.
Shaking his head, he says, “You look amazing.”
I look down at my dress. It’s sapphire blue—my best color—with a tight bodice and flared skirt that hits just above my knees. I’m wearing gold strappy heels, and around my throat is the simple gold arrow necklace my father bought me for my eighteenth birthday. To be honest, I barely focused on getting ready tonight, and it strikes me as a little funny that the night of the bar, when I wanted to look casually adorable, Finn teased me endlessly. Here, when I was distracted and chugging OJ like a hungover frat boy in my hurry to get back to him, he seems speechless.
When I climb back in the car, he immediately leans across the console, taking my face in his hands, and looks at me for a heavy, pounding heartbeat before he presses his mouth to mine. As soon as we touch, his lips part slightly and he exhales a quiet “Oh,” and then leans closer, taking my bottom lip between his. When I feel the teasing slide of his tongue, it’s done, I’m done.
My hands are in his hair, and I want so much more I’m nearly wild. I want to feel him along every inch of me. His sounds are so deep and quiet they’re like vibrations that go straight to my bones, rattling me, turning me into nothing but individual pieces of a girl: hands that shake, and blood that rushes too strong in her veins, and legs that push her up off her seat and over onto him. He reaches to his side, flipping his seat back with ease, and I’m crashing over him, legs spread over his lap. He yanks me down, grinding up into me and I cry out when I feel the thick press of his cock between my legs.
When he groans, the sound pushes a button somewhere inside that unleashes the frenzy. I don’t care that we’re in the car in the middle of a street. It’s quiet. It’s dusk. We may as well be alone on an island somewhere for all I care about the setting.
Feel him, take him in your body and feel him. It’s been too long.
He’s one step ahead of me, reaching between us to unzip his pants and shove them down his hips and I feel his bare cock on my thigh; the skin is paradoxically warm and soft around something so inflexible. His fingers fumble with my underwear, pushing them aside, not even bothering to take them off, fingertips seeking and finding me wet and greedy, my unintelligible sounds telling him where I need him to be.
“We doing this?” he rasps.
I nod urgently and he holds himself for me to take in. It’s all happening so fast, he’s sinking deep inside, and we’re gasping because it’s so good.
It’s so good.
His gaze catches mine and the relief in his expression makes me feel shaky and fragile, like blown glass. I’ve missed this, I need this.
I think I need him.
He sits up, kissing me wet and messy, groaning against my teeth when he’s buried inside and grunts these tiny perfect sounds of approval every time I rock forward and back, whispering, Like that, and Ah, so good, and, Jesus, baby, I can’t . . . He trails off, more kissing, more teeth grazing my lips, my jaw, my neck. More sounds of need. Just please . . . I can’t.
He reaches between us, two fingers so gently petting where I need him. A ragged groan tears from his throat, and I hear the tiny hiccupping sounds I’m making, begging, so close—
“Oh, shit, I’m coming,” he gasps right when I’m falling. And I throw my head back and scream—because it feels so different—and at the same time he cries out, arching from the seat and wildly shoving deeper into me, my body clutching and squeezing all around him. It feels like forever that I’m coming and kissing him and his hands are on my face and his sounds are pressed into my skin in my tiny car with no tint on the windows, at the peak of the sunset in Indian summer.
I love him.
I love him.
I crumple against his chest, on the verge of tears. It’s a relief I can barely process—being with him like this again, even if it’s in the front seat of my car with the skirt of my dress billowing around me. He feels so sturdy, his heart pounding against my ear.
Finn twitches inside me, his shaking breath ruffling my hair. “Harlow,” he says quietly, exhaling in a tight burst.
“I know,” I agree. “Holy shit that was amazing.”
“No . . .” He pulls my shoulders so I’m sitting upright, and I feel the press of him, still hard, still inside me. “Baby, we didn’t use anything.” His face is so close to mine, his eyes searching and anxious. “I don’t have a condom on.”
I groan and start to climb off him but then stop, reconsidering our attire. I really don’t want to Monica Lewinsky it into the party with this blue dress. “Can you grab me a tissue from the glove compartment?”
He nods, reaching around me, and somehow manages to retrieve one. It’s such a real moment, and in such stark contrast to the wild fucking of a minute ago, that I feel a little light-headed. Just as I move to pull away, he reaches for me, touching two fingers to my jaw and whispering, “Shh, wait, wait, wait. Come here.”
I lean in, closing my eyes and giving in to the sensation of melting into him as he groans, digging his hand into my hair to hold me close. His tongue slides against mine, gentler now. My heart is slamming into my breastbone from exertion, and from the teasing adrenaline of my impending panic.
“Are you okay?” he says against my mouth.
I nod. “I can’t believe we did that.”
“Me, either.”
“I guess we should go clean up before the party.”
We adjust our clothes and stumble out of the car. Back at the front door, he pulls his keys from his pocket, unable to meet my eyes when he quietly asks, “Are you on the pill?”
“No.” I try to do the math to figure out where I am in my cycle—I think I’m supposed to get my period in a matter of days—but I don’t want to linger on the potential implications of the unprotected sex we just had. I want to stay in the happy, jelly-limbed place of bliss and my newfound admission that I’m totally freaking in love with Finn Roberts.
“It’ll be fine,” I tell him, with absolutely no proof whatsoever. It just feels good to say it, and as soon as I do, I feel sure of it. It will be fine! Everything will be fine!
He nods and walks inside, leading me down the hall to the small bathroom next to the room he’s been staying in. I turn and look through the open bedroom door as he stops and grabs a washcloth from the hall closet. His suitcase is open on the bed, filled with neatly folded clothes.
“You’re leaving tomorrow?”
“Maybe,” he says. And then, “Well, probably not. I don’t know.” He nods toward the bathroom, indicating I lead us inside.
Turning on the hot faucet, he holds his hand underneath until the water heats, and then wets the cloth. “Come here.”
I watch him reach under my dress, and close my eyes as his hand glides up the inside of my thigh, around to my hip, and he slips my underwear down my legs to my knees. I gasp when he gently slides the warm cloth between my legs.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.” More than okay. Heaven. “It feels nice.”
He reaches under my dress with his other hand, wrapping his fingers around my hip and squeezing. “I mean, you. Are you okay?”
“Are you okay?” I volley back.
He looks up at me, smiles a genuine smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Even if I’m knocked up?”
“Yeah. We’ll figure it out.”
I swallow, nodding. “Then I’m okay, too.”
His expression straightens and he blurts, “Tell me that wasn’t just sex for you.”
Reeling from this, I slide my hands into his hair and pull him into me. “It went way past ‘just sex’ a while ago. I think that’s why I wanted to stop. There’s too much else going on. For both of us,” I add.
He tilts his chin to look up at me, resting it on my navel. “We gonna try to do this anyway? I mean”—he swallows nervously—“I really want you, but not just like this anymore.”
I bite my lip, wanting to unload all of my angst about the last two weeks: worrying about my mother, using Finn for distraction, and then becoming so absorbed in him I feared I would want so much more than either of us could manage. And now he’s telling me he wants it, too. I close my eyes, thinking about the television show, and the stipulation that he not be in a relationship, and the thinly veiled goal to find him an on-screen romance. Now the easiest path forward—signing on to the show—would make a relationship between us impossible. Even if he passed on the show and went home to try to salvage the business, we’d never see each other because he would be working even more than he is now.
“I want it so bad I feel like I can’t breathe,” he says, squeezing his hand around the back of my thigh so I’ll look down at him. “I’ve been trying to focus on everything going on back home, but I can’t think about anything but this.”
“I want this, too,” I tell him. “I’m just not sure how it would work.”
He stands, kissing my jaw and intentionally misunderstanding me when he says, “We could skip the party and I could show you.”
I start to answer, “Absolutely,” but then pause. Something clicks, like a lock turning in my thoughts. There is one way to salvage his business without him having to do the show, and it’s been right in front of me this entire time.
WE WALK INTO the party holding hands. Something has shifted between us, and it’s so achingly tender that I want to launch myself at him every time he looks at me, or speaks to me, or puts his hand around my back and curls his fingers around my hip as if there’s a hold there made just for him.
Dad, who came here alone without Mom tonight, sees us as we walk into the kitchen and excuses himself from the small group conversation he’s engaged in to come greet us.
“You must be Finn,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’m Harlow’s father, Alexander Vega.”
Only two boys I’ve dated have ever met my father, and they were stammering, anxious messes the entire time. In a way, it’s understandable. For one, my father has won two Academy Awards, and is a fairly well-known name for a cinematographer. But he’s also tall, and muscular, and perfectly capable of being intimidating when he wants to be.
But right now, I can tell he doesn’t want to be. And it doesn’t matter anyway, because Finn—who is admittedly enormous in comparison—greets him with a firm shake, a confident smile, and a “Thanks so much for inviting me along.”
My father puts his arm around Finn’s shoulders and leads him deeper into the room to be introduced to some people. Dad tilts his head to me, indicating I join them, of course, but I’d rather watch the two of them greet Dad’s colleagues and do the guy-bonding thing I’ve never seen my father do with a guy I’ve so much as kissed.
This guy-bonding thing is exactly what I need to happen tonight.
I head into the kitchen to get a drink and say hi to Salvatore’s daughters. They’re six and eight years older than I am and still living with their parents; Valentina and Ekaterina Marìn are two of the most spoiled “children” I’ve ever met in the film industry, but it’s easier to just be friendly than avoid them, because Dad and Sal work together on more than half of their projects.
I kiss each of them on the cheek and smile that this time, Valentina smells like Chanel, and Ekaterina smells like something new . . . Prada Infusion d’Iris, maybe. Their biggest fight two years ago caused them to not speak for three months and was over which sister could claim Chanel No. 5 as her signature scent.
This is what Finn used to think I was like.
“Your boyfriend sure is something,” Valentina says, lifting her chin in Finn’s direction.
I pour myself a glass of sparkling water. “He is.”
“Rugged,” she purrs.
“I love the blue-collar ones,” Ekaterina adds.
Oh, here we go. I look back into the room at Finn and know exactly how they spot it even though he’s wearing dress pants and a dress shirt: He just looks out of place here. He’s muscular in a way that bucks the Hollywood slender trend, his hair is cut short, and he stands with his legs set shoulder-width apart, as if constantly steadying himself against an incoming wave.
“He owns a fishing business,” I tell them.
“Ooooh,” Ekaterina coos. “Niche.”
I plaster on a smile that turns genuine when their father walks into the kitchen, and I tilt my head to him when he leans to kiss my cheek. His daughters may be unbearable, but Salvatore has been like a second father to Bellamy and me.
“And how is my darling girl?” he asks.
“I’m doing fantastic. Congratulations again on the new business, Fancypants. You must be excited.”
“I am. I’ve also been gunning to get your father to come on board for Release Horizon.”
“It sounds like he’s already there,” I tell him.
“Now I just need to get you to come work for me and the world will be settled perfectly.”
I take a deep breath and say, “Actually, Sal, I wanted to talk to you about that . . .”
FINN PRESSES ME against the wall outside my apartment, growling into my neck over how long it’s taking me to find my keys. We nearly pulled over to the side of the road four times on the short drive back to my place, because his hand was in my dress, his mouth on my neck, his fingers guiding mine to his lap when he pulled his cock free, whispering for me to feel him.
You’re getting me all fucking messy, Harlow. You gonna lick this clean when we get there?
He was messy and slick when I slid my hand all the way down his length. I’d stroked him until he’d lifted his hips from the seat, began grunting quietly with every stroke of my hand over the head of his cock as I steered with the other hand. I’d brought him to the edge—panting and rigid—and then parked in front of my building.
He groaned, stilling my hand. “Not in the car again.”
The metallic ring of my keys echoes down the hall as I jangle them free of my purse, and, still smashed up against me, Finn grabs them from my hand, opening the door and pushing me inside. I’m on my back on the floor only a split second before the sound of the door slamming shut rings through the apartment.
Finn hovers over me like a predator, inspecting his hunt. I slide my hand down his body, gripping the thick, inflexible shape of him through his dress pants, intent on finishing what I’d started in the car. But he seems to have regained control, and reaches for my hand, moving it away.
“When I met you at the bar back in June,” he says, gaze traveling from my lips to my hair to my neck, “you walked up to me and looked me up and down like I was put up for auction, and then sat down right next to me and said, ‘I’d love a tequila gimlet.’ It was like liquid slowly spilled out on that chair. You were so fucking beautiful.”
“Like an oil spill?”
He wipes a hand across his face, eyes crinkling in my favorite Finn smile. “Exactly. I just knew I would never be able to clean you off.” We both laugh and then his expression straightens. “I’ve never been able to be myself with anyone, not the way I am with you.” He bends down, kisses me. “I just figured you only wanted fucking, and so it’s the only place my mind went. I didn’t think we fit this way.”
“Me, either,” I admit quietly. “I just assumed you were like every other guy and would disappoint quickly enough.”
“That may still be true,” he says, kissing along my jaw. “I might just take a little longer.”
What he’s doing feels so good, just his lips on my throat and his fingers slyly sliding my dress up over my hips. “Take all the time you need,” I mumble.
He talks as he undresses me. “You liked watching me at that party tonight?”
One of my shoes, and then the other, hits the floor.
“Yeah.” In fact, I loved it. He didn’t seem completely in his element, but he was happy enough to try, for me. It’s what we’ll do for each other, I can tell. We’ll try to find that common ground and live there.
“Did you refer to me as your boyfriend to the Kardashian look-alikes in the kitchen?”
His hands slide up under my dress, hands spread across my hips before he grabs and pulls my underwear down my legs. Way, way too slowly for my mood.
I push up into his touch. “I didn’t refer to you that way, but your fangirls seemed disappointed that it might be true.”
He rolls me slightly to reach behind me and unzip my dress. “Did you confirm I’m taken?”
“They knew,” I say, arching so he can slide my dress down my body. When I’m completely naked, and he’s staring at me like I’m Thanksgiving dinner and the Crown Jewels and a Playboy centerfold all rolled into one naked body, I add, “They could tell from the way you looked at me.”
He snorts, unbuttoning his dress shirt. “The way I looked at you?”
“Yeah.”
He shrugs out of his shirt and leans back over me, immense. “And how do I look at you?”
His arms strain against the cotton of his undershirt and it seems somehow to barely contain his biceps, the width of his chest. The way the T-shirt is smoothly tucked into the flat front of his black dress pants . . . sweet Jesus.
He runs a warm palm up my stomach and spreads his giant hand across my ribs. “Snap?”
“Shh, Poodle. I’m having a Johnny Castle, Dirty Dancing moment right now.”
“Is this a good thing or a bad thing?” he asks, bending to lick up my neck.
“I carried a watermelon.”
He pulls back and looks at me before ducking to sniff my breath. “How drunk are you?”
“For the love of God, man, I’m not drunk. Get naked or put that mouth between my legs.”
I expect him to be a good boy and comply—he’s been so good tonight—but he disappoints.
Standing, he reaches for my hand and pulls me up, wrapping his arms around my waist. “I’m not fucking you on the floor,” he says.
“Then why did you put me there?”
“Impatient. Maybe clumsy.”
I laugh. There is not a clumsy bone in Finn’s body, but there are definitely 206 impatient ones.
He leads me down the hall to my bedroom, passing the hall closet without a second glance.
“You’re not going to tie me up tonight?”
He shakes his head.
“But I like it.”
I hear his quiet laugh. “I like it, too. I just don’t want to do it every time we’re together.”
“I’ll put my hands all over you,” I say, as if it’s a threat.
“That’s the point.” He turns, bending to kiss my neck and inhales slowly, smelling me.
Reaching down, I pull his shirt free from his pants. “So the rope isn’t really for bondage, it’s—”
“Sometimes it is,” he admits quietly, sucking on my pulse point. “I like the freedom it gives me to touch you any way I want. I think we both know I’m a controlling type.”
I laugh and it turns into a moan when he runs his hand down my shoulder and across my breast.
“But I also just like the evidence of it.”
I bite my lip, grinning as I unbuckle his belt, unfasten his pants, and push them down his hips. “ ‘The evidence?’ ”
He watches my mouth, stepping out of his clothes. “I like leaving marks. I like seeing you wet, and watching you walk differently in the morning because I fucked you so good your legs aren’t working right.” Finn swipes his tongue over my throat, making me shiver. “How you looked the morning I saw you at Starbucks? You’ll never look like that after a night with me.”
I exhale a jagged breath when he sucks hard against my shoulder, pulling a mark to the surface. “I like seeing what I do to you,” he says, “especially you, because I can tell how much you trust me—and seeing how good I can make you feel makes me insane. Rope is just something I’m very, very . . .” He lifts his head from my neck and kisses my mouth, my jaw, my cheek, and hovers near my ear, whispering, “Very comfortable handling.”
“Oh.” Oh sweet lord. I’m aching, my skin flushed. I swear if he touches me between my legs once I will go off like a bomb. “So possessive,” I mumble, arching my neck to give him better access.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “That’s exactly it.” Studying me, he guides me to lie on the bed and crawls over me. He’s massive in the dark room, a planet looming over my bed. Slowly bending his head to my chest, he licks my nipple, sucking and playing with my breasts until the tips are swollen and aching, flushed and hot. “Like this,” he whispers, bending to lick, and suck, and pull the peak between his lips some more until my skin glistens in the shadowed room. “I like these wet and hard . . .”
He bends again, biting just beneath my nipple. His teeth press in harder and sharper until the only sensation I’m aware of is the sharp line of them, the pressure and the delicious sting, sting, sting—
“Ah!” I cry out, and just before I think he’ll draw blood he pulls back, running his tongue over the bite mark, kissing it sweetly.
“Feel good?” he purrs into my skin.
I’m about to answer, “Hell no,” but the pain is gone and in its place is a feeling unlike anything I’ve experienced before: throbbing heat and intense pleasure commingle. His bite has created a tiny spot of insatiable hunger on my chest. I want his mouth back there, sucking and soothing and biting me more.
“More,” I manage.
Finn’s eyes seem to gleam with victory at my reaction—my hands pulling his face to my chest, back arched off the bed—and very carefully he bites deep grooves into an intricate pattern all over my breasts. Around my nipples and in the full curve below. Along the sides, and at the smooth slope of them just above the swollen peaks.
He kisses each spot, licking and sucking until my skin shines, and I’m on the verge of screaming. He drags my hand up so I can feel each small indentation. “Touch them,” he says, dragging his teeth down over my shoulder, to my arm. “Tell me how it feels when I lick you.”
The tiny grooves remind me of the rope marks, but are more intimate somehow. These red marks that tell the room and the sky and the swollen moon outside for only a tiny trip of time: I belong to him. My body is his.
I don’t want them to disappear, and can tell he doesn’t, either, returning to the first one, pushing his possession back into my skin.
I need his body pressed to mine, covering my breasts so the puff of his breath across the peaks won’t make me cry out, and I want the wet, soothing slide of his tongue over the sensitive bite marks. I feel cracked open, devoured and hollowed out, filled with a desire so consuming and deep I can sense how warm and soft I am beneath him, ready to pull him down onto me. Into me.
He sucks at me while his hands are busy elsewhere and I hear the crinkle of a condom wrapper and the wet sound of its lubricant as he rolls the latex down his length.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says into my skin as he positions himself and then presses his chest to mine, sliding into me in a long, smooth stroke.
I might be screaming or cursing or begging—I don’t know. My skin is aching for friction but terrified of it all the same. It’s a divine torture. The bite marks pulse and heat, and my chest is so wet Finn slides across me, groaning as he moves in and out. Oh God. The drag of his skin across my breasts burns and aches, pleasures and soothes, and when he lifts his chest away I need it back. Pulling him down over me I beg for faster.
Please . . .
“Tell me how it feels,” he rasps.
“It feels . . . it feels . . .” My breasts are pulsing with every heartbeat and so sensitive I’m sure he could drag his tongue across the peak and—
Finn bends and presses his flattened tongue just below my nipple and drags it up just as he shoves in deep and begins fucking me in these tiny perfect jabs. I cry out, clutching him.
It feels like I’m yours.
His tongue soothes the burn but makes me arch, makes me beg and beg for his hips to move faster and his mouth to make my breasts wetter and for him to please
please
please
please make me come.
He makes a noise against my skin right when I jerk beneath him, gasping. His sound is half laugh, half thrilled groan and in a flash he draws my hands up over my head, pinning me, working me with his hips and his mouth until I’m thrashing.
I’m filling with pressure, climbing, skin flushing hot and wet, and then I’m screaming his name, consumed by the silvery, pulsing of pleasure until I can’t differentiate any particular touch. It’s only Finn over me and the pleasure tearing through me and his soft hoarse sounds of encouragement: “That’s it. That’s it. Oh, fuck me, you’re coming. Oh fuck.”
It’s strange to lose one’s mind, but it’s what he does to me—in these moments of wild bliss, when I’ve just come and he’s losing himself in me—everything else in the world disappears. The stars could fall, the ocean could take over the land, and I wouldn’t even realize it until long after Finn slows his hips and runs his hand up my leg and along my side, until he reaches my jaw, cupping it and telling me he’s never wanted anything the way he wants me.
IN FACT, IF the world ended tonight, I suspect we wouldn’t hear about it until morning. Finn gets out of bed only long enough to get rid of the condom and come back with a wet cloth, wiping the lubricant from my skin so he can do some of the most wicked things with his mouth between my legs.
His tongue laps at me, he grazes me with his teeth and growls like a wild animal, spreading my legs apart with one hand gripping my thigh, fingering me with the other. I feel the full depraved meaning of the phrase eating her out. He is devouring.
And then, with his eyes pinned up the length of my body, he slides his fingers lower and does something so unexpected, the only way he knows I like it is the way I scream when I come harder against his mouth than I think I ever have before.
Finn kisses my thigh, my hip, my navel, rasping, “Fucking hell.”
And then he pulls me down the mattress, setting my feet on the floor so he can bend me over the bed.
“You sore yet, you dirty fucking girl?” he asks quietly, tearing a new condom packet open with his teeth.
I turn and look at him over my shoulder, lifting my chin in challenge. “No.”
“Good.”
Because when he positions himself and pushes in so deep I collapse against the bed, I know he’s going to fuck me, dirty and hard.
It’s Vegas all over again: rowdy, with his palm on my ass and his other hand digging so hard into my hip I look forward to the tiny bruises I know I’ll find tomorrow. But I finally recognize Vegas for what it was: It wasn’t his “usual” stranger fuck, Finn being domineering and rough. It was Finn unbound, Finn laid bare with me, his perfectly matched stranger. All at once I know with someone else he would have been careful that first night—slower-handed, softer words, easy, rolling hips—but with me he couldn’t be.
He could only do rowdy because he felt what I felt: that whip-crack unleashing that comes when you meet the person who frees you.
Finn lowers us to the floor, running his hand down my sweat-slicked spine, and then I feel his own sweaty chest press into my back as he curls over me, entering me again and immediately riding me fast and smooth, his greedy hands cupping my breasts.
He’s insatiable on the floor, against the wall, back up on the bed with my legs on his shoulders. It’s like this, under the firm touch of his fingers, that I come apart with a scream and his teeth bared against my ankle. I can tell he’s close to his own release but he slows his thrusts, humming into my leg.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask, running my hand down his sweaty chest and lowering my legs to his sides.
“It feels fucking amazing,” he says through heavy breaths, bending to kiss me. “I want to come, but I also don’t.”
“There’s no rush,” I purr, pulling him down so his chest presses all along mine.
“I got a taste of you bare, earlier,” he admits quietly. “Do you have any idea how good you feel without this fucking condom? I can’t stop thinking about how warm and sweet you were.”
How is it possible I’d forgotten what we’d done in the car? A mixture of longing and anxiety shadows my thoughts.
“It’s like I’m trying to fuck this thing off.” He laughs into my shoulder and begins moving again. I remember how warm he felt, how smooth.
I want to feel it, too.
I push on his chest so he pulls out of me and I reach for him, sliding the condom off.
“No, Harlow, I didn’t mean—”
“Shh, I know,” I say, reaching for the wet cloth on the bed and using it to wipe him off this time. “Come here.”
I lay back, pulling his hips up higher, over my face. Of all the things he’s done to me, he’s never let himself finish this way.
With his knees on the mattress at my sides, he carefully slips between my lips, and into my mouth.
“Fuck.” He groans, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
He gives me tentative, short strokes at first until he’s wet and hungry and so tight against my tongue that I can’t help but make little desperate noises as he moves deeper. There is nothing in this world I want more right now than watching him slowly start to climb, his hands flat against the wall at the head of the bed, his chest shuddering with his jagged exhales. He chokes out a tight “Close.”
I slide my hands up his thighs, and to the middle, circling his base and behind his balls with both hands.
“Keep doing that and I’m coming in your mouth,” he warns.
I squeeze my hands, suck harder, and he arches his back, swelling against my tongue and coming with the hottest fucking groan I’ve ever heard in my life. He hovers over me, sweat dripping from his forehead onto the pillow beside my head, watching me with flared nostrils and savage eyes as I lick and kiss him.
Pulling slowly away, he sits back on his heels over me, catching his breath. “My God.”
His cock rests heavily on my chest and I feel thoroughly wrecked, in the best way. I’m exhausted, boneless, sweaty, and probably the most satisfied woman in the history of sexual relations.
Scooting down my body, Finn seems far more serious. He does a careful inspection of my breasts in the dim light filtering in through the bedroom window. His fingers trail across the nearly vanished bite marks. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
He lowers himself, covering my chest in small, sucking kisses. “I needed this tonight.”
“I needed it, too,” I say in a burst, exhaling a huge breath. “It’s scary how much.”
“You good?” he asks, rising above me in the dark. “You need more?”
“I’m perfect.” He could go again? Holy shit.
He bends and kisses the tip of my nose, as if he can see every one of my features in the dark. “Yeah.”
For all his surly expressions and monosyllabic answers, Finn is a surprisingly generous lover. I’m sort of rocked by the realization that he gets off on my pleasure more than he does when I touch him.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of amazing?” I blame my post-multi-orgasm high for the way my voice comes out a little shaky.
But, predictably, he laughs, pressing a kiss between my breasts. “No.” He gets up to walk across the room and into my bathroom, getting a drink of water.
“Well, for the record, you’re amazing, Sunshine.”
When he returns, the mattress dips and I feel the unbelievable heat of his body slide behind me beneath the covers. He’s careful not to jostle me but curls along my spine, the thick band of his arm sliding around my waist, hand splayed across my stomach with a new, thrilling possession. Eventually my breathing evens out and I’m in that delicious space just before sleep, where everything in the entire world is perfect.
“It’s you,” he whispers, and then bends to kiss my hair.
It’s you.
And suddenly, I’m on an epic mental bender, imagining all of the things he could have meant when he said it. It takes no time for him to clarify, though.
“I want to be good to you.” He rolls me to face him, and kisses me once before admitting, “I’m just fucking wild for you.”
“I think I spotted that just now,” I whisper.
“I mean,” he clarifies, “the I love you kind of wild.”
I feel every drop of blood in my body collect in my chest, pressure and thrill building, and then it bursts into my limbs in a mad rush of adrenaline and relief and a love so enormous I feel light-headed.
“Yeah?” I ask through a smile so dopey I’m relieved he can’t see me very well in the dark room.
But his laugh tells me I’m wrong, and he can see me just fine. “Yeah.”
I manage to say it back, laughing into the firm press of his mouth over mine, hard and rowdy, all over again.
