Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(30)

My breasts are framed by the cord crisscrossing over my sternum, and my arms are pinned at my back. The way Finn looks at me . . .

I feel like a f*cking queen.

He presses his hand to my chest, each finger splayed so that I register just how big his hands are. I feel carved out, and now I’m famished. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to feel someone as untethered as I want him to be with me.

He runs the tip of his tongue across my lower lip. As if reading my mind, he says, “You like it when I’m a little rough, don’t you?”

I nod. I have so much need. I crave the edge, the point just before I fall where I know the relief comes and he gives my body everything. But I know he’ll make me wait for it, and the anticipation has me shaking.

“You want me just a little rough?” he asks, hands shaking where he cups my face. “Or you want me f*cking wild?”

“Wild.”

He inhales, his flaring nostrils and scent making me feel as urgent as fire.

Finn reaches behind him, pulling his shirt over his head and then quickly unfastening his pants, pushing them and his boxers down his hips. He’s watching my face, my breasts, gauging my reaction as he undresses in front of me. Taking a step back, he lowers himself until he’s sitting on my couch, and curls his index finger.

“Come sit on my lap.”

I walk to him, straddling his thighs, and he steadies me with his hands on my waist.

“You good?” he asks in a quiet rasp.

When I nod, his hands slide up my sides and he grips my breasts, eyes on me as he sucks and licks, fingers moving up and over my chest, cupping me. Tongue flat, teasing.

With my arms bound, he pulls me up his body as he turns and lies on the couch, resting his head on the arm, legs stretched out behind me. Finn positions me with my legs spread over his mouth, rocking me there, and moaning, grunting against my skin. He keeps talking while he licks me, telling me he likes it, I taste good. Telling me I like it, that he can tell I’m going to come. I’m flushed, I’m shaking.

He barely moves at all, just whispering and kissing and licking and somehow . . . somehow just his breath and the heat, the press of his tongue against my clit . . . I’m starting to sweat from the effort of holding my body upright. His eyes flame, hands reaching away from my breasts to grip the cord behind my back, somehow both holding me upright and pulling me farther onto him.

I can’t grip the sofa. I can’t grip him. I can’t focus on anything, anything at all, and it feels so good to just let go. To hand it all over. I’m writhing against the intense pleasure, legs wide, body so hungry I want more pressure and more wet and more of him. All of my weight is on him or held up by his arms and I’m coming so hard my legs are shaking, my back curling sharply away as I cry out. Maybe I scream—I don’t have any idea other than I feel like I’ve exploded, melted, been put back together and he’s still talking, saying,

Good girl

Oh so f*cking good

You like that?

You like it?

You’re candy on my mouth, f*cking sweet Wet, so ready

You wanna get f*cked now?

Somehow, the last question presses into my thoughts and pulls a “Yes, please . . . now” from me.

His hands wrap around my hips, mouth sliding along my belly, my breasts, over my neck as he sits up and backs me onto his lap.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he groans when his cock slides between my legs. I whimper, wanting him inside, wanting to feel him tear loose and pound up into me.

Whispering, “Shh, shh, almost ready, almost,” Finn reaches to grab the condom at his hip and quickly tears it open. I’m gasping, feeling the sweat run down my neck and between my breasts.

Feeling the cool air on my forehead, my stomach. I’m trembling against him, trying to focus on one thing, but it’s impossible. Finn is gorgeous, his chest broad, every muscle tense, skin slick with sweat as he rolls the condom on.

“Oh God,” I gasp, when he kisses my breast, sucking the peak and groaning.

I’ve never felt this desperation—I’m bound, he’s huge, he could do anything he wants but . . .

look—look how careful and focused he is, look how he makes me come and talks to me and praises me. A tiny pulsing suspicion at the back of my mind tells me this urgency isn’t about escaping reality right now.

It’s about him.

“Hurry,” I whimper.

He steadies me with a hand on my thigh, holding his cock with the other hand, and whispers, “Okay, shh, shh, I’m ready, I’m ready. Here. Come here.”

I lower my body with his help, taking him in and oh God. It takes forever to feel the length of him ease into me. I’m shaking and a little wild, wanting to ride him, but he’s holding me down on him with one fist curled around the cord at my back, the other knotted in my hair. He’s so deep, so deep inside—and I swear I can feel his pulse, can taste his need to buck up into me.

He groans, rocking his hips just the slightest bit. “Don’t make any sounds,” he murmurs into my neck. “Your little sounds will make me come before I’m ready.”

I have to bite my lip to stay quiet, and he praises me for the effort with a kiss. With his hands spread wide on my hips and across my ass, he raises me, and lowers me, and when he raises me again, he holds me there, and then starts a fast, relentless rhythm up into me. He speaks the whole time, and it isn’t even really about what he’s saying, because half the time I’m lost and can’t process anyway.