Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(54)

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.