Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(58)

“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 f*cking 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, f*ck me, you’re coming. Oh f*ck. ”

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.