Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(59)

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 f*cking 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 f*ck 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 f*ck, 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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*ck 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 f*cking 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?”