Dirty Rowdy Thing (Wild Seasons, #2)(60)

“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 f*cking 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.





Chapter TWELVE


Finn


I’M GROWING FAMILIAR with this position: in bed, my mind going nonstop while I stare up at the ceiling.

But this view is new, and instead of the shadow of palm trees on the plaster above me, there’s the shimmering night-reflection of a pool in the courtyard just outside. Harlow’s neighborhood is quieter than Oliver’s: There’s no teenage band playing in the garage on the corner, no barking dog in the yard next door, fewer cars passing by at every hour of the night.

It’s so peaceful—with only the soft, measured sound of her breathing right next to me—that I imagine if I try hard enough, I could hear the ocean a few blocks away. It’s pitch-black out and she’s been asleep for the last hour, her leg slung easily over my hip and practically every inch of her bare skin touching practically every inch of mine. And when she shifts in her sleep, tightening her grip on the sheet at my waist, it’s almost enough to distract me from the silence, to tempt me into waking her up and wearing her out all over again.

Almost.

I’ve never been a huge talker. I’ve never had the inclination to put into words all the things that are going on in my head. Never felt the need some people have to fill silence with pointless chatter. I get the feeling that’s usually who Harlow is for people—she’s the one who carries on the conversation and manages to pull sentences from even the least talkative person around—but she never really tries that with me. She can outtalk and outwit almost anyone I know, and yet when we’re together, she’s okay with my silence. She’s okay letting me be me.

I thought I knew what we were for each other, but underneath the stress and anxiety of the last few weeks, something changed. It’s a complication I wasn’t expecting and now that it’s here, I want it.

Last night was the first time we really talked about what we are, but did we actually decide anything? I want her. That’s all I really know.

Harlow mumbles something in her sleep and I shift to my side, brushing the hair from her face.

When I’m this close to her it’s easy to forget the stack of bills waiting on the boat, the broken-down equipment and the start of the next season that gets closer and closer every day.

But f*ck, I need to go home. I’ve been putting it off as long as I can but I’m needed there. I belong there. But how do I leave now? One smile or smart-ass comment from her and all my thoughts sort of rearrange themselves, the inappropriate, usually pornographic ones sliding to the front, while the important ones like family and responsibility are shuffled to the back.

I’ve tried to ignore it. I’ve tried to downplay the way my heart jumps in my chest when I hear her name, done my best to explain away the times I find myself thinking about her, wondering what she’s doing, worrying whether she’s all right. But I can’t anymore. I don’t want to.

Jesus, I’ve never thought this much about a woman in my life.

“Finn?”

I look down to see her blinking awake. “I’m here,” I tell her. I kiss her temple, her cheek, let my hand move down her body to rest at her hip.