Like Gravity(51)

The more time I spent with him in that room, the harder it was to focus on the task at hand. Being this near to him for hours and completely unable to touch him was torturous for me, yet he seemed completely unaffected. Maybe I was the only one who felt the growing tension between us, filling the air with unspoken promises and unvoiced desires.

He painted with a single-minded determination I couldn’t match, evidently intent on finishing the project before the day ended. My arms were aching, my feet were sore from standing all day, and I’d been ready to call it quits hours ago. Between the darkness of the room, the hours of manual labor, and the exhausting battle I was having with my inner hussy – who wanted nothing more than to tackle him and show my eternal gratitude for all he’d done – I was ready to drop.

“Take a break,” Finn suggested quietly.

“Am I that obvious?” I asked. I thought I’d been successful at hiding my growing exhaustion, but apparently he was more attuned to my body than I’d realized.

“Brooklyn, you’re swaying on your feet. The ceiling is practically done, all that’s left to do is touch up the edging. Lie down,” he ordered, yanking the drop cloth off my bed to expose my comforter. I moved toward the bed in a daze, truly exhausted. It was past ten – we’d been painting for nearly seven hours.

“Wait,” he said, dropping the edger he was holding and walking over to me. I stilled, several feet away from my bed, and watched his approach. He had a smudge of indigo paint on his forehead and another by his jawline, places he’d likely touched absentmindedly with his paint-covered hands. His dark hair was sticking up in wayward clumps and it looked slightly sweaty; for some reason, I found that incredibly sexy. He was usually so put together, so self-assured – Finn looking like a bit of a disheveled mess was a something I’d bet not many people had witnessed.

I smiled at the thought.

“You’ll ruin your bed if you get in like that,” he whispered, coming to a stop inches from me. He reached out a hand and tugged the front zipper of my coveralls, dragging it down so slowly the breath caught in my chest. I don’t know how he made stripping me of baggy painting clothes into something sensual, but I shouldn’t have been surprised. This was Finn, after all – he could make just about anything sexy.

Except Crocs. No one can make Crocs sexy.

When the zipper reached the end of its downward journey, Finn lifted his hands and pushed the material from my shoulders. It slid off quickly, pooling around my feet in a white and blue-splattered cloud and leaving me in only my tank top and shorts.

“Step out,” he murmured, taking one of my hands in each of his and guiding me toward him. My heart fluttered in my chest and I felt a swarm of butterflies explode into flight in my stomach. Staring up into his dark eyes, my hands found their way up to rest on his broad shoulders.

His eyes were hooded, and I immediately saw the desire that swirled in their depths. My hands slid from his shoulders around to the front of his coveralls, the residual paint on them leaving blue streaks in their wake. When my fingers found the zipper, they trembled.

Finn leaned down slowly and pressed a kiss to the hollow of my throat. My hands began to move, drifting downward and dragging the zipper along with them. As my fingers traced slowly down across his stomach, I felt the muscles there contract and an involuntary puff of air slipped out from between his lips.

When there was no more tread left in the zipper, I slid my hands lightly back up to his shoulders, taking my time to graze each taut muscle of his abs and chest as I went. His head lifted from the crook of my neck and he started down into my eyes as I gently shoved the material of his coveralls off his shoulders. His eyes darkened even further, the cobalt irises nearly disappearing into the black of his pupils.

The material dropped around his feet, revealing a tight black v-neck and faded gray jeans that looked like they’d been washed a million times and fit him like a dream. He was utterly still, watching me. Waiting to see what I’d do next.

“Step out,” I whispered, echoing his earlier command.

At my words, he took one stride forward and was on me, invading my space completely and hauling me up against his chest. His mouth crashed down against mine and I lifted up automatically onto my tiptoes, determined to meet his kiss head on. I poured all my pent up frustrations from the day into that kiss, letting my lips tell him in no uncertain terms what I’d never admit out loud – that I’d been suffering without his touch for hours and wouldn’t, couldn’t, stand another minute without his hands on my skin.

He groaned into my mouth, a sound that made me want to do cartwheels around the room because it told me he’d been suffering too – he was just better at hiding it, apparently. His hands were everywhere, skimming from my hips up my sides, just grazing the undersides of my breasts before moving away to explore the small of my back. His fingers lightly traced the exposed skin between the edge of my tank top and the elastic of my thin cotton shorts, and mine were fully ensconced in the unruly hair at the nape of his neck.

His lips were relentless, his tongue unhesitant and proprietary as it entered my mouth, like he was reclaiming something that was already his. I tugged at his hair, trying to pull him even closer – to deepen his crushing kiss.

I wanted more.

His hands slipped beneath my tank top and traced along my spine, sending shivers radiating through all my limbs. I’d never felt like this – so out of control in my need to possess someone. And I’d certainly never before wanted to be possessed in turn. But right now, I had to push all of my normal hang-ups about sex from my mind, because Finn was invading my senses completely and using up all my brainpower. When he was in my head, there was simply no room for anyone, anything, else.