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When I reach the button between my breasts, he stops me. “That’s good enough. Do it up again.”
I would’ve kept going. I’ve never considered myself a seductress, but maybe it’s just been hiding under the surface. I do up all the buttons and go to pick up my sweater.
“Hang on.” He pulls back from the camera. “Hmm.”
“What is it?”
“They’re not right. Better in theory than reality.”
It took hardly any effort to get the first three photos. Maybe I’m trying too hard. I touch my face. “Is it me?”
“No. It just doesn’t say what the coffee pictures do.”
God, I need some of that right now—a mug to hold, something to sip when doubt rears its head. “Maybe it would work better with the caption?” I suggest.
“They should work separately and together, your words and my pictures, don’t you think?”
It makes sense. I’ve attempted to paint a picture with one line. He wants his photo to tell a story. “What I wrote isn’t about a girl undressing herself,” I say. “You should do it.”
“Do what?”
“Unbutton my blouse. That would be more accurate.”
He blinks down to the floor, then back up. “I want to be the one to take the photo.”
“Put it on a timer. If you set up the shot, it’s still yours.”
He considers this and returns to playing with the camera. “Take a small step back. Show me your throat, like you did before.”
My insides quiver. His commands are serious, businesslike, but he wants people to look at these photos and think of sex, and how can that not turn me on?
When he seems satisfied, he looks up. “Ready for me?”
I nod. “I think so.”
“Don’t move. Let me do the moving.”
That’s harder than it sounds. I’m already trying not to squirm. He presses a button. Comes to me. Gets close. Moves behind me, even closer, until his front warms my back. He can’t be more than inch from me. “I’m going to touch you now.”
My skin is like one giant exposed nerve anticipating his hands. He doesn’t touch me, though, not really. He hums in my ear, “Count to three.”
“One.”
He raises his hands, and they hover at my throat.
“Two.”
His stubble ghosts against my cheek, giving me goosebumps.
“Three.”
He undoes the first button, barely even touching the fabric, as the camera snaps. Despite that, or maybe because of it, I shiver. His lips brush the side of my head, his breath in my hair, as he continues down. “I don’t want to stop,” he whispers.
“Then don’t.”
“I have to.”
He stops opening my blouse. I hold his wrists to keep him there, and he steps into me, his hardness pressing into my lower back. When I exhale, it comes out as a pained, unnatural sound. “Please,” I say.
“Please what? What are you asking for?”
“Anything. I-I want this.”
He pulls his hands from mine, and slides one down the front of me. He grips me between the legs and backs me against him, reminding me with his intimidating length that he wants me too. “I already told you why I can’t, but when you beg . . .”
My heart beats in my stomach. I need relief. To feel good. I move against him, pleading with my hips. “Is that what you need?” I ask. “For me to beg?”
“I need you to not beg.”
I’m overcome, and it’s a first for me. Everything over the last week has been foreplay, leading to this moment. If he pulls away for good, I’ll be forced back into a restricted state of arousal. “What if I do it?” I ask.
“Do what?”
I push his hand away and slip mine down the front of my skirt, into the elastic of my tights. “It’s not cheating if I do it to myself.”
“You wouldn’t.”
He’s right—I wouldn’t. Not normally. But I am, that’s how desperate he makes me. I slide a finger along the damp seat of my thong. Surprised by how wet I am, I envision Finn easily slipping into me and moan.
“You’re not fighting fair.”
“I’m not the one fighting.” His erection alone assures me he wants this too. Emboldened by that knowledge, I go out on a limb to hopefully persuade him. “I want this, Finn. Tell me what I have to do to get it. What do you need?”
When he answers, he pronounces each word, as if it’s taking all his concentration to speak. “It can’t be about what I need.”
“I need it.”
His ensuing silence isn’t a no, and it’s the permission I need. I’ve been circling the idea since I met Finn, but now I can leap knowing Finn will catch me—and that he wants to. “I’ll end it with Rich right now. My phone’s in the kitchen.”
“No.” He puts a hand around my bicep, keeping me where I am. “You shouldn’t decide like this.”
I cling to the hesitation in his voice. “It’s already over for me. I just have to make sure he knows so you’ll believe me.”
“Halston.”
He could be warning or pleading with me, but either way, his resolve is weakening. I can sense it. If I leave the room, I might break the spell, so I pull my hand out of my skirt and feel behind us for his back pocket. I slip his phone out. My fingers shake as I try to correctly type in the passcode.
“You need a clear head for this,” he says. “We both do.”
“It’s not as impulsive as it seems.” I dial Rich’s number and hold my breath. It rings twice before going to voicemail. I need to tell Rich we’re over—for all of our sakes. Rich deserves that before anything happens. So does Finn.
“Rich, it’s me,” I start.
“Halston, please,” Finn whispers.
With just my name, I understand what he’s trying to tell me. This is wrong. No matter how badly I want this, I can’t break up with Rich over a message. Reluctantly, I say, “Call me when you get this. We need to talk.”
Finn takes the phone from my hand, hangs up, and puts it away. “There’s no rush.” He’s still pressed against me. I’m not sure how he’s restraining himself when I’ve told him how badly I want this.
“I’m going to end things with him. You believe me, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So what does it matter if I do it tonight or tomorrow? It’s over.”
“Once I start thinking of you as mine, that changes everything.” There’s undeniable need in his voice—sadness too. “I can’t let myself believe you’re mine if you’re not. I’m the one who’ll get hurt.”
He must not realize that the idea of staking his claim only makes me want this more. I gyrate against him. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I want to be yours.”
He grabs my hip, his fingers digging into my skin, trying to still me. “You have to slow down.”
“I don’t want to with you. Everyone else tells me to calm down or take it easy or go slow. I want to be myself with you, Finn. I want to be allowed to want you this way.”
He drops his face into the crook of my neck and sighs deeply. One arm wraps around me from behind and then his other. I continue to move against him and eventually, he answers, syncing his thrusts with mine. “Christ, Halston,” he mutters. “You’re killing me here.”
“Then stop fighting me.”
He walks us forward a few steps. We reach a wall. I put my hands on it and push back against him. Momentarily, I think I’ve won. He’s going to rip off his pants and fuck me. But he just touches me through my clothing, circling his fingers over my clit quickly, as if our time together could end any second.
I curl my hands into fists, scraping the wall with my fingernails. He secures my back to his front as he slides his shaft up and down the crack of my ass. Even with layers of clothing separating us, he’s growing bigger, harder, engorged—or maybe that’s just what I believe because I’m seconds from falling apart. Even though I’d
rather wait to climax with him, his hand feels so good that I end up humping it.
“You’re going to make me come in my fucking pants,” he says.
He’s losing control. Knowing I have that power over him makes me crumble. I orgasm with Finn’s hand between my legs while he grinds into me and doesn’t fuck me. He takes my hips and thrusts against me more furiously, burying his face in my hair and groaning until he finishes.
If my heart pounds any harder, it’ll burst through my chest. Finn shudders behind me. “Fuck,” he says. “I had one rule.”
