Page 16

Eleven minutes later, I hear the key in the lock.

Finn comes through the door already shrugging out of his coat. His hair is slightly wind-blown and his cheeks are red from the cold. He drops his coat on the hook by the bookshelf without looking, kicks his boots off in the general direction of the mat, and stalks across the apartment toward me.

“You,” he says, “are unhinged.”

“Hmm, that’s debatable.”

He reaches me, grabs the front of my sweater—his sweater, technically, the moose one I never took off—and drags me off the couch, toward the bedroom.

“No dinner?” I tease.

“Later.”

“It’ll get cold.”

“I’ll reheat it.”

I laugh, and then I stop laughing because Finn pushes me through the bedroom door, turns me around, and backs me up against the mattress. His eyes are dark. He’s got that look I’ve only ever seen when we’ve built up a lot of anticipation between visits.

I live to see him like this.

“You have been,” he says, undoing the buttons of his shirt as he speaks, “teasing me. All day.”

“Yes.”

“While I was trying to have a beer with my best friend.”

“Yes.”

“Sending photos I will not be able to unsee.”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to fix that.” He drops his shirt on the floor. His hands go to his belt. “You’re going to get on your knees. And you’re going to suck me until I decide it’s enough, and then I’m going to fuck you. Because you’ve been asking for it. All fucking day.”

I have to swallow because my mouth has gone very dry. “Yes.”

“Good.”

I drop to my knees.

Finn’s hands find my hair, his fingers threading through and settling at the back of my skull. I look up at him, and our eyes meet. His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted, and the hunger in his expression goes straight to my cock.

I undo his jeans and push them down his thighs, along with his underwear.

He’s already hard.

“That happened on the walk over here,” he says, voice low. “So thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Do you know how hard it is to walk with a boner?”

I take him into my mouth without preamble. He makes a sound in the back of his throat that I want to record and play back on bad days for the rest of my life.

His fingers tighten in my hair, but he doesn’t push. He knows I don’t need directing. After ten years, I know what he likes. I know when to go slow, when to go deep, and when to hollow my cheeks around him and make him shudder. I know that if I hum around him, he loses his rhythm entirely.

“Fuck. Fuck, Fox.”