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He lay back, easing her into the circle of his arms. Her words spun in his head, fighting the peace and fulfillment her presence provided. He placed her hand over his heart and nudged her head forward onto his chest. “I love you, Jessa.”
She peered up at him. “No regrets?”
“No regrets,” he murmured, closing his eyes.
He pretended to sleep, his arms preventing her from rolling away this time. He felt it the minute she dropped off, going limp and soft against him. Her breath fanned across his bare chest, her fingers twitching sporadically, and her leg shifted, resting across his thighs. And even though he and his wolf were pleased she was sleeping peacefully, they were both sick with worry over the answers tomorrow would bring. Was this pregnancy a risk?
He’d lied to her, he had one regret. Not ripping out Cyrus’s throat. Yes, the bastard was running scared, that was a start. But killing Cyrus was the only way he’d ever truly find peace.
Chapter Seventeen
Jessa ran her finger up the center of Finn’s chest, tracing the crosscross scratches and deeper gouges. Were those teeth marks? He was covered in battle-wounds, probably as sore as she was—or worse. But that didn’t ease the hunger that woke her.
The craving she had for this man never failed to astound her. But why now, when they were both bone-weary and grieving? How was it possible to yearn for his touch, ache for the press of his body, the hard thrust of him inside her? The answers weren’t important. Only action. She leaned over him, her leg lifting off his.
His eyes popped open. “Jessa?”
She smiled down at him, a little guilty and more than a little aroused by the smile that creased the corner of his eyes. “Good morning.”
He reached up, twining his hands in her hair. “It is every time I wake to see you in my arms.”
The roughened skin of his palm caressed her cheek tenderly, almost reverently. She bent, tracing his wounds before pressing light kisses against them. “You look like you’ve been chewed up and spit out.”
“Sort of.” He rumbled deliciously. His blue eyes locked with hers, searching her face curiously.
“Finn,” she managed, her breathing accelerating. “Love me.” She pressed his hand to her breast. She traced his thumb against her nipple, arching into the stroke with a shudder. “Please.”
He moved over her, smoothing her hair from her face. His hand continued what she wanted. And when she moaned, he stooped, sucking the tight peak of her breast into his mouth.
This was what she craved, what her body desired. She parted her legs, blushing at the smile he gave her.
“You make me so hard I hurt, Jessa.” His words were rough, rolling over every nerve. “You’re beautiful. So, damn beautiful.” His hand slid up the inside of her thigh, the blade of her hip, the dimple of her belly-button, and up between her breasts. Her heart was thundering when he cupped her breast and bent to suck her deep into his mouth. His teeth grazed the edge of her pebbled nipple, pulling a whimper from deep inside her. He rested his head on her breast, watching his hand slide across the plain of her belly.
When his fingertips traced the inside of her thigh, she parted her legs for him.
She was ready for him, throbbing against the pads of his fingertips. Each stroke of the tight nub of her core had her body tightening and arching toward him. His thumb moved while he slid a long finger slowly inside.
He groaned against her thigh, setting a deep rhythm that had her writhing against him.
She turned into her pillow, muffling the sounds she was making. He threw the pillow across the room and cradled her close, holding her tight against him, chest to chest, hip to hip, his hand never stopping.
“I want to hear you,” he growled out.
“Finn, please.” Her hand slipped between them, clasping his wrist.
“Hold on to me,” he rasped, adding a second finger, the rhythm of his thumb frantically working her tight nub.
He kissed her then, the seal of his lips catching her hoarse cries. She came apart in his hold, his whispered, “I love you,” echoing in her ears.
“Finn.” She felt him, hard and throbbing against her stomach. Her hands slid along his back, gripping his hips in invitation. He’d given her pleasure but she wanted more.
He slid deep with one thrust, his groan broken.
She cried out, struggling with the force of their passion. He made her feel alive, wanted, and cherished. And, looking in his eyes, his love for her was undeniable. Slow, sweet, deep strokes that reminded her she was his. That he was hers.
He was careful with her, teasing the fire that threatened to consume her. He watched her closely, studying her reactions. The friction built, each soft caress, feather-light stroke of his fingertip, pushing her closer to the edge.
“I love you,” he said, his rhythm never changing.
