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Snatched it away, stealing it from me so that I was entrenched in him.
Some might consider that unhealthy, but I was happy with my life so what was the harm?
Groaning when he rubbed his fingers along my slit, the digits gathering our wetness, he muttered, “I never get tired of looking at this.”
“Good,” was my stout reply.
His smile made the tiniest of appearances. “Good? Nothing else?”
“What do you want me to say?” I tacked on drowsily, slurring the words again as he sparked remnants of pleasure and turned them into glowing embers. “You fucked me mindless.”
Finn chuckled softly. “I want to look at this pussy forever.”
“You can,” I said sleepily. “It’s not going anywhere.”
He made me jerk when his fingers slid into me, and my legs snapped together in reaction.
I hissed when, his eyes on mine, he repeated, “I love you.” His voice was insistent this time.
Like he was demanding Iknewthat he loved me.
My head fell back against the pillows as he slid his cum-slick fingers along my sensitive flesh.
“I love you too,” I breathed, uncertain of why he was tormenting me with pleasure, uncertain of why his insecurities were rearing their head now. “But baby, I can’t take anymore.”
His lips quirked into a cocky smile. “Is that a challenge?”
“No, I just know you don’t like it if I pass out.”
Had he forgotten already?
If his repeated vows of love weren’t clue enough, here I had proof that my husband’s headspace was not where it needed to be.
He groused under his breath as he stopped petting me, but then I whimpered as he pressed a kiss to my mound.
Before he could climb away, I snagged his hand in mine and whispered, “Finn? What’s going on?”
My charming, debonair husband was a mobster, sure, but to look at, you’d never know it.
He wore expensive suits and costly watches, his shirts were hand stitched and his shoes were made by some monks in Tuscany or some such BS.
Beneath that surface veneer of a businessman who pioneered a corporation that was on track to break a billion in turnover this year, however, there was Finn.
The boy I’d known when I was a toddler.
A teen whose abusive father had seen him running away to the streets.
A man who’d been reared in violence and had adapted to it, joining the Irish Mob and becoming a Five Pointer…
He was multi-faceted, just like anyone, but Finn was different.
It was only after we’d married that I realized something had broken him along the way.
I tugged on his hand, knowing full well he’d come if I pressed, and he did. He slipped onto me then twisted us both over, tangling our legs in the wet spot and making us one big knot on the sheets.
With my breath brushing his lips and his mine, our eyes on each other, the faint light from the bathroom the only illumination in our bedroom at the O’Donnelly compound in upstate New York, I whispered, “Talk to me.”
Telling me he loved me twice in a handful of minutes?
