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A tiny smile flickered at his lips only to be chased away by a look of masculine determination so intense, I shivered again. Playtime was over.
We separated far enough to step out of our respective items of clothing. In one quick glance, I saw that he wore snug black boxer briefs. He held out his hands. “Satisfied?”
I nodded coolly. “It’s a start.” Knowing how the evening was likely to end, I had worn my favorite pair of pink satin bikinis. Finley took in every detail. My courage failed after that. I folded my arms across my breasts. “Maybe we should get in bed,” I said.
“Because you’re tired and want to go to sleep?” His wicked question was accompanied by a knowing smile.
“Because I want to get to know you better…every inch of you.”
As unlikely as it seemed, I had surprised him twice in the last few minutes. I was proud of my comeback. It slowed him down long enough for me to climb under the covers.
He caught up quickly. Unlike me, he ripped off his underwear before joining me. He radiated heat. I’d planned to stay on my side of the mattress for a few minutes…long enough to come up with a plan. Finley thought otherwise.
He slid down beside me and dragged me against him. “God, you feel amazing, Duchess. I missed you today.”
Those three simple words dissolved my defenses. Did he know that? Was he a pro at saying the right thing at the right time?
What did it matter, really? I wanted Finley.
I was done with talking. I couldn’t be rational with his hands on my body. The room was hushed. I could feel my own heartbeat. Or maybe it was his. Against all odds, Finley knew me. My faults. My strengths. My ambivalence about who I was. In being honest with me about his own screwed up life, he had unwittingly given me permission to be myself.
“I’m glad I met you,” I whispered. He groaned when I wrapped my hand around his erection. Carefully, I stroked him, learning what he liked, indulging my own curiosity. It was exhilarating. It was fun. This interlude with Finley was destined to be a brief period in my life. I wouldn’t let that knowledge take away the joy from this moment.
Unfortunately, the man had his limits. Eventually, he gripped my wrist in a hold that brooked no argument. “My turn, Duchess.”
I closed my eyes and stretched my arms over my head, feeling sensual and aroused and happy. Finley didn’t care about my money or who my parents or even that I would be leaving at the end of the month. The two of us were in this bed because we wanted each other. It was that simple and that profound.
Finley had perfected kissing as an art form. He started with my lips and charted a slow, lazy course that took him from the pulse at the base of my throat all the way down to the arch of my foot.
I wasn’t above begging at the end.
He enjoyed that. A lot.
“Enough,” I pleaded. I was hot and shaky and aching to feel him inside me. I sank my fingernails into his shoulders.
His façade of calm and control was only that. His hand trembled as he stroked my collarbone. “I want to make love to you all night, McKenzie. Tell me you want that, too.”
“Yes.” I closed my eyes, teetering on the brink of a volcanic climax.
He entered me with a steady push. I dug my heels into the mattress and arched my back, determined to take all of him. Instead of feeling hemmed in or pinned down, I gasped beneath a euphoric rush of freedom.
Every cell in my body—every nerve ending—reached for the precipice.
Finley buried his face in my neck. “Talk to me, Duchess. Tell me what you want.”
How could he not know? “You,” I muttered. “Just you.”
He lifted me on top, which meant we were separated for long, frustrating seconds as he rearranged our position. When he entered me again, I winced. I wasn’t in the habit of multiple sexual counters in a twenty-four-hour period. My body was tender and a little sore.
Finley watched my face, making me nervous. I didn’t mind him enjoying my body. I drew the line at him looking into my psyche. He noticed, of course. “What’s wrong, sweet girl? You don’t want it this way?”
Something about the position left me feeling painfully vulnerable. “You forgot to turn out the lights. I like the dark.”
“So you can pretend I’m a brawny Scotsman?”
I knew he was teasing, but my emotions were raw. “No.”
He put his hands on my waist, his tanned fingers a masculine contrast against my pale skin. “We don’t need the dark, Duchess. I love watching you. Touch your breasts. Tell me you know how beautiful you are.”
