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“Are you so sure of yourself?”
“When are you going to see it?” He pulls me by the backs of my thighs until I’m standing in front of him. He’s still sitting on the wooden seat of the gazebo, in those damned casual clothes, a navy sweater that conforms to broad shoulders and muscled arms. “I’m not sure of myself, sweetheart. I’m sure of you. You’re too damned loyal for your own good.”
He says it in a rueful way, as if it’s a weakness.
I have something to say to that, an argument to make, but it flies out of my head as soon as his hand slips beneath my dress. Up and up to where a lavender garter belt holds up my hose. My breath catches when he brushes the inside of my leg.
Something dark on his jaw catches my attention. I reach out and stop short, not wanting to hurt him. “Did something happen? Did you get into a fight?”
A short laugh. “Something like that.”
“Finn?”
“It was a rough night,” he admits. “Dad only got to bed an hour ago. Hemingway helped. A lot. We both collapsed when it was over.”
Dismay makes me frown. “And then I came here to dump my feelings on you.”
Two fingers hook into the hem of my panties. “I want your feelings.”
“You must be tired. You—”
“Not too tired for this,” he says, tugging my panties down.
I step out of them without even thinking, as if we’ve been doing this forever, him undressing me in a moonlit gazebo, his hazel eyes dark. “Are you sure?”
He lifts my leg and puts my foot on his cock, which is hard and throbbing beneath his slacks. “Does this feel like I’m sure?”
My toes wriggle, and he grunts.
“Fuck,” he mutters, then moves my foot to the bench beside him. He slips down to the slatted floor, so he’s looking up at my dress from underneath, his face inches away from my sex. My breath catches. He’s too close, too intimate. I feel shy. I try to pull away, but strong hands haul me back. They knead my ass, a little too rough. It’s perfect.
Both of us ran an emotional gauntlet today.
Physical touch feels like a balm. The harder the better. Make me feel it. Make it hurt.
He kisses a line along the inside of my thigh, and I whimper. No. No. Yes.
I’m standing with one foot on the floor of the gazebo, the other on the bench. Completely exposed to his hands. His mouth. He presses a hard, open kiss to my pussy, and I sob. It’s like crash landing on earth after fearing you’d never come home. It’s pain and relief together. My hips rock in an ancient motion, riding his tongue.
He builds me up to the breaking point and then stops.
It’s cruel.
“Please, Finn.”
“You beg so pretty,” he says, his voice low. “Do it again.”
“Please make me come,” I say, desperate, my voice echoing off the water.
His tongue circles my clit, and I come with violent shudders and hoarse cries. I would fall to the ground if he didn’t hold me up. He moves my body as if I weigh nothing. He turns me around so I’m facing the bench. Blindly I reach out and hold the railing. Wood grain imprints onto my skin. He lifts my hips until I’m standing. I hear behind me the tear of a condom wrapper. Even now he’s safe. We won’t lose our minds again. Even in the middle of a hurricane, we’re protected. Then he plunges inside me, and I cry out.
“Yes. More. Please.”
“That’s right,” he says in a growl. “Eva Morelli, who handles everything and everyone. Eva Morelli, the queen of goddamn Bishop’s Landing. And here you are getting railed. You love it, don’t you? My cock inside you? Your pussy’s sucking me like a goddamn mouth.”
I whimper. “Finn.”
“You know who makes you feel this good. It’s me, isn’t it? It’s always me.”
