I trace them with my fingers, and he goes completely still.
“These don’t change anything,” I tell him quietly. “They’re part of you. And I want all of you.”
His exhale shudders through him. Then he’s kissing me again, lowering me onto the bed, and the weight of him above me feels like coming home.
He takes his time. That’s what undoes me most—the patience of it, the deliberate worship. His mouth travels from my lips to my jaw to my throat, leaving heat in its wake. My bra disappears, and his hands cup my breasts with a reverence that makes my eyes sting.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs against my skin. “So soft. How could anyone—” He stops himself. Kisses the curve of my breast instead. “You’re incredible.”
“Finn—”
“I mean it.” His thumb brushes over my nipple, and I arch into the sensation. “I’ve been watching you move around my kitchen, my house, trying not to think about this. About touching you.Tasting you.” His voice drops lower. “I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.”
I’m gasping, writhing, trying to pull him closer. But he won’t be rushed. He maps every inch of me with his hands and mouth, pausing at the places I’ve always hated—my belly, my thighs—and giving them extra attention until I stop flinching and start arching into his touch. His big hands span my hips like they were made to hold me, and I’ve never felt more desired.
“Perfect,” he says as he slides my jeans down my hips until they end up on the floor. “Every curve. Every inch. Perfect.”
He parts my thighs, settling between them, and the denim of his jeans scrapes against my sensitive skin. He watches my face as he presses the heel of his palm against my core, a slow, deliberate pressure that has me seeing stars.
“Right there?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
I can only nod, breathless.
He keeps the pressure steady. “Does this feel good, Marcella?”
“Yes,” I gasp. “God, yes.”
“Good.” He shifts, sliding lower. “Because I’m going to make you feel even better.”
His fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, dragging them down. And then he’s looking at me—all of me—and there’s no judgment in his gaze, only hunger.
“Finn...”
“Let me take care of you,” he says, and his breath is warm against me. “Let me show you.”
I’ve never been this exposed. This vulnerable. But when he looks at me like that, like I’m something to be savored, I can’t find it in myself to be ashamed.
His first touch is tentative. Exploring. When I gasp and roll my hips, he grows bolder. His fingers discover what makes me shudder, what makes me whimper, what makes me dig my nails into the sheets. He watches me with an intensity that should be unnerving, but instead it fuels the fire building inside me.
“I love watching you come apart,” he murmurs. His thumb circles my clit, slow and deliberate. “I want to watch you fall apart for me.”
And I do. With a cry that’s half sob, I shatter into a million pieces, my body convulsing under the relentless wave of pleasure that crashes over me. It goes on and on, Finn coaxing every last tremor from me until I’m a boneless, breathless mess on the sheets.
When I can finally think again, he’s kissing me, deep and slow, sharing the taste of my release.
“Perfect,” he whispers against my lips. “Absolutely perfect.”
I reach between us, fumbling with the button on his jeans. “Now you.”
He sucks in a sharp breath but lets me work, lifting his hips so I can strip the last of his clothes away. When he’s completely bare before me, I take a moment to look my fill. To see him—all of him, scars and all.
He’s perfect too. In all his imperfect, wounded glory. He’s real. And he’s mine, at least for tonight.
I wrap my hand around him, and he groans, head falling back. I stroke him slowly, learning his shape, his rhythm. His hips start to move, a shallow thrusting motion that tells me he’s close to losing control.
“Marcella,” he grits out, his hands fisting in the sheets. “If you keep doing that...”
“Protection,” I gasp out. “I have?—”
