"You're still sensitive," he observes, voice low against my ear as his fingers explore lazily.
I bite my lip to keep from making a sound. "Don't."
But my body betrays me, pressing down against his touch. His fingers circle my entrance, teasing but not entering.
"Eat," he commands again, using his free hand to pick up a piece of bacon. He takes a bite, eyes never leaving mine, then offers me the rest.
My pride tells me to refuse, but there's something in his gaze that makes my resistance crumble. I take the bacon from his fingers, letting my lips brush against them longer than necessary.
"Good girl," he murmurs, and his fingers press inside me as a reward.
I gasp, my back arching involuntarily. "Finn—"
"Breakfast," he reminds me, his voice maddeningly calm while his fingers are anything but. He reaches for another strawberry with his free hand and brings it to my lips.
I bite into it, juice spilling down my chin. He catches it with his thumb, then brings it to his own mouth, sucking it clean while maintaining eye contact. The sight sends heat spiraling through me.
His fingers curl inside me, finding that perfect spot that makes my breath catch. He acts like he's simply enjoying breakfast, casually taking another bite of eggs with his free hand while his fingers work their magic between my thighs.
"This isn'tfair," I gasp, my hips rocking against his hand despite my protests.
"Never claimed to be fair, love," he murmurs, pressing his thumb against my clit in slow, deliberate circles.
I try to focus on my coffee, on the food, on anything but the building pressure low in my belly. But he knows exactly what he's doing, exactly how to touch me. His rhythm is maddeningly unhurried, each stroke precise and calculated.
"You're a bastard," I breathe, my head falling back against his shoulder as his fingers curl deeper.
"Aye," he agrees, his lips brushing my neck. "And yet you're soaking my hand."
I'm close already, embarrassingly so. My thighs begin to tremble as he increases the pressure just slightly, just enough to push me toward the edge.
"That's it," he encourages, voice rough against my ear. "Let me feel you."
I'm about to fall apart when he suddenly stops, lifting me by the waist. I make a sound of protest as he sets me on the table's edge, the wood cool against my heated skin.
"What are you—"
He doesn't let me finish, pushing the robe off my shoulders until it pools around my waist. The morning air kisses my bare skin, making my nipples harden instantly. His eyes darken as he takes me in, bruises and all, like I'm something precious.
"I've had some of my breakfast," he says, voice low and rough as his hands push my thighs apart. "But I think I'll save the best for last."
My breath catches in my throat as he kneels between my legs. This isn't like last night—there's no fury here, no desperation. He looks up at me through his lashes, and the softness in his eyes makes something in my chest ache.
"Finn," I whisper, uncertain what I'm even asking for.
His hands slide up my thighs with exquisite gentleness, thumbs tracing circles on sensitive skin. "Let me taste you properly, wee rose."
The first touch of his tongue against me is so gentle I nearly sob. A reverent stroke, slow and deliberate, like he's savoring something precious. His hands cradle my thighs with unexpected tenderness, thumbs making small, soothing circles against the bruises he left last night.
"Christ," he murmurs against my inner thigh, "you're perfect."
I want to scoff, to remind him of all the ways we're broken, but then his tongue traces my entrance with exquisite patience, and my head falls back, a shaky breath escaping me.
"That's it," he encourages, his voice a low rumble against my sensitive skin. "Let me hear you."
This is nothing like last night's desperate, punishing passion. There's no urgency in the way he tastes me, just a slow, dedicated worship that makes my thighs tremble. He takes his time, mapping every inch with his tongue, learning me all over again.
"So sweet," he murmurs, his breath warm against me. "Always so sweet for me."
