I thread my fingers through his hair, not pulling, just needing to touch him. He hums his approval against me, the vibrationsending sparks up my spine. His tongue flattens against my clit, applying gentle pressure that makes me gasp.
"My beautiful wife," he murmurs against me, the words seeping into my skin like a balm. "Look at you, taking everything I give you."
The praise hits differently than his commands last night. There's something reverent in his tone that makes my chest tighten.
"You taste like heaven," he continues, his tongue making slow, deliberate circles. "Like something worth dying for."
I whimper, unable to form words as he worships me with his mouth. His hands slide up to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples with unexpected gentleness.
"Perfect," he whispers against my thigh, pressing a kiss to a bruise he left there. "Every inch of you."
The tenderness is almost worse than the violence. I can fight against fury, can match it with my own. But this—this careful adoration—leaves me defenseless.
"Such a good girl," he praises as I arch into his touch. "Taking what you need."
His tongue delves deeper, and I cry out, my hands tightening in his hair, hips rising to meet his mouth. I'm coming undone,faster than I want to admit, my body responding to his devotion with an eagerness that terrifies me.
"There you go," he murmurs against me, his tongue relentless now. "Let go for me."
I shatter with a cry, my back arching off the table as waves of pleasure crash through me. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow down, his tongue working me through every pulse and aftershock.
"Beautiful," he whispers, looking up at me with eyes dark with hunger. "But I know you can give me more."
I shake my head, still trembling from the first orgasm. "I can't—"
"You can," he insists, his voice gentle but commanding. "My good wife can give me one more."
The words 'good wife' send a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the morning chill. His tongue returns to my oversensitive flesh, gentler now but no less determined. I whimper, caught between pleasure and something that borders on pain, but he soothes me with his hands, rubbing circles on my thighs.
Everything blends together as his mouth works me beyond reason. I can't tell where one sensation ends and another begins. My vision blurs at the edges, the kitchen ceiling swimming above me as another wave crashes through my body.
"Oh God—Finn—I can't—" My voice breaks as he draws another orgasm from me, stronger than the first, my thighs trembling uncontrollably against his shoulders.
"Yes, you can," he murmurs against my flesh, his voice vibrating through me. "So beautiful when you come for me. Give me more, love. Justonemore."
I'm floating, disconnected from everything but his mouth. The pleasure is so intense it borders on pain, yet somehow I'm still climbing higher. My body is no longer my own—it belongs to the sensations he's creating, to the relentless skill of his tongue.
"Please," I gasp, not sure if I'm begging him to stop or continue.
"You taste so fucking good," he groans, looking up at me with dark, hungry eyes. "I could do this all day. Let me have more, Róisín. Let me haveeverything."
His words unravel me further. His name falls from my lips like a prayer as my third orgasm tears through me, more intense than both before. My body convulses, every nerve ending raw and exposed. I'm floating somewhere beyond myself, anchored only by his hands on my thighs, his mouth between my legs.
When I finally collapse back against the table, I'm trembling uncontrollably. Finn rises slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes are dark, hungry, but there's something else there too—something tender that makes my chest ache.
"Now that," he says, voice rough as he pulls me upright, "is how breakfast should be."
I'm boneless in his arms as he lifts me from the table, cradling me against his chest. My head falls against his shoulder, too spent to hold itself up. He carries me to a chair, settling me in his lap again, but this time it's different—gentle, protective.
"Eat," he murmurs, reaching for my abandoned coffee and pressing it into my hands. My fingers tremble as I take it, the warmth seeping into my palms.
I take a sip, watching him over the rim. His pupils are still blown wide, his mouth soft and swollen, like he hasn’t quite come back to himself yet either. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then my hands start to shake. The adrenaline drains out of me all at once, leaving only exhaustion in its wake—bone-deep, aching, earned. Finn notices immediately.Of course he does, he always has.
“That’s enough,” he murmurs, already standing, already lifting me like I weigh nothing at all. I don’t argue. I don’t have it in me. My arms loop around his neck on instinct, my face pressing into the warm column of his throat.
He carries me back down the hall, past the bedroom we destroyed last night, into the quiet that follows violence and confession and something dangerously close to peace. He lays me down gently this time, pulling the covers up around my shoulders, tucking me in like I’m something that might breakif he doesn’t handle me carefully. I watch him through heavy lashes as he brushes my hair back from my face.
“Sleep, wee Rose,” he says softly. Not a command. A promise.
