Iris’s face turned into his neck, her warm breath teasing over his skin as she ground down on him.
His need pulsed against her, hot and impatient, desperate for release.
Iris’s head lifted, and Finn got to watch the depth of desire on her gorgeous face for a moment before her head angled—lowered.
Their mouths collided—not soft, not slow, just heat and teeth and ravenous need.
The kiss was hard and frenzied, like they’d been holding back for too long.
She was trembling with need, and her hands were everywhere, as if she couldn’t decide what part of him she needed the most.
Her fingers slid down his back, slipped under his shirt, her palms flattening on heated skin.
Their bodies moved together like they forgot there were still clothes between them.
Her hips rocked against his, chasing friction like oxygen as he ground against her—pure instinct taking over.
Each roll of her hips made his breath stutter, the pressure building with nowhere to go.
It was an almost humiliating kind of need, and he gave in to it willingly.
They both rocked into the rhythm their bodies demanded, lost in the moment, lost in each other.
It was unrestrained, clumsy, desperate. They were shaky, sweaty, panting.
The shudder moved through Iris, and his lips swallowed her long, deep moan as the orgasm moved through her.
His control snapped, yanking her hips down and rutting against her until he was coming with her.
Neither of them moved. The only sound was the quick, shallow gasps of their breaths.
It wasn’t just his body that felt shaky. It was something deeper, something he wasn’t ready to name.
He felt the shift in her slowly, then all at once.
She hadn’t said anything. Not a word. Her breathing slowed. Her hands went still. Her mouth, moments ago fused to his like she couldn’t get enough, was pressed shut now.
Finn didn’t move, didn’t even blink, like he might spookher if he shifted wrong. But something inside him had already started to crack open, letting in the cold.
The realization started as an ache just under his ribcage.
But before he could decide if it was just insecurity about dry-humping like teenagers, or something darker, uglier—something that looked a lot like regret—there was a slamming on the door.
“There’s a time limit, you know!” a woman’s voice called, loud and annoyed. “I know you’re a mermaid and everything, but we all deserve access to the pool.”
Iris was off his lap before he could even try to reach for her.
She scrambled away, grabbing her clothes and yanking them on.
He reached for her towel, draping it over his arm to hold in front of his body.
But by the time he managed that, she was out of the room, and the woman was moving inside.
“Mr. Westrock,” the woman greeted. “I don’t mean to be rude or anything …”
Just once, he wanted the right to be frustrated or annoyed.
But he didn’t have that luxury.
