He traced the slick heat between my thighs with the pads of his fingers, each pass sending a sharp, involuntary jolt through my hips. My clit throbbed under the brief, teasing pressure, and when he circled it—once, measured and deep, then again—I felt the tension coil tighter, my breath catching. Then the blunt tip of his finger found my entrance and pressed, sliding in with unhurried insistence, stretching me open inch by inch.
My walls clenched around him immediately, pulling him deeper, and a low whimper climbed out of my throat before I could swallow it back.
He added a second finger, stretching me open with a fullness that burned in the best possible way, and curled them upward to find that sensitive spot that blurred my vision at the edges. His thumb returned to my clit, rubbing firm, steady circles that had my thighs trembling within seconds.
“Fuck, Libby.” His voice came out low and strained, barely above a breath. His eyes moved over my face as if he were memorizing it. “So perfect. Always so ready for me.”
“Finn—” His name broke on my tongue as I lifted my hips into his hand, seeking the pressure, the pleasure coiling tight and urgent in my belly with every slow curl of his fingers and every deliberate circle of his thumb. My fingers found the edge of the blanket, bunching the fabric as I pulled it toward me, my heels pressing hard into the makeshift bed.
“Please,” I managed. “Please, I need—”
I reached between our bodies and wrapped my hand around him. A low groan pulled from his chest when my fingers closed around his cock, sending a fresh surge of warmth straight through me. He throbbed against my palm, thick and scorching, and I stroked him slowly from base to tip, my thumb sweeping over the swollen head where a bead of moisture had already gathered. His hips jerked forward, pressing harder into my grip, and he dropped his forehead briefly to my shoulder with a sound that landed somewhere between restraint and surrender.
He kissed me again—deep and consuming, his tongue sliding against mine with unrestrained hunger—then shifted his hips, drawing back from my hand to position himself against my entrance. He dragged the blunt head through my slick folds once, twice, brushing my clit until I whimpered into his mouth.
Then he pushed inside.
Slow and steady, inch by deliberate inch, stretching me open until he sank to the hilt and his weight settled fully against me. The stretch burned deep and perfect, my walls fluttering around his thickness as my body adjusted to being so completely filled. A quiet, unguarded moan left us both at the same moment, dissolving into the stillness of the room.
Finn went still.
Buried deep, his forehead pressed to mine, our breaths ragged and intermingled in the narrow space between our faces. His cock throbbed against my inner walls, and my body clenched around him in response—involuntary, greedy, already desperate for movement.
My eyes stung.
Even now, even like this—trembling and breathless and wound so tight with need I could barely hold a thought together—those three words from him still managed to reach somewhere deeper than all of it.
“Please, Finn. Fuck me like you mean it.”
He did.
He withdrew almost completely until only his head remained within me. Then, with one powerful stroke, he drove forward, expelling the air from my lungs and setting a rhythm for everything that followed. Deep and steady at first, each thrust was measured and full, his hips meeting mine with a force that made my breasts bounce and my breath catch with every impact. The sounds that filled the quiet room were both obscene and perfect: skin meeting skin, the slick, wet noise of my body repeatedly taking his, my arousal completely coating him and dripping with every thrust.
I locked my legs around his waist, pressing my heels hard into the muscles of his back, pulling him deeper, urging him harder. Every stroke ground his pelvis against my swollen clit and dragged his thick length along my inner walls withdevastating precision, hitting that deep, sensitive spot that made coherent thought impossible.
His hand found my breast, rougher now, need stripping away the earlier gentleness. He pinched my nipple between his fingers and twisted just enough to send a sharp electric jolt straight down to my clit. I cried out at the collision of sensations—the bright edge of pain sharpening the pleasure until they became indistinguishable. My walls clenched hard around him in response, and he groaned against my mouth, swallowing the sound as his lips found mine in kisses that had grown messy and desperate, a tangle of tongues, teeth, and shared breath.
The tension building in him was evident everywhere: in the tightening of his shoulders under my hands, the ragged edge to his breathing, the way his thrusts grew less measured and more urgent, his cock swelling thicker inside me until every stroke stretched my walls tighter around him.
“Touch yourself, baby,” he murmured against my lips, his words dark and certain. “I want to feel you come around me.”
I slid my hand between our bodies and found my clit swollen, wet, and so sensitive that the first brush of my fingers made my hips jerk. I worked tight, urgent circles in time with his thrusts. The dual pressure—his cock driving against my g-spot while my fingers worked my clit—built the tension in my belly into something that had no patience left.
“Come for me, Libby.” His voice was strained and desperate, his breath hot against my mouth, his hips snapping harder. “Let me feel it. I’ve got you.”
It hit me all at once—not like anything I could name—my whole body seizing around him, my back lifting off the blankets, my nails finding his shoulders as his name escaped me in something not quite a sound. I couldn’t hold a thought. There was only the clenching and the shaking and Finn, Finn, Finn,and the fact that we were alive and my body had no other way left to express it but this.
Finn followed with a guttural, broken groan that vibrated from his chest into mine. He buried himself as deep as he could go and held there, his cock pulsing powerfully inside me. Each beat sent a hot rush of his release flooding my walls, filling me until it leaked out around him and soaked the blankets beneath us. He kept moving through it—slow, grinding rolls of his hips that pushed deeper, drawing out every last tremor for both of us. His arms wrapped tight around my body as if the closeness itself mattered as much as anything else.
We collapsed together in the aftermath, sweat-damp and breathless. His solid weight pressed me into the makeshift bed until I stopped being aware of where my body ended and the exhaustion began. Our hearts hammered against each other. His hands moved over my back in slow, absent strokes while we both found our breath again.
Then he pressed his lips to my forehead, my cheek, the corner of my mouth—tender and unhurried. The fire between us banked down now into something steadier, warmer, and no less real.
“Mine,” he murmured, still buried inside me, his voice husky and low. “No matter what’s out there. You’re mine and I’m yours.”
My chest ached with how full it felt.
I pulled him closer, arms around his back, face turned into his neck, and held on. His heartbeat steadied under my palm. The warmth of him surrounded me completely—his skin against mine, his breath evening out above my ear, the quiet intimacy of still being connected, still being here, still being alive in this small room while the world outside continued being what it had become.
