My hands found the hem of her shirt and slid beneath it. She was warm—warmer than I’d expected—and when my palmsmoved across her back, she drew a short breath and went very still. I eased the fabric up, and she lifted her arms without being asked. I tossed the shirt aside and didn’t move. Just looked.
Her chest rose and fell too fast; the trust in her eyes hit harder than anything else. The scars, no longer separate from her—they’d become simply part of everything she’d survived and refused to be diminished by.
“You’re beautiful,” I said. I had never meant words more.
She blushed, but she smiled—small and real—and reached for my shirt. I let her pull it over my head, then lowered myself again, my chest brushing hers, keeping my weight careful and deliberate above her. I kissed down her throat. She tasted of salt. Her pulse jumped once under my mouth, then again, and her breath caught on the second one—involuntary, as if she hadn’t meant to let it out.
I moved lower. Pressed my mouth to her inner thigh and kissed upward in slow increments, letting the heat of my breath arrive before anything else. Her legs parted on instinct, her whole body drawing taut with anticipation—then softening as I held back and let the waiting become its own thing.
“Finn.” A breath. Nothing more.
I looked up her length. Her head was tipped back against the pillow, lips parted, eyes half-closed. She watched me through dark lashes, her expression a silent plea of trust and want.
I pressed an open-mouthed kiss where her thigh met her hip, then let my tongue trace her length—slow, unhurried. She pulled in a sharp breath, her hips lifting to chase the contact.
I didn’t tease for long. She’d waited long enough—we both had.
My tongue stroked her clit in languid movements, and the unguarded sound that broke from her throat, every layer of composure stripped away, made my head swim. She tasted like salt and something entirely Libby, and I took my time with her.
Her hands threaded through my hair, something solid to hold on to as sensation moved through her in waves.
When I focused on her clit, I started soft—light pressure. Her breathing became erratic, a sharp intake each time I changed the rhythm or pressure by the smallest degree. I wrapped my lips around her and sucked—gently first, then with more intent when her hips jerked and my name left her mouth in pieces.
My hands slid beneath her, lifting her just enough to change the angle, and she opened for me completely. The small sounds she made, the involuntary roll of her hips, all shot straight to my cock.
One finger slid inside her, slow and careful. The tight grip of her pussy nearly destroyed my composure. I stroked until her back arched off the mattress and her thighs clamped around me.
“Finn—oh God—”
I slid a second finger in alongside the first and felt her breath leave her in a rush—her whole body registering it before she did. Her hips tilted toward me instinctively. I let my tongue slow in response, drawing each stroke out until she made a low sound in her throat and her fingers tightened in my hair, pulling me closer rather than away.
Her hips rocked in earnest now, moving against my hand and tongue with abandon. I encouraged it—pressed harder, sucked harder. Broken sounds. My name in pieces.
She was close. Her walls contracted around my fingers. Her thighs shook against my shoulders. She gripped my hair until it hurt, and I didn’t pull away.
I hummed against her—the vibration deliberate—and that was all it took.
Her whole body spasmed. A choked cry tore free as she came apart, pulsing hard around my fingers, her hips lifting before I pressed them back down and held her through it. I kept going—gentler strokes through each aftershock, drawing it out until shetrembled with over sensitivity and her breath came in shallow, desperate gasps.
Only when her hands pressed weakly against my head did I ease off.
I pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to her inner thigh, unhurried, then crawled back up the full length of her body, her taste still on my tongue. My arms surrounded her as I settled my weight above her.
She looked completely undone: cheeks flushed, eyes glassy and half-focused, lips swollen from biting as she tried to stay quiet. Her hair spread across the pillow in every direction. Her chest rose and fell too fast, each breath a small, shuddering effort.
She reached for me, her hands pulling me down, and kissed me deeply without self-consciousness, chasing her own taste. That sent heat straight through me. I groaned against her mouth and gave her everything she reached for, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other braced against the mattress, the two of us breathing the same air.
“You okay?” The words came out rough.
She nodded against my lips. Her breath was still uneven, catching on the inhale, and when she smiled, I felt it more than saw it—the slight curve of her mouth against mine, the way her fingers loosened in my hair without letting go.
It hit me somewhere I hadn’t protected.
Then her hand slid between us. Her fingers wrapped around my cock with quiet certainty, one slow, firm stroke that obliterated whatever remained of my composure in a single, unhurried motion.
“Your turn,” she whispered. Her eyes held mine: dark, steady, with the same directness she brought to everything.
Nothing else existed. Just her hands, her warmth, and that look—like the rest of the world had already been dismissed.
