“Finn—”
He hums against my clit, pleased, merciless, and sets a rhythm that has clearly been planned, because everything about this man is deliberate. The flat of his tongue, long and slow. The point of it, quick, right where I need it.
One thick finger eases inside me right when the ache goes from want to need, curling forward, finding the spot that whites out my vision. Then a second, stretching me, slick sounds filling my quiet bedroom, obscene and unbearable.
“So slick for me,” he says, rough, against my clit, and the words alone nearly finish it. “Dripping. You going to come on my mouth, Josie?”
“Yes... fuck, yes, don't stop...”
“Wasn't going to.”
My body, already running hot for days, already three steps ahead of every plan I own, does not stand a chance.
I break apart in about ninety seconds, embarrassingly, spectacularly, grinding against his mouth with my heel in his shoulder blade, slick gushing over his fingers, his name coming out of me in pieces.
He works me through it, licking me soft and slow until the shaking eases, and presses one last kiss to the inside of my thigh like a signature.
“That was fast,” I gasp, at the ceiling. “That's not. I'm not usually. Your ego doesn't need this information.”
“Too late.” He's already moving up my body, jeans gone somewhere I didn't witness, and the smug is barely there, just a quarter-inch at the corner of his mouth. On Finn Morrow, a standing ovation.
Then he's above me, braced on one forearm, heavy and hot everywhere, and the teasing goes out of the room like a tide.
His cock is hard against my hip. He's shaking. Barely, finely, a tension running through him like a held load, and I realize the slow hasn't been patience.
It's been restraint. Alpha restraint, the kind with teeth behind it. All of it. All night. Maybe all month.
“Josie.” His voice is gravel. “Look at me.”
I look at him.
“Tell me,” he says.
“Yes.” I pull him down. “Yes, now, please.”
He notches the thick head of his cock against me and pushes in slow, and the stretch of him is a whole event. Thick and hot and endless, splitting me open inch by inch while my body, slick and swollen and days into wanting this, pulls him deeper like it's been waiting years to learn his shape.
“Fuck.” It punches out of him, low, wrecked. Finn Morrow, swearing in my bed. “Josie. You're...”
“I know. Keep going.”
He bottoms out, hips flush to mine, so deep I taste it, and we both stop breathing at the same time.
He holds still. Buried, forehead dropping to mine, one tremor running down his spine under my palms.
“Okay?” he grits.
“If you stop I'll murder you.”
“Noted.”
He moves.
Slow first, deep, deliberate, dragging against every oversensitive nerve my body's spent a week manufacturing. Pulling nearly all the way out and pushing back in, making me take every inch of it, watching my face while he does it.
“Look at me.” Low. An order. “Eyes on me, Josie.”
I look at him, and he drives in harder, and the bed I've slept in alone for five years picks up a rhythm it has never once heard, and I stop being a person with a plan and become a person with her nails in a fireman's back.
