"Come here," I say, when I have words.
He stands and strips the rest of the way. Belt, jeans, everything. And I get my first full look at Finn Bardot naked in my living room. Broad shoulders, muscles roping his chest and torso, that scar I want to lick. My eyes roam lower, over his lean hips and down to his cock, which juts out hard and heavy. My mouth waters at the sight of him. I did that. A week ago, I would've sworn Finn and I were lifelong enemies, and now here he is standing naked in my living room, this beautiful ridiculous man, hard because of me.
I sit up and wrap my hand around his shaft.
His whole body jerks. He's hot in my palm, stiff and silky smooth, and I stroke him slow, root to tip, watching his face while I do it, because turnaround is only fair. His eyes close. His jaw works. On the third stroke he makes a sound like I've hurt him and catches my wrist.
"Darcy." Ragged. "I want to last longer than a teenager tonight, so if you don't stop that..."
"That good?" I can't help it.
"You have no idea." He exhales hard, a man talking himself down off a ledge he usually jumps from. "I need my jacket. Left pocket."
The jacket is on the floor behind him, and I am not letting him get farther away than arm's reach, so he leans and grabs it and comes up with a condom, and I raise an eyebrow.
"You came prepared."
He smirks. "I've been an optimist since Thursday night."
He rolls it on and comes down over me, and the couch registers its first complaint. He is six foot two, and my couch was purchased ages ago, on sale, for one schoolteacher and a reading blanket. His knee slides off the edge. His foot hits the armrest. He swears into my neck and I'm laughing, actually laughing, with a naked man between my thighs. Definitely not a situation I could've pictured myself in anytime in the past year and ahalf. Then he pushes inside me and my laugh breaks in half and becomes something else entirely.
Finn goes slow, thrusting deep. The stretch of him steals my voice. He watches my face and holds still, buried as far as he can go inside me, letting me adjust, his arms shaking with the effort of not moving.
"Okay?" he manages.
"Mm-hm. More than okay."
"Yeah," he says, his voice strained. "So fucking good. But if you need me to stop at any point?—"
"Don't you dare fucking stop."
He chuckles. "I like this bossy side of you." He pulls back and pushes deep again, slow, watching me take him. "God, Darcy. You fit me so tight. You feel like wet, hot silk around my cock."
He moves, and it's good. It's so good. Deep and slow, and then less slow. His hips find a rhythm my body answers before I decide anything, and I get my hands on his back and feel the muscle working under my palms. And then his knee slips off the cushion again, and we skid, and the stack of half-graded essays I left on the coffee table go to the floor.
He's laughing, breathless. "Your couch deserves a difficulty rating. I think it hates me."
"It's a loyalty test." I push at his shoulder. "Sit up."
He sits back against the cushions and I climb over him, knees on either side of his hips, and sink down onto his cock, and both of us make a sound at the same time. Oh, God.Yes.This is the angle we needed. His hands find my hips. Mine find his shoulders. I start to move and watch what it does to him.
Because it does do things. Finn Bardot, showman, headline act, comes apart underneath me one piece at a time. His head tips back against the cushion. His jaw goes tight. His hands grip my hips harder than he likely means to, guiding me, A soundcomes out of him, low and wrecked, and hearing it makes me ride him faster.
"Darcy." My name cracks in the middle. "God. You have no idea what you're doing to me."
"I can guess," I reply, smiling saucily. I lean down and kiss his mouth, and for a minute the pace gentles all on its own, deep and unrushed, his hands sliding up my back to hold me against him, chest to chest, and it stops being urgent and becomes something I don't have an adequate word for.
And somewhere in there, moving on him in the quiet darkness of my apartment, with his hands on my hips and his cock buried to the hilt inside me, his heart slamming under my palm, he opens his eyes and looks at me. Really looks. Nobody has ever looked at me like this, like I'm the answer to a question he's been carrying around since high school, and I realize something I've been trying to deny for a long time. I know the way you know you've left the stove on—instantly, bodily, and ultimately too late.
I could easily fall in love with him.
I don't say it. I kiss him instead, and he groans into my mouth and gets a hand between us, his thumb finding my clit, and everything narrows to that. His thumb. His cock deep inside me. The couch creaking like a scandalized aunt. Heat winds tight and low, then tighter still.
I hear myself saying his name and then I'm not saying anything. I'm coming, hard, clenching around him in waves, and it pulls him right over the edge after me. He drives up into me once, twice, and comes with his face buried against my throat and my name breaking apart in his mouth, shuddering, holding me down onto him like letting go isn't a thing he does anymore.
Then quiet. His heartbeat going like a sprinter's under my ear. My leg is asleep and I have no plans to move.
"So," he says, finally, into my hair. His voice is destroyed. "The couch survived."
