He shouldn’t feel this good. But he does. He always has.
I tug off his long-sleeved T-shirt when he strips me out of my top and bra. His movements aren’t smooth, not like I’m used to. But that doesn’t stop me from craving his touch, nor does it stop my whimpers when he dips his head to suck on my nipples.
He swears with frustration when he tries to yank off his jeans and briefs and they tangle on his ankle. As he struggles to kick them off I realize this is my last chance to stop him―to get out of bed. But as much as he needs me then, I need him just as much.
My kisses, my wandering hands, and the way my hips instinctively mimic his rhythm are what finally incite him to pull off what’s left of our clothes. He reaches between us, sliding his thick length inside me, causing us both to moan. His eyes were closed as we teased and played. They aren’t once he begins to thrust. They take me in as they have so many times before, lustful yet loving, his hands passing along the swells of my breasts and through my hair.
It doesn’t take me long to peak, not with how fast and hard he’s ramming his hips. I’m sure he’ll take longer in his condition, and he does, repeatedly spiking my desire and making me orgasm. My fingers dig into the muscles on his shoulders as once more my core clenches tight. It’s then he finally falls forward, his release hitting him like a primal force.
As he slows his rhythm and finishes filling me, his eyes once again close. It’s just as well, I don’t want him to see me then―not the way my heart feels like it’s breaking. So when he lowers himself to my belly, stopping only to kiss the spot between my breasts, I see it as a gift.
I love Finn. Maybe I always have. That doesn’t mean I get to keep him.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I see the rays of sunlight poking through the drawn curtains, I realize we slept a long time. The phone rings, my muddled mind determining that’s what woke me the first time. Finn rolls off me to answer it, but not before muttering a few swears.
“Yeah?” he asks, rubbing his eyes as he shifts to the edge of the bed.
“Good morning, Mr. O’Brien,” the woman on the other line merrily answers. “Your checkout time was at eleven, but we haven’t heard from you. Will you be extending your stay with us today?”
“What time is it?” he asks, groaning.
“It’s twelve-thirty, sir.”
He reaches for the glass of water I’d filled for him and takes a sip. “Yeah, we’ll stay another night.”
No. We won’t. I inch off the bed to the opposite side, searching for my discarded clothes.
“Thank you, sir,” the woman on the other line says.
Finn disconnects. “She’s entirely too peppy to be from Jersey,” he mutters. He downs his water and reaches for the pitcher as I wiggle into my panties and put on my bra.
He finishes another glass while I tug on my jeans. “Hey . . . Where are you going?”
I don’t have to turn around to know he’s frowning. But I don’t answer, pulling my shirt over my head as I struggle to gather my thoughts. This is goodbye. I know it is, and hurts so bad, I can’t even look at him. The mattress scrunches slightly as he crawls along the bed to my side.
He presses his hand against my back, trying to get me to face him when I sit on the edge to pull on my socks.
“Sol, what are you doing?” he asks.
I don’t answer.
“Look, I know I fucked up, and that you’re probably pissed at me,” he adds.
I shove my foot into one of my boots. “I’m a lot of things right now, Finn,” I tell him truthfully, hating how my impending tears start to find their way into my voice.
He throws his legs over the side of the bed, stroking my cheek to draw my attention. I avert my face in the opposite direction and step into my last boot. I can’t find the words I need to say, my thoughts so jumbled I can’t think straight. I only know I have to leave. All I need is my coat, my purse, and I’m gone.
Yet when I charge forward, he rushes past me, blocking my way. “Don’t go,” he says, his voice hard. He steps in front of me when I try edging around him, his hands clutching mine and keeping me in place. And still I can’t bear to look at him.
He squeezes my hands, like he always does when he wants to reassure me, or comfort me, or just show me he’s missed me. This time, I don’t squeeze back. Instead my hands lie limp in his.
“I wasn’t going to fuck those girls, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says, his voice deepening.
I lift my chin and meet his face. “You could have fooled me.”