Chapter Twenty-Six #2
Sweeney moaned as Fin repeated her thought as though he’d reached into her brain and plucked it out.
As though he knew her thoughts as intimately as he knew what her body needed.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Sympatico.
Too many first times were awkward and fumbling, trying to get it right and not look inept or desperate.
But this? Being with Fin like this was like … finding the other half to the whole.
And now he was dragging the thoughts right out of her head and giving them voice. And it should be scary, but actually it was just freaking hotter.
His hand breached the hem of her Banshees jersey and travelled up, higher and higher, until he cupped a breast, his thumb rubbing across a nipple already tormented by the confines of lace and satin.
A dart of one hundred proof pleasure shot straight to the hard knot of nerves pulsing between her legs and Sweeney gasped as it flared like a starburst through the muscles of her belly and thighs and ass.
Sweeney shoved her hand into the thick waves of his hair, gripping hard as she pulled his mouth away from her neck, satisfied to see a feral kind of lust glazing his eyes. ‘I’m going to die if you’re not inside me in the next few seconds,’ she panted.
Sweeney didn’t care how greedy she sounded.
How bossy. She was no more in control of this thing than Fin, by the look of him, and whatever higher power was at work, it would not be disobeyed.
Thankfully, he was on the same page, not stopping to question or suggest they take it slow, just yanking her off the wall and dragging her by the hand, stumbling and tripping with her as they toed off their shoes and shucked their clothes on the way to their big, fucking beautiful bed.
His eyes were on her then and Sweeney would have thought in this moment, where she was stark naked in front of a guy who’d been her best friend forever, that she would feel shy and awkward and self-conscious about this body of hers she’d never felt a hundred per cent good about, but his tour was unhurried, reverential, appreciative, as was his slow, rough exhale.
‘Fuck,’ he muttered.
Sweeney laughed, despite the insistent voice inside demanding she didn’t dally. ‘Back at ya,’ she murmured, taking in the firm, lean lines of his body and the hard, not-so-lean lines of what he was packing between his legs.
Although right now, it was not between his legs. No siree. That mighty specimen of male anatomy was standing to attention, long and proud and ready for action.
Mouth suddenly dry, she returned her attention to his face, their gazes locking. Like her, she could see no sense of shyness, no doubt, just a feverish glitter in his eyes and the uneven chug of his breathing satisfying her in ways she never knew existed. ‘Condom?’
He nodded, then strode to his discarded shorts, pulled out his wallet and grabbed three foil packets. Sweeney cocked an eyebrow. ‘You always were a boy scout.’
Grinning, he stalked towards her with purpose, his eyes blazing with one hundred per cent carnal intent. Zero per cent boy scout.
He tossed the packets on the bed before slipping a hand around her waist and hiking her closer. ‘You think we’ll need more?’ he asked, his voice all hot and growly.
If this seething insatiability was any indication, it was highly probable.
He kissed her then and Sweeney revelled in the furnace of his flesh as it met the bonfire of hers, igniting their passion as if they’d been doused in accelerant.
They were on the bed in seconds—hallelujah—and then the condom was on and his body was covering hers seconds after that and she was lifting her head for his mouth which he gave, kissing her deep and fierce as the hardness of him settled against the softness of her.
Sweeney opened her legs for him, welcoming him as his erection nudged the slick centre of her and entered in one steady, decisive stroke. She broke their lip lock on a gasp, crying out at the sheer bliss of him inside her—so hard and so good and so damn right—as her arms circled his neck.
He slid in to the hilt, groaning her name into the side of her neck, the ragged pant of his breathing puffing whorls of air against her skin, his lips nuzzling her throat as he muttered, ‘I should have known we’d fit like this.’
Sweeney’s heart sang at the sentiment because yes. He was right. She should have known it, too. They’d always fit together just right—why would this be any different?
And then there were no more words. Just action.
And heat. And friction. Just pants and moans and the gasp of nonsensical, half-formed words.
The thunder of her pulse and the thunder of his knocking against her heart as they beat frantically as one.
The shift of the muscles in his back, the movement of his shoulder blades beneath her palms, the buck of his hips and the taut bob of his ass.
The rapid-fire build to a mind-bending climax that would probably ruin her for all other men. Sweeney never orgasmed from penetration alone and rarely so quickly but this was Fin, who she’d known forever and who seemed to instinctively know the rhythm of them.
Finding it immediately, driving it expertly.
When it hit, she took him with her and they tumbled headlong into the rapture, crying out as one as they held each other and freefell into the abyss.
Falling, spinning, toppling through layers of intense pleasure, crying out at the wonder of it until they landed spent and gasping and sated at the bottom.
‘I’m sorry,’ Fin said at some point—could have been a minute later, could have been a year, her sense of time and place left back at the top somewhere. ‘I’m heavy.’
‘Nuh uh,’ she murmured, but he shifted anyway, manoeuvring himself off and rolling onto his back.
Sweeney moaned at his withdrawal, feeling the loss of him immediately. Her pulse and breathing were almost back to normal but she shivered as the air-con wafted across her heated flesh, puckering nipples that hadn’t long de-puckered, as they lay side by side contemplating the ceiling.
Apart from the huskiness in his breathing, Fin was silent, and a frisson of anxiety crept up her nape.
Was he using that big brain of his to analyse this to death—already?
Was he regretting it—already? But then his fingers brushed hers and intertwined, and a tension in her muscles she hadn’t realised had crept in dissolved in the blink of an eye.
‘Are you freaking out?’ he murmured.
Sweeney had asked that very question in the car coming back from their make-out session at the lake a couple of weeks ago. Clearly it was his turn to ask. ‘No. Are you?’
Because she wasn’t. Not yet. Still stuck in that glorious post-orgasm aftermath with dopamine flooding every cell into a state of euphoric mellowness. But would she—later?
After.
Down the track, knowing that she’d never get to look at him again as just Fin, her friend? Knowing that every time she saw him in the future, she’d see him hard and naked, unbridled lust flashing in his eyes.
Probably.
But right now, what had happened between them had felt inevitable and she wasn’t in any fit state to go prodding the revelation.
‘No.’
Another sense of relief swept her. He hadn’t been so certain returning from the lake that night. It hadn’t mattered so much then but his definitive answer this time caused a little flutter in her heart.
‘That was …’ His voice drifted away as he turned his head to look at her.
Sweeney turned hers in his direction, her belly fluttering as his brow creased, clearly grappling for a suitable adjective. Was she smug AF that he didn’t seem to be able to find one? Too bloody right. But hell, if she could find one either.
Some things just weren’t that easy to define.
‘Yeah, it was,’ she agreed with a smile.
‘We’re definitely going to need those extra condoms.’
She laughed, her breasts wobbling a little, and for a moment she contemplated teasing him about assumptions and maybe even playing a little hard to get, but his heated gaze drifted to her nipples still hard as pennies beneath the blast of the air-con, and her breath hitched.
‘You betcha ass.’