Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Finn
It’s like I’ve unleashed a beast.
One second he’s watching me, his eyes full of need, of patience.
And the next, he’s diving a hand into my hair, yanking my head down to his, and if I thought the kiss from before was hot this—
Is blazing.
He’s hard beneath me, the solid strength of his arms wrapped tightly around me, his groan rumbling from his chest to mine, and God…
It’s good.
It’s everything I dreamed of in that fever dream I didn’t know was real until I woke alone.
It’s everything I’ve been trying to pretend I didn’t want.
“Stitch,” he groans against my lips, dragging me somehow closer, grinding his hips up and, oh, that’s even better.
Rocking against me, sending sparks of pleasure through my body.
More.
I want more.
And he seems to be thinking the same wonderful thing.
Because suddenly I’m on my back on the couch cushions, his big body on top of mine, and—
Good.
It’s so fucking good.
He parts my lips, sweeps his tongue inside, and then we’re kissing and kissing, deep and long and wet, his hips grinding into mine, his hands trailing along my side. Over my hip, across my ribs, up to cup my—
“Oh!” I gasp, my head falling back, my legs tightening around him.
He massages my breast, thumb brushing over the hard bud of my nipple, and I gasp again. “More,” I whisper, and he obliges me.
Another kiss.
More kneading of my flesh.
Rolling my nipple between thumb and forefinger.
His lips leave mine, dragging along my throat, kissing across my jaw. He pauses at my ear, his words hot puffs of sensation against my flesh. “More?” he asks.
I nod.
And am rewarded with another blazing kiss.
“More?” he asks again.
I nod again.
He grins and then he’s kissing me.
Not slow. Not lazy. Not softly.
It’s searing. It’s deep. It’s…
Blanketing me in pleasure for what feels like an eternity.
“More,” I whisper when he pulls back to let us both breathe.
But instead of kissing me again, he settles his forehead against mine. “Beautiful.”
“Kiss me,” I murmur, trying to press my lips to his.
He pulls back and draws me upright, tucking me into his side. “You know you asked me to do that before.” A nuzzling kiss to my temple. “But I don’t think you remember.”
My cheeks heat.
“What’s this?” He strokes a finger over my skin.
“I, uh, remember,” I admit.
His brows fly up. “What?”
“I remember saying it.”
“But you acted like you didn’t.”
I groan and bury my face in my hands. “It was the fever. I didn’t mean to—”
“Beg me to kiss you?”
I lift up, glare at him. “I wasn’t begging.”
“No?”
“No.” I scowl, shoving lightly at his chest. He captures my hand, presses a kiss to my palm.
A chuckle, then he tucks me against his side. “Have dinner with me tomorrow?”
I frown.
Because we eat dinner together almost every night.
“A date, Stitch,” he murmurs. “I want to take you on one. Tomorrow night. I’ll get a sitter for Chloe. We’ll have dinner. I’ll teach you to skate.”
“I—”
“Just say yes.”
“I—”
“Say yes, Stitch.”
I lean up, slant my mouth over his, kissing him with all the pent-up emotions of the last months. “I’m trying to,” I say tartly as I pull back.
He grins, nips at my bottom lip.
“Okay then,” he murmurs. “Say yes.”
Sighing, I shake my head. “Yes.”
A fist pump before he snags the remote, turning on my documentary, handing me the cocktail I’ve mixed up, snagging the one I made for him and sipping. “Oh, that’s good,” he murmurs.
Of course it is.
I made it.
“You know what else would be good?” I tease, but I don’t wait for him to answer. “More kissing.”
His lips twitch. “You deserve more, baby.” Then his eyes go serious.
“Let me give it to you?” My heart flutters and I open my mouth to say…
hell, I don’t know what. Before I can, he’s stroking my cheek, drawing me a little closer, and ordering jokingly, “Think about the next braid you’re going to teach me. ”
I give in and settle my head on his shoulder.
Not that it’s a burden to cuddle up to him, cocktail in hand, documentary on TV as we talk about nothing important.
Just us—just me.
Like that’s enough.
Like he doesn’t need anything else except for me to be…me.
Content in a way I’m not sure I’ve ever been before, I say, “I think you have to teach me to skate first.”
He shrugs. “That’ll take no time at all.”
“Confident much?”
“I kind of skate for a living, darlin’.”
“I kind of like it when you call me Stitch more.”
He chuckles. “So are we thinking a French braid? Or maybe one of those Fishtails? Dutch braids?”
“Been Googling, huh?”
“It’s one of my many skills.”
“Hmm.”
He tugs at my hair. “Have I told you I really like this?”
“Yes, you have.” I touch his chestnut brown locks. “I like yours too.”
“Thanks, Stitch.” A smile, a tap to the tip of my nose, then a nod toward the coffee table. “You need some help with your blanket?”
I shake my head. “I was just passing the time.”
“Okay.” He slips his arm around me. “So more boring history?”
“It’s not boring!”
A chuckle. “Want some popcorn to go with that all that boring?”
I toss him a mock glare.
He just cups my cheek and chuckles again, but when he puts his empty glass down on the table and stands, I notice—
“You’re not wearing your ring.”
The words slip out before I can decide whether I should say them or not…and then I realize I shouldn’t have.
Because he goes so very still.
“Ignore me,” I whisper, jumping to my feet. “I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s okay,” he says. “You should ask.”
Pain lances across my chest.
Because I know how much it must have cost him to take it off.
“Rhodes—” I wrap my arms around him, hug him tight.
“I’m okay.”
“I know you are.”
But I don’t let him go.
Not yet.
He sighs, rests his chin on top of my head. “It was time,” he says quietly.
I just hug him tighter.
Eventually, he draws back. “Popcorn?”
I nod. “Popcorn sounds good. You want me to mix up another cocktail to go with it?”
“That would be great, Stitch,” he says.
He moves to the kitchen, and I follow him, gathering my ingredients as he puts the bag into the microwave.
“So, why the sudden interest in skating?” he asks as it pops.
I pull a bottle of vodka out of the freezer, some lemons from the fridge, along with my homemade simple syrup. “It looks fun,” I say as I slice the lemons, as I squeeze their juice into the shaker. “And maybe…”
I want to be brave.
Take a chance.
Be myself.
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe I just felt like it was time to take a chance.”
I’m not talking about skating, and he knows it. Because he’s doing the same thing.
Our gazes connect, and as they hold, his goes soft.
Then he murmurs, “Proud of you for going for it.”
My lungs hitch. “Thanks.”
The microwave dings.
We serve up the popcorn, I shake and pour the drinks, and then we head back into the living room…only to find that my blanket has been taken over by kittens.
A chuckle beside me. “They’re demons.”
“Or maybe artists?” I say lightly as I set the glasses down and try to remove the pair of mischievous kittens.
Olive bats at my hand.
“Excuse me, little miss.” I scoop her up and cuddle her against my chest. “That’s my fabric.”
“Meow,” she protests, pressing her paw to my cheek.
“I told Chloe that we would make you your own blanket, remember?”
“She says make me a blanket now,” Rhodes teases.
“Meow!” Pear agrees.
“Well, too bad.” I tap her on the nose. “I’m only one woman, and you’re going to have to wait your turn.”
“And that turn,” he says, scooping Olive out of my hold and plopping her on the couch, “is going to come after we eat popcorn and drink your delicious cocktails and watch this boring documentary.”
I open my mouth to remind him history isn’t boring. Again.
He kisses me until I forget every thought in my head.
“Come cuddle on the couch with me, Stitch,” he murmurs, “I want you in my arms.”