Chapter 14 Rosie
fourteen
Rosie
I’m trying to concentrate on the email from my record label, I really am, but the words on the screen swim like tiny black fish in a sea of white, and no sooner do I bring a sentence into focus than the letters fuzz into oblivion again.
I can’t stop thinking about what happened yesterday in the laundry room.
Part of me is mortified I could be so brazen, the other part is desperate to do it again, and I can’t help but wonder…
if it was that good grinding on Finn’s lap, what would it feel like to have his hands between my legs?
His tongue on my clit? His cock deep inside me?
“You almost done there, Songbird?”
I startle at the question and the sudden appearance of Finn, who’s leaning on the back of the opposite dining chair.
His gentle rumble is edged with amusement, and his tiny smirk is insolent in a way that makes my stomach twist. He knows what I’m thinking about.
I know he knows what I’m thinking about.
What I don’t know is when he’s going to make good on his promise, and I can’t very well ask when he’s going to make me come again.
I’m a lady.
I glance at the screen and click through to the email about applicants for my new security team.
Finn was insistent I look at it this morning, saying he needed to respond to his military contact, and I begrudgingly agreed.
There are three résumés attached and they all look fine to me.
To be honest, if they’ve passed Finn’s check, I’m happy enough to hire them, but that would mean leaving here and going back to my life in LA.
Finalizing my separation from Chip. Rebuilding my life with me at the helm and not him.
Rebranding myself as an independent businesswoman in this industry, one who is creative and capable and a force to be reckoned with.
When I ran from Violet’s studio, those goals were pushing me forward, but not anymore. Now I’m searching for reasons to delay.
I minimize Finn’s email and close the laptop with a snap. “I’m done.”
Finn raises his right eyebrow. “And?”
“And none of them are right for the job.” I shrug. “Sorry.”
His mouth pulls into a knowing smile that warms me in unusual places. “You don’t sound very sorry.”
I lift my chin and stare down my nose at him across the dining table. “You don’t know my mind.”
Finn chuckles. “You might be surprised.” He straightens and rolls his head toward the loft. “Upstairs,” he orders, tone firm and eyes hot. “Now.”
I stand slowly, balling the hem of his flannel into my fists as butterflies the size of swallows spin and dive in my stomach.
With all the poise I can muster and all the calmness I can feign, I walk to the ladder, sparing a pat for Dakota who’s dozing in her bed, and climb my stairway to sex heaven.
But when I get to the top, I’m not sure what to do.
Finn’s bed is neat and the covers are smooth.
There’s a mirrored dresser opposite the bed and an armchair in the corner.
The guitar I’ve been playing leans against the far wall, my notepad and pencil are stacked on the nightstand.
Do I stand here? Sit? Lie down? Stay dressed? Get naked?
When Finn promised to make up for all the orgasms Chip neglected to give me these last six years, I didn’t stop to wonder about the logistics.
I’m fussing with the buttons on my shirt when Finn appears at the top of the ladder.
He looks completely in control of his nerves, if he has any, and his confidence relaxes me.
If Finn thinks there’s nothing to worry about, then there’s nothing to worry about.
He slides his hand around the back of my neck and drags my mouth to his in a soft but demanding open-mouth kiss, and the butterflies spiral lower, teasing and tightening my core.
He releases my mouth much too soon and, with his eyes closed, presses his forehead against mine. “This is how it could go. I make you come.”
My exhale quivers at the word alone, and Finn’s mouth tips up on one side.
“I make you come,” he repeats, “and it’ll be the kind of orgasm you think about later when you’re touching yourself. But that’s no good to you if you don’t know how to touch yourself. Right?”
“Right,” I agree absently, craning my neck for another kiss, which he bestows with a grin against my lips.
“So that’s what I want you to do,” he says. “Before I touch you, I want you to touch yourself.”
His words and his hands and his kiss—oh my God, he’s such a good kisser—have fogged my brain past the point of coherent thought, so I replay his words to understand what he’s saying.
Heat rises in my cheeks as I pull his hand from my face. “I can’t do that!”
“Why not?”
“Because I… Because you…” My cheeks burn like fire. “Because it’s embarrassing.”
Finn shakes his head, mouth tipped up on one side. “There’s nothing embarrassing about a gorgeous woman who knows how to get herself off. Believe me.”
The intensity of his tone, matched by his caramel eyes, makes my breath come fast. I drop my gaze down his hard body, and I’m met with an erection tenting the front of his gray sweats.
Is it possible that the idea of my own hand between my legs is making him hard?
The thought is enough to make me want to stroke myself, and suddenly I’m considering it.
“You don’t have to,” Finn says. He collects my hands in his, twining our fingers between us.
“I’d never ask you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, but you need to know your own body and understand what brings you pleasure before you’re able to tell a man what you need in the bedroom.
I can help you, if you want, or I can give you some time alone.
This isn’t about me. I want you to do this for you and only you. ”
I bite my lip and look down at what I’m wearing, then glance at my reflection in the mirror behind Finn.
Flannel shirt. Hair in a ponytail. No makeup.
I’m not what anyone would call a sex kitten…
except for one small detail. I’m wearing a white lace thong from Violet’s collection, and I recall what she said about her designs when we were in her studio.
She created her lingerie line to make women feel confident, comfortable, and beautiful.
Sexy. Empowered. In control. I bite my lip and cast a shy look up at Finn.
His expression, bright and burning and so ready to shut this down if I say the word, makes me want to do this.
I want to take back my life, and that includes owning my body.
If I’m not going to let myself be treated like a commodity anymore, I need to take control of my own pleasure as much as anything else.
I unbutton my shirt and let it pool on the floor around my feet.
Finn’s throat bobs in a swallow as his eyes fall, sweeping over my bare breasts and belly, past my lacy thong to my thighs, and up again with a tension so tight I feel its touch.
Goose bumps flare and my nipples furl into hard, aching tips.
Finn’s hand flinches at his side, and I silently beg him to touch me, but he balls it into a fist with a heaving breath of self-discipline.
“I’m ready,” I murmur. “Will you stay?”
“Mm-hmm.” His quiet hum cracks with desire. “I can do that.”
“Where should I go?”
“On the bed,” he whispers.
As I lay myself down on the covers, Finn takes a seat in the armchair by the foot of the bed.
He leans back, knees wide and sweatpants clinging to his hard-on, and from here I have a full view of myself in the mirror above his dresser.
I study my near-naked body and pull out my hair so it splays over the pillows, and when I run a hesitant hand down my neck and toward my breast, Finn responds with a choked groan.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Touch yourself, Songbird.”
I cup my breast and tweak a nipple between my thumb and forefinger, pulling it just enough to cause a twinge of pain, then gasp at the unexpected wet pulse in my pussy.
“What next?” I ask.
“Grab both tits,” he orders. “Squeeze them a little. Harder. Push them together. Just like that.”
It’s not like I haven’t touched myself before.
I’ve played a little, tried to do what Chip never could, but it didn’t feel erotic and I couldn’t ever get there.
But now, my body buzzes with arousal, and the reason is Finn.
Not only how attractive I find him or how safe he makes me feel, but the press of his eyes on me. Finn watching me is turning me on.
I do what he says, massaging my breasts, lifting them and squeezing them, exploring the way my body responds, but I don’t get the zingy zips of lust I felt when I pinched my nipple.
I try it again, then both at the same time, and…
Oh! There it is. A pang of pain followed by a warm flood of pulsing need.
“I like it like this,” I tell him, pulling on the erect tips until they’re hard and aching. “So the next time you touch me, do it like this.”
“Okay,” Finn says, voice low and husky, fists tight on the arms of the chair. “What else do you like?”
“I’m not sure yet. Maybe if I…”
I trail a light fingertip over my ribcage, moving slowly—but certainly—south, and at the sound of Finn’s quiet moan, the desire in me jumps, alongside another kind of high that I’m all too familiar with.
The high of standing on a stage with all the attention on me.
The rush of the spotlight. The thrill of holding vulnerability in one hand and power in the other.
The ultimate paradox of being an artist: baring my soul just to hold a person captive with it.
This is a performance and Finn is my audience. And I’m nothing if not a world-class act.
I try a harder pinch on my nipple, then close my eyes with a moan as my pussy drips. Finn shifts in his chair. I imagine his cock getting thicker at the picture of me on the bed, and the ache between my legs intensifies with a heavy throb.