44. Sophie
Sophie
Ihaven’t slept in their bed for five days.
On Monday morning I moved back to the residential wing at Synthera and told all three of them that we needed to be careful. That we needed to keep our distance—my suppressants can’t take another hit, and there’s still a mole to find, and I can’t do my job if I’m constantly distracted.
They agreed. Not happily, but they understood.
The problem is that none of us are very good at it.
Finn catches my eye across the conference table and holds it a moment too long.
Max’s hand finds the small of my back as he passes me in the corridor.
Ethan leaves a coffee on my desk with a sticky note that just says E.
Small, careful things—but enough to remind me that last weekend wasn’t something I imagined.
I know keeping our distance is the right call, and I hate every second of it.
Every night I lie in my bed and stare at the ceiling and think about Finn’s hands and Max’s mouth and the way Ethan whispered sweet girl against my throat in the bath, and I burn with it.
By Friday, I miss them so much it’s a physical ache.
We’re in Max’s office for the weekly briefing—me, Max, Diana, two of the research leads. Max is in full CEO mode, charcoal suit, and nobody interrupts him once. He doesn’t look at me any differently than he looks at anyone else. He doesn’t even glance at me.
When the meeting wraps, people start gathering their things.
“Ms. Dysart,” Max says, not looking up from his notes. “Stay behind, please. I’d like a word.”
Diana gives me a sympathetic look on her way out. The door closes, and the last footsteps fade down the corridor.
Max crosses the room and locks the door. Then he turns to me, and the CEO is gone. His green eyes are dark and intent as he closes the distance between us and kisses me hard, one hand at the back of my neck, his mouth urgent and demanding. I melt into him so fast it’s embarrassing.
“I’ve been thinking about you all week,” he says against my lips, his forehead pressed to mine.
“Is that what ‘I’d like a word’ means in CEO?” I say teasingly.
He laughs, and the way it transforms his face makes my heart stutter. Max Cavill laughing is something I don’t think many people get to see.
“It means I’d like several words,” he says, kissing the tip of my nose. “Most of them inappropriate for a professional setting.”
I laugh and lean into him, my forehead to his chest. His arms come around me and we stand there for a moment, his chin resting on top of my head, and the quiet between us feels like the first full breath I’ve taken all week.
“Have brunch with us tomorrow?” he says into my hair. “Finn’s making pancakes.”
As if the pancakes should convince me.
I’m already convinced.
The front door is unlocked. I smooth the front of my dress—a simple navy one that falls just above my knees, the only thing in Sophie Dysart’s wardrobe that actually feels like mine—and step inside. I can hear music from the dining room, quiet enough that I can’t make out the song, and I follow it.
Finn is at the table, setting out plates. Bare feet, a blue t-shirt that makes his eyes even brighter, sweatpants riding low on his hips. He turns when he hears me and his face lights up like I’m the best thing he’s seen all day.
“There she is.” He crosses the room and wraps his arms around me and presses his lips to my hair. “I missed you, sweetheart.”
The way he says it—simple, unhurried, like he’s been waiting all week to say it—makes my throat tight. I press my face into his chest and breathe him in.
“I missed you too,” I say.
He pulls back and looks at me, his blue eyes warm. “How are you feeling?”
“I feel good,” I say. “Especially now that I’m here.”
His expression softens. “Me too.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s been a long week.”
He nods toward the table. “Max and Ethan went out to get groceries. They’ll be back soon. Sit down—I’m not letting these get cold.”
I look at the table. Four place settings. Pancakes. Coffee. Maple syrup. Like this is normal. Like this is something we do.
I want this to be something we do.
Finn sits down and pulls his chair back, and I don’t go to the chair across from him. I walk over and lower myself onto his lap, my legs hanging off one side, my arm looping around his neck.
He blinks. Then his hand settles on my thigh and his other arm wraps around my waist.
“Hi,” I say, looking up at him with a small smile.
“Hi,” he says, grinning.
He picks up a fork, tears off a piece of pancake, and holds it up to my mouth. I take it and my eyes close because it’s possibly the best thing I’ve ever tasted—light and fluffy, buttery and sweet.
“Finn, this is incredible.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he says, and kisses me quickly, a flash of maple syrup on his lips.
We eat like that—him holding me, feeding me bites between feeding himself, his arm loose around my waist, my head resting on his shoulder between mouthfuls.
At some point I press my face into his neck and breathe him in.
Sunlight and honey. Warm skin. Finn.
“You smell so good,” I say against his throat.
He stops chewing.
“Soph.”
I lift my head. “What?”
His eyes sharpen as he inhales. Then I catch it too, faint beneath the pancakes and coffee.
Rain and crushed roses.
Less than half an hour curled up in Finn’s lap and my suppressants are already starting to give way.
I should probably be worried about that.
Instead, I settle closer into him and steal another bite of pancake from his fork.
Finn laughs and starts telling me about the winter Max began feeding a stray cat behind the house and spent three months insisting it wasn’t his.
Then Finn caught him in the garage building it a tiny insulated shelter with a heated pad, and Max apparently looked him dead in the eye and said, “This proves nothing.”
“Where is the cat now?” I ask, laughing.
“Turned out she belonged to one of the neighbors. She eventually wandered back home.” Finn grins. “Max pretended he was relieved.”
“He wasn’t?”
“He was devastated.”
I’m laughing with my mouth full, his hand warm on my bare thigh, the morning sun pouring through the windows, and it’s the most normal, happy moment of my week.
Then the maple syrup drips.
A golden drop falls from the fork and lands on the front of my dress, right above the swell of my breast. I look down. Finn looks down.
“Oh no, your dress,” he says.
“I guess I’ll have to take it off,” I say.
He stares at me for a second, his lips parting, like he’s not sure he heard me right.
Then I reach for the hem and pull it up.
He’s already helping me, his hands finding the fabric, lifting it over my head.
The dress drops to the floor and I’m sitting on his lap in my bra and underwear.
Finn’s eyes travel down my body and his hands grip my waist.
“Fuck, Sophie,” he breathes.
I settle back onto his lap and feel him hard beneath me, his cock straining against his sweatpants. I shift my hips and the friction makes both of us inhale.
“Let me help you clean up,” he whispers, his eyes on the drop of maple syrup sliding down the curve of my breast. He leans forward and licks it off slowly, his tongue tracing a warm, wet line from my collarbone to the top of my breast, and a loud moan slips out before I can stop it.
His fingers find the clasp of my bra and unhook it in one motion. He tosses it aside without looking.
He cups both my breasts in his hands and pushes them together, staring down at them with an expression so reverent it’s almost comical.
“God, I missed these,” he breathes.
I laugh. “You missed my breasts?”
“Soph, you have no idea.”
Then his mouth moves lower and he finds my nipple and takes it into his mouth and sucks gently, then harder, his tongue circling it, and I’m not laughing anymore. My back arches and my hand fists in his hair.
“You know what I kept thinking about this week?” he murmurs against my breast, his lips grazing my nipple with every word.
“Lying in bed, hearing you and Ethan through the bathroom door.” He switches to the other breast, his tongue flicking the hardened peak.
“Knowing how good he was making you feel.”
“Finn—” I gasp, my hips rocking against him.
His mouth moves back up to my throat. “I want you to know exactly how each of us feels, sweetheart.”
He reaches for the bottle of maple syrup on the table and tips it, letting a thin stream drizzle across both my breasts. The syrup is thick and trails down my skin in golden lines, pooling around my nipples and slipping into the valley between them.
“Finn—” My voice comes out strangled.
“Hold still, sweetheart.” He sets the bottle down and his mouth is on me—licking, sucking, tracing every line of syrup with his tongue, cleaning me with slow, thorough strokes that leave me squirming in his lap.
His tongue circles one nipple, lapping the sweetness off my skin, then drags across to the other, his lips sealing around it and sucking until I’m moaning so loud the sound fills the room.
“You taste incredible,” he murmurs, his mouth sticky and warm against my breast. “Better than anything I’ve ever made.”
He pulls me harder onto him, his cock rigid against my ass. His mouth finds mine again, kissing me deep and sweet, tasting like maple syrup and Finn.
This is what mornings are supposed to feel like. This is what I’ve been missing my whole life.
He picks up another forkful of pancake and holds it to my lips, and I take it, and he watches me chew with dark, hungry eyes while his thumb traces lazy circles on my bare hip.
“Eat your breakfast, sweetheart,” he says, his voice rough and tender at the same time. “You’re going to need the energy.”
“I don’t want pancakes,” I say, and my lower lip pushes out before I can stop it. An actual pout. I have never pouted in my life.
Finn stares at my mouth. His eyes go dark.
“No?” His voice drops. “What are you hungry for then?”