Holland #2
His fingers curled inside me, hitting that spot that made my back arch, and his thumb pressed down harder, rubbing tight circles until my thighs shook. I came with a cry, my nails raking down his back, my body a single, pulled-taut wire that finally snapped.
Before I could catch my breath, he was lifting me off the table, spinning me around until my chest was pressed against the cool surface. His hands gripped my hips, pulling me back against him, and I could feel the hard length of him through his pants, pressing against my ass.
"Finn—" I gasped, my fingers curling around the edge of the table.
"I’ve got you," he murmured, his voice rough as he reached around to unzip my dress, letting it pool at my feet. His hands slid up my sides, cupping my breasts through the lace of my bra, his thumbs brushing over my nipples until they hardened under his touch.
I reached back, fumbling with his belt, but he caught my wrists, pinning them against the table. "Not yet," he said, nipping at the shell of my ear. "I want to taste you first."
He dropped to his knees behind me, his hands sliding down my thighs, spreading them wider.
The first swipe of his tongue against my clit made me jerk, a broken sound tearing from my throat.
He groaned, the vibration of it sending another shock of pleasure through me, and then he was licking me in slow, deliberate strokes, his tongue dipping inside me before flicking back up to circle my clit.
"Fuck—" I choked out, my legs trembling. "Finn, I can’t—"
"You can," he growled, his fingers digging into my hips as he pulled me back against his mouth. He sucked my clit between his lips, his tongue working me with a relentless rhythm that had me gasping, my orgasm building again too fast, too hard.
He walked me back, steps deliberate, until the deep leather couch met my calves.
The thing reeked of old coffee, ink, and decades of late nights.
He lowered me onto it, leather icy against my bare ass and shoulders, the city's glow catching the window frame and throwing hard rectangles of light across our skin.
Braced above me, one hand gripping the armrest, he stared down like he was memorizing every inch—jaw tight, chest heaving.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, low, not a command but an offering.
I reached up and pulled his face down to mine. “Stop being careful.”
He exhaled hard, something feral loosening in his shoulders. “Been careful with you for ten years. Give me a minute.”
“You have one.”
His laugh rumbled against my throat before his mouth claimed mine, teeth scraping, tongue soothing.
The carefulness vanished. His fingers found my zipper, yanked it down in one rough pull.
Silk pooled at my feet. The cold hit my bare skin and my nipples tightened, a sharp little ache.
He stripped his shirt, and I dragged my palms over the lean, hot muscle of his chest, the faint salt of his skin, the rapid thud of his heart.
“I’m not gonna break,” I breathed.
“I know.” His hand slid between my thighs, two fingers thrusting deep into my soaked pussy without warning. “But you spent seven years with a man who wasn’t paying attention. I am. And I want you to feel every goddamn difference.”
I arched, moaning, grinding down on his fingers as he curled them against that spot that sent a jolt straight up my spine.
The leather creaked under us. He added a third finger, stretching me, thumb circling my clit in tight, relentless strokes while his mouth sucked hard on one nipple, teeth grazing just enough to sting.
“Finn—fuck—more.”
He freed himself, and I saw he was flushed and thick, already wet for me.
He dragged it through my folds, coating himself in my wetness, then pushed in slow, inch by inch, letting me feel every ridge.
The burn, the fullness, the way my walls fluttered around him.
Leather stuck to my back. His scent—clean sweat, cedar, and now us—filled my lungs.
He fucked me with steady, deep thrusts, one hand pinning my wrists above my head, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise.
“Tell me how it feels,” he demanded, voice strained.
“Like you’re splitting me open. Don’t stop—harder.”
He gave it, hips snapping, the sound of our bodies colliding filling the quiet room. The couch rocked. City lights blurred. I came again with a hoarse shout, my whole body seizing around him, and he followed with a guttural groan, flooding me hot and deep.
Afterward we lay tangled, my cheek on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles over my shoulder.
His heartbeat thudded steady under my ear.
The drafting lamp cast a warm pool across the floor where my dress pooled like spilled ink.
Outside, I could just hear the lake against the shore, distant and dark.
I lifted my head, met his gaze. “I’m done being the wife who builds and signs nothing. I want my own name on the work. And I want you in it—because you see the architect, not the accessory.”
His fingers slid into my hair, tugging just enough to tilt my face. “Been waiting to hear you say that. About yourself, not for me.” He kissed me slow, tasting of salt and satisfaction. “We start tomorrow. Tonight you just rest on me.”
I settled back against him, city glow pressing warm against my closed lids, his arm solid around my waist.