Chapter Thirteen
MARA
Finn’s bedroom is exactly what I expect and nothing like it.
The bed is made with military corners. Three goalie sticks lean in precise order against one wall.
A stack of scouting reports sits square beneath the desk lamp.
His closet contains shirts arranged by color, though the colors are mostly black, charcoal, and the specific blue of winter before sunrise.
But beside the window is an old radio with its wooden case removed, wires exposed.
A quilt in deep green and gold covers the bed, hand-stitched and slightly uneven.
Photographs line the dresser: Finn at ten in oversized pads; his parents outside a hardware store; the Wolves after last season’s championship, Owen’s arm around Finn’s shoulders while Jace tries to climb both of them.
He has a life in here.
Not a mask. Not a crease.
A life.
Finn closes the door behind us.
The sound is quiet.
My pulse is not.
He stands a few feet away, hands at his sides as if waiting for instruction.
I remove my coat.
His gaze follows the movement.
“You can change your mind,” he says.
“So can you.”
“I won’t.”
“Confidence.”
“Information.”
I cross the room and touch the hem of his sweater.
“Tell me what you want.”
His throat moves.
“You.”
“Specificity helps.”
One hand settles at my waist.
“I want to kiss you until you stop making jokes.”
“Impossible objective.”
“I want to take this off.” His fingers catch the edge of my sweater. “I want to know what sounds you make when no one else can hear.”
Heat moves through me.
“And?”
His eyes darken.
“I want you to stay.”
The last answer is the most intimate.
I rise onto my toes and kiss him.
Finn’s restraint lasts three seconds.
Then his hands move into my hair and his mouth opens over mine. He backs me toward the bed without rushing, every step controlled until the backs of my knees meet the quilt.
He stops.
“Still yes?”
“Yes.”
I pull my sweater over my head.
His breath leaves slowly.
The attention in his face makes me feel more naked than the black lace bra ever could. There is no careless hunger in it. He looks as if he is memorizing a rink before the lights go out.
I touch the bottom of his shirt.
“Your turn.”
He removes it.
I have seen Finn in base layers, in jerseys, in enough equipment to stop artillery. None of that prepared me for bare skin. Broad chest. Defined shoulders. A faded scar beneath his ribs. Strength built for endurance rather than display.
I place my palm over his sternum.
His heart is fast.
“Good fast?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Truth?”
He covers my hand with his. “Good fast.”
I kiss the scar near his chin, then his throat, then the place where his pulse answers mine.
Finn makes a rough sound and lifts me.
I wrap my legs around his waist.
The room tilts. He lowers me onto the bed and follows, weight braced above me. His mouth travels over my neck and collarbone. When he reaches the edge of my bra, he looks up.
I nod.
He unhooks it with less skill than he brings to the ice.
“You repair turntables,” I whisper.
“This clasp is poorly designed.”
I laugh.
He takes the opportunity to kiss me until the laugh becomes a gasp.
His hand moves over my breast, slow enough to make every nerve feel deliberate. I arch into him. He watches my face, adjusting pressure when my breath changes.
“Finn.”
“Yes?”
“If you keep asking after every movement, this may take until graduation.”
“I like data.”
“Wrong book.”
His mouth curves against my skin.
Then his fingers slide beneath the waistband of my skirt, and I stop being clever.
He touches me over my underwear first, patient and focused. Pleasure gathers quickly, sharpened by the way he listens. When I grip his shoulders, he looks at me.
“More?”
“Yes.”
His hand moves beneath the fabric.
The first stroke makes my hips lift.
Finn’s eyes close briefly, as if my reaction affects him physically.
He learns me with the same concentration he brings to a puck through traffic. Not because my body is a problem to solve. Because attention is how he gives himself.
When I come, I say his name too loudly.
He kisses me through it, one hand cradling the back of my head.
After, I lie breathless beneath him.
“You won,” I say.
“What?”
“I stopped making jokes.”
“For nine seconds.”
“Personal record.”
I reach for his belt.
He catches my wrist.
“Wait.”
I stop immediately.
His breathing has changed.
Not panic. Overwhelm, maybe. Desire and fear moving too close together.
“What do you need?” I ask.
He looks at me, then at my hand.
“Slow.”
“Okay.”
I sit up and kiss his shoulder.
No performance. No reassurance he has not requested.
Just time.
He exhales.
Then he takes my hand and guides it back to his belt.
“Still yes?” I ask.
“Yes.”
We move slowly.
Clothes disappear. A condom comes from the bedside drawer, because Finn prepares for possibilities even when he does not expect hope. He lets me touch him everywhere, though his eyes close when I kiss the scar beneath his ribs.
“What happened?”
“Skate blade. Junior tournament.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No.”
I kiss it again.
When he enters me, he goes still.
The fullness steals my breath.
His forehead rests against mine.
“Mara.”
“I’m okay.”
“Truth?”
“Yes. Move.”
He does.
The first strokes are measured. Then I hook one leg around his hip and pull him deeper, and control gives way to something rawer. Finn’s mouth finds mine. The bed shifts beneath us. His hand closes around my thigh.
Pleasure builds again, slower and stronger.
He watches me until I cannot bear the intimacy of it and pull him down to kiss me. When I come, he follows with my name against my neck.
For several minutes, neither of us speaks.
Finn removes the condom, returns with a warm cloth and a glass of water, then climbs into bed beside me. The quilt covers us both.
I wait for the awkwardness.
It does not come.
He lies on his back, one arm beneath my shoulders. I rest my head over his heart.
“Your mother made this?” I ask, touching the quilt.
“Yes.”
“It is beautiful.”
“She would point out twelve mistakes.”
“My mother would call them character.”
Finn’s fingers move through my hair.
“Stay,” he says again.
I hear the weight beneath it.
Not save me. Not watch me. Not promise nothing will happen.
Stay because morning is better with two people in it.
“Yes,” I say.
His body loosens around mine.
In the dark, I listen to his breathing.
Not because it is my job.
Because I love the sound.
The thought arrives quietly.
Love.
Too soon. Too large. Uninvited.
I do not say it.
But I stay.