Chapter 22 #2
There was a moment of defeat before she was at the doorway again, this time holding up an old photo album he hadn’t seen in years.
“Then who is he?” she asked, opening to a page that featured a teenaged version of himself, decked out in merch for a cheesy show he’d been obsessed with, holding up the action figure his mother had gotten him for his birthday.
His face was unguarded. His eyes were bright. His smile so wide, it made his eyes small.
“I don’t know anymore,” Finn admitted, feeling the tug of regret. He’d spent so many years becoming the man he now was. He didn’t recognize who he used to be.
“Maybe you should try to find him again,” she said, closing the album. “Because he is who people want to know. They can relate to him. They like the suit,” she added, putting the album down. “But they want to see the man under it.”
“Oh, yeah?” he asked, lips curving up, eyes going bright.
“Not like that,” Iris said with a tinkling laugh. “Though, I bet posing for one of those shirtless calendars wouldn’t hurt your chances.” Her gaze tracked down him, then back up. “I mean, why spend all that time in the gym if no one is going to see the hard work?”
Her eyes had gone heated as they quickly stole another look at his abs.
The memories of the night before came back with a vengeance. Her soft skin, her soft sighs, the way she cried out when he was inside her.
Before he could even try to fight it, he felt himself getting hard. And the towel wrapped around his waist? It was doing nothing to hide the issue.
“Maybe you should—” she started, but her gaze slid down again, this time eyeing the shape of his hard length.
“I should what?” he asked, desire pouring through his veins as he saw her pupils blown wide when her eyes found his again. “Drop this towel, push you against this counter, and let you decide if the way I make you feel is fake?”
A sweet little whimper escaped her at that.
He knew he had her; he would bet good money that if he reached out and slipped his hands into her pants right then, he would find her wet and aching for him.
Reaching out, he grabbed her wrist, pulling her into the bathroom, then slamming the door.
“Your back …” Iris said as he pressed her back against the sink cabinet.
“To hell with my back,” he said just before his lips were on hers.
His hand curled around her jaw as he took the kiss deeper, chasing the taste of her.
His other hand slid up under the hem of her shirt, closing around her breast.
She gasped, and he used the moment to slip inside, tongue stroking over hers, coaxing another moan.
Against his palm, her nipple twisted tighter, inviting his fingers to circle, roll, and pinch.
Her hands slid down the bare skin of his back. Finding the towel, she pulled until the material slid down.
Her fingers were greedy then, palming his ass, digging in.
As her teeth nipped his lower lip, her hands slid to his hips. Then forward. Down.
Her palm curled around his hard length, dragging a groan out of him and a needy little whimper out of her.
His breath stuttered as she started to stroke him. It was slow at first. But when his head fell to her shoulder, she grew bolder, moving faster, hand twisting, driving him up, leaving him rocking into her hand as the need overtook him.
Her own need was growing, though, and her free hand moved out, grabbing his, and pressing it between her thighs.
He wasted no time, sliding under the material to touch her without any barriers, finding her hot and slick for him.
His thumb worked her clit as two of his fingers slipped inside her.
There was no stopping the groan that escaped him when her walls tightened around his fingers.
There was nothing tentative or gentle about him then. He thrust hard and fast, driving her up as she was doing to him.
“Finn, please,” Iris whimpered, her hips rocking restlessly against his palm. Needing more. Needing him.
He reached past her toward the medicine cabinet, grabbing a foil out of the box, then brushing her hand away from his length.
When his fingers slid out of her, she let out a little whimper that nearly undid him.
He made short work of the protection.
Then his hands were at the hem of her shirt, dragging it up and off.
“Perfect,” he murmured, his fingers skimming up her ribs, then across her breasts.
Iris wasn’t in the mood for teasing, though.
Her hand went to her own pants, pushing them and her panties down.
She turned, her ass rubbing against his hardness, making him twitch and pulse with need.
His head turned in at her neck as they both watched their reflections, a pink flush creeping across her chest as his lips teased up toward her ear.
“Finn …”
His hand slid down her front, slipping between her thighs. He shifted his hips, letting his hardness rock against her slick need as his finger teased her clit.
It wasn’t until she was grinding against him—her breathing fast, shallow huffs, her little mewling sounds filling the bathroom—that he shifted back, then slid inside her in one slow, deep thrust.
They both gasped at the sensation, then decided in unison that there was no going slow, no drawing it out.
He started to move, fast and deep.
Iris rocked back against him, demanding more.
Her arms went back and around his neck as his thumb worked her clit and his other hand went to her chest, squeezing, circling, and rolling, driving her closer and closer to the edge.
Iris’s breath got fast and erratic as she started to tighten around him.
“Breathe, baby,” he murmured, his lips at her neck. “There you go. You’re taking it so good for me.”
Another moan bubbled up and burst out of her, her whole body tensing and trembling as he got her right to the edge.
Then she fell over.
Crashed.
Shattered.
Fell apart.
With his name on her lips.
That sound, and the tensing of her walls around him over and over, had him coming with her, slamming hard and deep, groaning against her ear as he came.
They were still breathless and shaky, bodies close, hearts beating in time, when they both heard the chorus of voices on the other side of the door.
They broke apart, Iris leaning down to gather her clothes, then making a mad dash for the bedroom.
He stood alone in the bathroom a moment longer, heart still racing. Not just from the sex, but from the way she’d looked at him. Like she saw someone worth knowing, not just managing. It was heady, addictive, and terrifying.
Shaking his head, he cleaned up, then slipped into a pair of basketball shorts and a tee before making his way out.
By the time he made it back out, Iris was already there, making a cup of coffee, pretending like nothing had happened. But Finn knew that the flush on her cheeks was from him.
Just like the ache in his back again was from her.
“Those shots usually work like magic,” Henry said, frowning. “Well, we’re not that far from the filming now. Let’s go over—”
“No,” Iris said, turning away from where Arden was pulling out an outfit to show her.
“What?” Henry asked.
“No. No more going over anything. Look at him. He seems relaxed and human for a change. Don’t tense him all up again.”
Finn couldn’t help the flirty smile he tossed in her direction, both of them knowing who could take credit for his sudden change of demeanor.
Henry eyed him for a moment before deciding Iris was right. Miracles, it seemed, were possible.
The next thing they knew, they were in the back of a cab, and Finn was pulling Iris’s legs over his lap, finding her closeness grounding, reminding him not to get stuck in his head again.
Anytime during the interview when he found himself automatically slipping back into The Suit, Iris was right there, grabbing his knee or hand, playfully cutting him off mid-spiel to lighten the mood again.
When he watched the footage back later, he had to admit that it was the most real he’d ever looked and acted.
He could almost see the boy he’d been, waiting for rune-covered dragon statues, could see the young adult he’d once been, sitting in his college dorm, reading glow-in-the-dark shapeshifter comics. Hell, he could almost see his awkward, bumbling, red-faced attempts at charm.
The real Finn was there, front and center.
And the only person he could thank for that transform-ation was Iris.