17. Warm. Soft. Devoted -Libby
Seventeen
Warm. Soft. Devoted -Libby
This time, I woke slowly, not to panic or fear, but to warmth.
It was solid, steady, and safe. My cheek was pressed against something firm, rising and falling in a slow, even rhythm. A hand moved along my back in absent, unconscious circles. I let out a small groan, shifting closer, drawn by the warmth before my brain registered my surroundings.
Then, it all clicked. My eyes snapped open, and I froze.
Finn.
I was curled into him—a leg thrown over his, a hand fisted in his shirt, my face tucked against his chest as if I’d always slept there. My body had made a decision my mind hadn’t agreed to.
I tilted my head up, unhurried. He was already awake, watching me with those steady eyes, softened by the gray morning light filtering through the window.
“Morning,” he said, his voice low, rough with sleep, yet so gentle it pulled at something in my chest.
“Morning,” I whispered back.
Neither of us moved. His hand continued its slow circles on my back, and I allowed myself to breathe it in—the weight of him, the quiet solidity—even as nerves fluttered low in my stomach.
I noticed then that he was half-hard against my thigh. He made no move to adjust, simply holding still, reading my face with patient, careful eyes.
“Libby.” He brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. “You okay?”
I nodded, swallowed. “I’m nervous.”
“You set the pace,” he said immediately, without hesitation. “Always. Tell me what feels good. If you want me to stop, I stop.”
Something old and knotted within me loosened. I leaned in and kissed him—softly at first, then deeper as he kissed me back with a slow, patient hunger, as if he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second. His tongue brushed mine carefully, coaxing, never demanding.
When I pulled back, breathing faster, I took his hand and guided it under my shirt. His touch was careful and certain at once—his warm palm sliding up my ribs, his thumb grazing the underside of my breast until I shivered and pressed into him.
“Can I taste you?” he murmured against my lips, quiet enough that it felt like a secret between us. “Just my mouth. I want to make you feel good.”
Heat moved through me from my throat to my knees. “Yes.”
He kissed me once more, then worked his way down my body slowly, deliberately. He peeled my shirt away with careful hands, pressing his mouth to every inch of skin he uncovered. Reverent. Unhurried.
When he reached the waistband of my panties, he looked up, waiting. I lifted my hips. He slid them down.
He settled between my thighs, his broad shoulders holding me open without trapping me, his hands stroking my legs in long, soothing sweeps. He placed a kiss on the inside of my knee, then higher, his breath ghosting warm over my center.
He didn’t rush even then. He just looked at me—and the way his eyes moved over me, dark and unhurried, made me forget what I’d been about to say.
“I keep forgetting to just look at you,” he said.
Then his mouth was on me.
Warm. Soft. Devoted.
He started slow—savoring strokes of his tongue, a low hum of appreciation that vibrated through me and pulled a sharp gasp from my throat.
He took his time learning me, every flick and circle deliberate, adjusting to every catch of my breath and tremor of my thighs.
When he circled my clit, a low moan escaped me, and my fingers threaded into his hair.
He didn’t pin me down; he just held my hips with steady hands and let me move however I needed to.
“Finn—” His name came out unsteadily.
He slid one thick finger inside me slowly, curling it just right, his tongue and his hand finding a rhythm together that built heat in deep, rolling waves instead of sharp edges. I stopped bracing. Stopped waiting for something to go wrong. My hands loosened in his hair and I just let it happen.
I looked down. His eyes were closed, completely focused, his mouth glistening. The sight of him—the concentration on his face, the way he gave himself over entirely to this—sent a fresh rush of heat straight through me.
He added a second finger, careful and slow, and the pleasure thickened. My thighs started shaking against his shoulders, and he felt it, shifting his focus, sucking softly on my clit while his fingers stroked deep and steady.
“Come for me, Libby,” he murmured against me, his voice rough. “I want to feel it.”
I broke apart—waves of pleasure moving through me, slow and powerful. He stayed with me through every pulse, drawing it out until I trembled with over sensitivity, then gentled to soft, reverent kisses along my inner thighs.
When he crawled back up my body and pulled me against his chest, I could taste myself on his lips when he kissed me. Something warm and possessive settled in me, low and certain.
He held me against him, one hand stroking my back, the other cradling my face. His own arousal still pressed against my hip, but he made no move toward more. He just held me. Patient and solid and sure.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
I smiled against his jaw and kissed him deeply instead of answering, because the word ‘okay’ felt impossibly small for this.
Outside, the world was still a nightmare.
But here, with Finn’s arms around me and his heartbeat steady under my palm, I’d found something I hadn’t let myself want in a long time.
Something that actually felt like
Safety.