Your Not Nothing -Libby
Twenty One
Icouldn’t stop looking at him.
Finn—steady, certain Finn—staring down at me. His mouth, still wet from me, his lips swollen, an unguarded hunger in his eyes as he settled his weight above mine. The pressure did stupid things to my heartbeat.
He shed his clothes quickly, then positioned himself between my thighs, hard against me, and stopped.
He just held himself there, forehead pressed to mine, both of us breathing.
I could feel his heartbeat where our skin touched—or maybe that was mine; I couldn’t tell anymore.
Every slight shift of my hips drew a low sound from him that he swallowed back.
The restraint of it, the fact that he was holding himself still for me, undid me far more completely than if he had simply taken what he wanted.
His eyes darkened.
His mouth found the hollow of my throat—soft, open-mouthed kisses—then traveled lower with unhurried patience. When he reached my breasts, he stopped. He simply looked, his gaze moving over me with a weight that sent heat flooding my cheeks and tightened low in my stomach.
“God, Libby.” His voice was a low rasp. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
He didn’t rush.
One hand slid to cup the underside, his thumb brushing the soft curve just below my nipple, lifting gently—then his mouth followed.
Warm, wet, closing over the peak in a slow, sucking kiss that pulled a sound from me.
He didn’t bite. He didn’t push too hard.
He simply devoted himself to gently loving my body.
His tongue moved in slow circles, tightening inward until he reached the peak and flicked once, twice—unhurried, like he had already decided this would take as long as it took.
My back curved toward him without my permission.
He made a low sound against my skin, and the warmth of it moved through me and settled somewhere deeper.
Then he turned his head, pressed his lips to the soft inner curve, and began again from the beginning on the other side.
His free hand mirrored his mouth—kneading softly, rolling the neglected nipple between thumb and forefinger with a pressure calibrated exactly to make me gasp. I moved beneath him, my thighs closing around his hips, slick and aching and increasingly desperate.
“Finn…” The name was a plea, my fingers tightening on his shoulders.
He lifted his head just enough to meet my eyes, lips glistening, his cheeks flushed with color. “I could do this all night,” he said quietly. “Just tasting you… feeling you melt for me is everything.”
He dipped his head again before I could respond—took my nipple between his teeth, the tiny sting turning immediately into heat, and sucked hard enough to make my hips grind against him.
I moaned, my fingers sliding into his hair and holding him there while he moved between each side with open-mouthed attention until my skin flushed dark and every nerve ending in my body was vibrating with need.
I shook by the time he lifted his head, breathing hard, eyes warm with arousal.
I didn’t wait for him to decide what came next.
When I moved, his expression darkened—surprise first, then softening. He carefully rolled us, letting me straddle him and take the lead, his hands steady on my waist. But I didn’t stay there.
Slowly, I slid down his body, my mouth open against his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken under my lips as I descended.
His skin tasted of salt and warmth. When my tongue traced the shallow valley between his abs, his breath hitched, the muscle beneath me jumped, and both his hands found the sheets at once.
I settled between his legs and looked up at him.
The way he watched me made me pause.
It wasn’t hunger or demand, but almost… awe.
I wrapped my hand around the base of him, one slow, deliberate stroke. He made a low sound in his throat, his head dropping back before his gaze snapped immediately to mine—refusing to miss a single moment, whatever the cost to his composure.
“Libby…”
I didn’t answer with words.
I leaned in and slid my tongue in an unhurried path from base to tip, tasting salty precum. The groan that broke from him—stripped of every layer of discipline—echoed through the quiet room, and one hand came up to thread gently through my hair. Not pushing, just anchoring himself to me.
I took my time.
I swirled my tongue around the head, carefully traced the sensitive ridge beneath, then drew just the tip into my mouth—soft pulls, slow suction—until his hips jerked forward.
“Fuck— baby—”
That word, soft and broken, moved through me like a current. The knowledge that I could take this man apart, this controlled and armored man, was a heady feeling.
I took him deeper, my lips sliding down in slow increments, relaxing my throat. When I moaned around him, the vibration made his fingers tighten painfully in my hair and his breath stutter.
Good.
I settled into it—my tongue sliding along the underside, dragging up on every stroke while my cheeks drew in with each slow pull. My hand closed around the base, working in time with my mouth, a gentle twist at the bottom of each movement, unhurried, giving back what he’d given me.
Every time I took him deep, his abs clenched, his thighs trembling. I could sense the battle within him—the cost of not thrusting, not chasing his own release—choosing instead to hold still and let me have this. To let me give.
I looked up at him through my lashes.
His eyes—dark silver, locked on my mouth stretched around him with an expression that lived somewhere between worship and ruin.
His jaw clenched tight enough that the muscle twitched at the corner, a man holding himself together by a single fraying thread and aware of exactly how thin it had become.
I hummed—low, deliberate. His head dropped back against the pillow with a choked, desperate sound I wanted to carry with me for a very long time.
“Libby—Christ, I’m—”
I didn’t let him finish the warning.
I sucked harder, faster, my tongue swirling over the head on every upstroke, my hand working the base in tight, slick strokes that matched the rhythm exactly. His hips bucked once—involuntary, uncontrolled—then stilled as he hauled himself back with visible effort.
But I didn’t want his effort right now.
I wanted him to let go entirely.
I took him as deep as I could manage, my throat working around him, and held there—swallowing, pressing—until a raw and shattered groan tore out of him from somewhere past composure and his fingers clenched hard in my hair.
“Enough.” His voice came out completely wrecked, scraped down to nothing. “Libby—please. I need to be inside you.”
I pulled off slowly, deliberately, letting my lips drag along every inch of the way. I gave him the full experience of losing my mouth before releasing him with a soft, wet pop that made his hips twitch.
I crawled back up his body and straddled his hips. This time, I didn’t pause. I reached between us, positioned him, and sank down—slowly taking him in by degrees until he filled me.
For a moment, we stayed exactly like that. Still. Joined. Breathing each other in. His hand rose to cradle my cheek with a gentleness that contradicted everything urgent in his body. When his thumb moved, I felt the wetness it left behind, a smear of salt I had no memory of making.
“You’re already mine,” he whispered. His eyes held mine and didn’t look away.
I pressed my forehead to his and started to move.
I began with care: small rolls of my hips, learning him, adjusting to the fullness.
Then longer strokes, deeper. I heard him exhale sharply beneath me, his chest dropping under my palms, his arms pulling me flush against him until I felt the heat of his skin everywhere at once.
He moved with me, each upward thrust measured and deliberate, holding himself back.
I kissed him, tasting everything we’d become in the last hour. He kissed me back with a desperation that told me the control was costing him considerably more than he let show.
My hand slipped between us. My fingers found my clit and circled with the same slow rhythm he’d used on me that morning, and the pleasure built.
His eyes stayed on mine, even now—especially now—dark and stripped of the distance he’d spent days constructing.
The way his arms tightened around me with every forward roll, as though the concept of space between us had become something he refused to entertain.
My name—quiet, half-swallowed by his own ragged breathing—Libby, Libby, Libby.
My rhythm faltered. Quickened. He matched it without hesitation, hips rising to meet mine with urgency.
“Come with me,” I breathed against his mouth, my voice barely a sound. “Please, Finn. Let go.”
A guttural, unguarded groan tore through him. Behind his eyes, every wall, every carefully maintained layer of control, collapsed. What lived underneath it all washed over his face with a clarity that made my chest ache.
One moment I moved above him in slow, deliberate circles that had us both trembling.
The next moment, his hands locked around my waist, flipping us and knocking the air from my lungs.
My back hit the mattress, and the headboard connected with the wall, but his forearms caught him before any of his weight transferred to me.
His eyes immediately found mine—silver, wild.
“Libby.” His voice was raw. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t hold back anymore.”
He no longer had a reason to wait.
He drove into me—certain, absolute—and I arched in a sharp, involuntary bow, a cry tearing free that I made no effort to conceal.
The intensity bordered on overwhelming, but my body had been aching for this.
My nails found his back, leaving marks he’d carry for days, evidence of this moment pressed into his skin like a signature.
He didn’t stop.
He pulled back slowly, then drove forward again, harder, deeper, settling into a rhythm that was relentless and consuming.
Each thrust forced the breath from my lungs, rocked the bed frame beneath us, and sent heat racing the full length of my body.
The slick, intimate sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room alongside our ragged breathing.
Neither of us made any effort to be quiet; it had stopped being relevant.
His arm slid beneath the small of my back and lifted my hips, changing the angle, pulling me into every thrust. Whatever composure I had left went up in smoke.
I wrapped my legs around his waist—pulling him closer, demanding closer.
He growled against my throat in response, his teeth grazing the tender skin there before biting down.
The sharp sting twisted into pleasure so quickly my vision blurred, and I stopped caring about anything that existed outside this bed.
He found my mouth again, and the kiss tasted of salt and need.
One hand cradled the back of my head, fingers threaded through my hair, holding me as if I might disappear the moment he loosened his grip. The other slid between us, rough fingertips finding my clit, rubbing tight, urgent circles that matched the relentless snap of his hips.
Fast. Too fast.
“Finn—I’m—I’m gonna—”
“I know,” he panted against my lips, voice splintering. “I know. Come for me, baby. Let me have it. Please.”
That severed the last thread holding me together.
The orgasm started low in my belly and tore outward in a single, devastating wave, my body seizing around him so hard it ripped a guttural sound from deep in his chest, his name breaking apart in my throat on the way out.
Tears spilled hot down my cheeks and disappeared into my hair, and I couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but hold on to him as each wave crashed through before the last had released me.
He kept moving—faster, chasing his own release through the grip of my body—until his rhythm came apart. His hips drove forward, burying himself completely, and he came with a ragged, shattered sob pressed into the curve of my neck.
“Libby—fuck—Libby—baby—”
He pulsed inside me, hot and deep, his entire body trembling as he poured his warm, thick release into me.
His arms gave out. He collapsed over me, heaving, face buried in the crook of my neck, breath coming in hot, shuddering gasps against my skin. I held him tight, legs still tangled with his, refusing to let go. His heart slammed against my chest, wild and urgent, matching my own.
For long minutes neither of us moved or spoke. We stayed tangled and sweating and trembling, his breath against my throat, my fingers still twisted in his shirt, neither of us willing to be the one who let go first.
Eventually he lifted his head enough to look at me—and the face I found nearly broke me. His eyes were red-rimmed, his expression stripped of everything but a raw vulnerability that made him look like the boy he must have been before the world handed him its armor.
His thumb traced across my cheekbone, catching tears I hadn’t realized still fell.
“You’re more than nothing, Libby.” Barely a whisper, but I heard every syllable as though he’d tattooed them into my body.
Fresh tears burned and spilled before I could stop them, and I didn’t try. He kissed me then—a tender, searching kiss—and I tasted the promise in it before he ever put it into words.
When he finally eased out of me, he didn’t go far.
He rolled us onto our sides, tucked me against his chest, and circled his arms around me—solid—one hand stroking my hair in long, steady passes.
I pressed my face into the hollow of his throat, his pulse strong and steady beneath my lips, the scent of him wrapping around me.
“You see that now, don’t you?” he murmured again, mouth pressed to the top of my head. “That you’re not nothing.”