When This Happens Again, Not If -Libby #2
He leaned forward—one hand braced against the headboard, the other still tangled in my hair—and his rhythm turned savage.
He fucked my mouth with brutal force, his hips working in tight, desperate surges, his breathing turning into ragged, open-mouthed gasps between a stream of curses.
His balls, heavy and drawn tight, pressed against my chin with every thrust, and I could taste him—salt and heat, unmistakably him.
My body clenched hard in response, still swollen and dripping and apparently not satisfied.
“Shit—I’m close,” he groaned. His hips stuttered, lost their rhythm, then found it again in a rougher, more desperate cadence. “Gonna come. Gonna fill that pretty mouth, baby.” A sharp, broken inhale. “You want that?”
I moaned around him in answer—urgent and completely unambiguous—and held his gaze with wide, tear-streaked eyes. I let him see how much I wanted this, how much I wanted him, and that nothing about this undid me. I was exactly where I chose to be.
Something behind his eyes darkened.
“Fuck—Libby—”
He drove deep one final time—buried to the hilt, my nose pressed flush against his skin—and the sound that tore out of him was nothing like his voice.
His cock jerked hard against my tongue. I swallowed, and swallowed again, yet it still ran from the corners of my mouth in warm rivulets that traced my jaw and my throat.
My hands gripped his thighs and held on.
Above me, his whole body shook, head dropped forward, one fist still twisted in my hair and the other white-knuckled against the headboard.
He shuddered above me, violent, full-body tremors racking him as his hips jerked through aftershock after aftershock.
Broken sounds, somewhere between curse and prayer, fell from his lips, as if he’d journeyed beyond language and couldn’t find his way back.
His hand, which had gripped my hair, loosened by degrees, stroking slowly now.
The tenderness of it, as his fingers moved with the same certainty they’d used to hold me down, broke something inside me.
When he finally pulled out, slow and careful, he bent and pressed a series of soft, reverent kisses to my forehead—a stark contrast to what he’d just done to my mouth.
His hand moved through my tangled hair, gentle and unhurried, smoothing the mess he’d made with a touch so careful it brought fresh tears prickling behind my eyes.
“Jesus Christ, Libby,” he murmured against my hair, his voice hoarse, as if I’d wrecked something inside him he didn’t yet know how to name.
Then I saw it.
That sudden, unmistakable recognition—pleasure draining from his expression, replaced by something sharper: awareness, immediately followed by recognition.
Then horror.
“Fuck—Libby—” He pulled back just enough to search my face, his hands still on me but hovering now, uncertain, as if he’d forgotten where they were allowed to land. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think, I swear I didn’t—”
I reached up and wrapped my fingers around his wrist.
“Finn.”
He stopped mid-sentence.
His breath came in shallow pulls, his eyes scanning my face as if reading for a verdict he’d already decided would go against him. He braced himself for regret, for accusation, for me to flinch away.
“It’s okay,” I said, keeping my voice soft and level.
He shook his head before I’d finished. “No, it’s not—I should’ve asked, I should’ve slowed down—”
“Finn.”
Firmer this time, enough to cut through the spiral that had already begun to pull him under.
He went still.
I held his gaze, not letting him look away, not letting him decide what this meant before I did.
“I wanted you like that.”
The words settled between us.
He blinked once, slowly, as if I’d spoken in a language he recognized but couldn’t place—as if he’d spent so long deciding what I needed that he’d forgotten to ask.
“I’ve never—” I swallowed, but kept my eyes steady on his. “I’ve never had that be my choice before.”
I saw his face darken as he considered what had been taken from me in the past. I watched him war with the instinct that was completely Finn—to protect. He warred with himself.
“I knew,” I continued, quieter now, “that if I told you to stop—you would have. Immediately. No questions asked.”
His eyes searched mine again, deeper this time, trying to determine if my reassurance was offered out of obligation or truth. He wouldn’t find any obligation. There was none to find.
“You would have,” I said again, barely above a whisper.
A beat of silence passed. Then another.
Then he nodded.
“Yeah.” His voice was rough, raw. “I would have.”
I met his gaze, my own unwavering. “I know.”
The silence that followed held no tension. He settled against me, his thumb tracing a slow circle on my skin, as if he needed a constant reminder that I was still here, still choosing this, still choosing him.
“You’re sure?” he asked quietly.
“I’m sure.”
He relaxed a little more against me.
I pressed my face into his chest—warm, smelling of sleep, sex, and him—and let the next words come before I could overthink them.
“I enjoyed it, Finn.” Muffled against his skin, but honest. Completely honest. “More than enjoyed it.”
His hand stilled in my hair.
I drew a slow breath and pushed through the vulnerability before it could close my throat.
“When—I mean—if this happens again,” I hesitated, heat climbing my neck. “I might want it rougher. If that’s… something you’re okay with?”
He pulled me back from his chest, gently but deliberately, tilting my chin up until my eyes met his.
The panic had vanished, replaced by something warm and steady. One eyebrow lifted fractionally.
“When this happens again,” he said, his voice dropping low, certain, with an undercurrent of heat. “Not if, Libby.”
My breath caught.
“We are doing this again,” he continued, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with a patience that contradicted every urgent thing he’d just done to me.
“And again. And probably again after that.” The corner of his mouth shifted—not quite a smile, but closer than I’d ever seen from him.
“Whatever you need. However you need it. Rough, gentle, anything in between. I don’t care, as long as you trust me. ”
The almost-smile faded into something more serious, more deliberate.
“And I promise you—if you ever need me to stop, I stop. No hesitation. No questions. That’s not negotiable.”
He held my gaze long enough to let every word settle into the bruised and uncertain places inside me that had never once heard a man say that and actually mean it.
Then he kissed me—slow and tender, his lips lingering against mine as if he’d forgotten entirely about the world waiting outside these walls.
When we broke apart, I tucked myself back against his chest without a word, and his arms closed around me with a quiet certainty that made my eyes sting.
“Sleep a little longer,” he said against my hair. “We’ve still got some time before night watch.”
His hand resumed its slow, steady pass through my hair. His chest rose and fell beneath my cheek, and I let my eyes close, letting myself believe, for a little while longer, that the world outside would wait.