Chapter 16
Cassidy
His kiss feels like fire.
It’s exactly the kind of fire I need after a night like tonight. It warms me, sustains me, helps me push past the broken rage into something more.
Something like us. Something like whatever this kiss represents.
I can still hear him, so insistent that I’m his wife. That I’m his. Has he been dancing around the question of how real this feels as much as I have?
I’m straddling his lap now, kissing him like I can’t possibly let go.
I trail a hand across his chest, regretting the damned shirt.
I practically never saw him wearing one when I’d glimpse him across the yard, but he seems to be under the impression that he needs to wear one at this house. I need to convince him otherwise.
I pull at the hem, bringing it up to expose his stomach, wanting, needing to touch skin. Finn breaks the kiss to murmur, “Wings,” and takes over removing his own shirt.
I study the movements, determined to know how to get the shirt around his wings for next time.
That thought is like a bucket of water over my head. If there is a next time. Will there be a next time? Or is this it?
I should ride it out, get the most of it, but I don’t like not knowing. “Finn,” I begin, unable to help myself from running a hand over his now-exposed chest. Fuck, he’s gorgeous. I want to study him for hours. “What are we doing?”
He goes still. “I guess that depends on what you want.”
“You started this,” I point out, hoping I don’t sound too childish. But I need him to say it first.
He exhales slowly, then nods. “I did. Cassidy, I’ll give you whatever you want. If this is an arrangement with benefits to you, then I’ll happily take it. But…” He trails off.
“But?” I prompt.
“But I want more. I want you, Cassidy.” He looks at me with wide, earnest eyes.
“I don’t know if you feel it, but I do. We’re great together.
This works. I know it’s not what either of us expected, but it does.
And I want to see where this goes, but for real this time.
No more pretending, no more acting. I want to kiss you when I pick you up from work and when we make dinner at home.
I want to make sure you’re treated right in public and watch rom-coms on the couch together in private. I want time with us, together.”
I swallow. That’s a lot all at once, but I can’t look away from him. “I don’t cramp your loner style?” I ask.
He snorts. “What loner style? All I remember is you, wife. You and I together until the end. Nothing else before that matters.”
His words and sincerity send a jolt of electricity through my core. Finn is serious. Finn wants me. “You want to date me?” I ask, although he just called me wife.
Like we’re on the same page, he says, “Dating sounds like a step back from marriage, but I guess we have to start somewhere.” He leans in again, watching my mouth. “Can I kiss you again, Cassidy?”
Fuck it. Yes, he can, because he’s right. This isn’t an act we’re putting on. If he went home tomorrow and we went back to barely speaking, I don’t know what I’d do with myself. Finn makes my world better, more full and alive. I want him.
I lean in and initiate the kiss myself this time, and he eagerly responds.
I thought our kisses before today were something. Acting had no right to be that hot. But this is a whole other level, a previously untapped scale of attractiveness. I might melt into a puddle of wetness right here on his lap, and I wouldn’t be able to stop it. That’s what he does to me.
I’m glad his shirt is gone as I explore his skin, taking in every inch of him. He gets the same idea, his hands pushing up under my shirt. I should take it off. I want him to touch me, want to feel his hands on my skin, want to know what he’s like as a lover—
I freeze, unable to convince myself to take that step. He notices right away, pulling back so he can look me in the eyes when he asks, “Cassidy? What is it?”
I swallow. The last time I did this I might have had an excuse for being immature, but I’m a grown-ass woman now.
A grown-ass married woman, and I’m pretty positive that communication is considered necessary to a good marriage.
“You know how, when we were coming up with our story, I said we’d kept our relationship a secret because I didn’t want to date in front of Georgia?
” He nods. “I didn’t make that up out of thin air.
I haven’t dated anyone since I came here.
I didn’t want to bring people around Georgia, and now—well. It’s been a long time.”
I hope he can put the pieces together. The last time I had sex I was nineteen years old. I had exactly one college boyfriend, and then my life had turned upside down.
His fingers drum along my waist, soft little taps. Who knew such big hands could be so gentle?
“Are you saying no? Or, not right now?” he asks, voice perfectly level. There’s no judgement in his voice; he would be perfectly fine if I said no, and he’d back right off.
I reach for one of those big hands and press it more firmly to my waist. “I’m saying go slow,” I tell him. “And I thought you should know. But I’m definitely not saying stop.”
He squeezes me. “Thank you, baby,” he murmurs, that word sending a wicked shiver up my spine. “You’ll tell me to stop if you’re overwhelmed?”
I almost open my mouth to tell him I’m horny, actually, and two things can be true: it can have been a long-ass time, and I can want it desperately now. But he’s sincere right now, and it’s somehow only more attractive to know he wants this reassurance.
“I’ll tell you,” I promise, and then I roll my hips against him, hopefully signaling that the conversation is over, and that I’m ready for whatever he can give me.
He kisses my jaw, then up to my ear, sucking on the lobe before he kisses down my neck. Goosebumps break out all over my body, and I can feel my nipples, hard and tight beneath my bra. I want this goddamn shirt gone.
But while he was trying to work it off a moment ago, my confession must have scared him at least a little, because he hasn’t gone back to it. I need to make it clear how okay I am with this, how I want him to push.
I pull my own shirt off, discarding it on the living room floor and leaving me in my bra. Finn stops everything, pulling back to take me in. His eyes get darker, heavy with promise as he watches me.
“My fucking gorgeous wife.” He practically growls the words. Every time he calls me wife, my brain short circuits. “Look at you.”
I trace my fingers over his chest again, admiring the sculpted form. “My gorgeous husband,” I return, gratified when his breath catches at the word. He likes this as much as I do.
Before I know what’s going on, I’m moving, being lifted into his arms. “Let me take you to bed,” he practically begs. “Let me—please, Cassidy.”
Yes. My bed—the bed I’ve been imagining him sleeping in. Does that make it our bed now? That’s exactly where I want this to be, where I want to feel him over me, around me. Inside me.
“Let’s go.” And like that’s all he needs, he carries me upstairs, his giant strides practically eating up the distance.
He pushes open my bedroom door. It looks exactly the same as when I went into it to get dressed this morning, but something about it feels different now that I’m with him like this.
When he lays me down on the bed, I prop myself up, trying to get closer to him, but he goes to his knees on the floor, his thumbs rubbing along the waistband of my pants. “Yes?” he checks, and I nod.
I reach down to help him, but he stops me, one hand holding both my wrists. His grip isn’t tight, and I bet I could break it if I tried. But the point is clear.
“I think,” he says, voice deep and slow, “that you’ve spent so much time taking care of everything. Let me take care of you tonight. And every night. Whenever you want. But lay down some of your burden, wife. Let me carry you for a bit.”
I swallow, then nod. Okay. I can do that.
He looks intently at me, then releases my hands. “Put those on the bed,” he instructs me, so I do, gripping my duvet.
When he’s satisfied that I’ll keep my hands out of the way, he returns to my waistband, unbuttoning the fly and working the pants past my hips. I arch for him, and he lets me, finally getting me out of these damn khakis.
“My wife is fucking gorgeous,” he rasps. “Look at you, baby.”
I know what I’m looking at, and it definitely isn’t me.
It’s the man between my spread thighs, looking up at me from his knees.
His horns are a tempting target, his admission about how they affect him never far from my mind.
And those wings flair behind him, fascinating and alluring.
I want to learn everything about his body, learn what makes him tick, learn how to make him moan. I want him.
“Can I take these off?” he asks, eyes and fingers tracing my panties. I nod, and he works them down my legs slowly, and I don’t know if he’s teasing me or himself. Maybe both.
“Fuck me,” he hisses, staring at me wide-eyed and hungry. Feeling daring, I spread my thighs a little wider, making sure he has the best view possible.
That seems to be the last straw, because Finn cups the inside of each thigh, pushing them further apart, and leans in so he can lick my core.
He groans, flicking my clit with his tongue before he pulls back and murmurs, “What a fucking perfect pussy, wife.” His voice comes out in a hungry rasp, dark and needing, practically unrecognizable from his usual tone. I like it.
“Finn,” I groan, unable to finish the sentence, not sure what I want. Finn talks more with me than he does with most people, but no one would consider him especially talkative. Except, apparently, when it comes to filthy words. Those he has in spades.
He looks up and grins at me, dangerous and hot. “I know, baby,” he assures me. “I’ll give you exactly what you need. You relax.” And then he bends his head back down, licking at me like I’m the best thing he ever tasted.