16. Catalina
Chapter sixteen
Catalina
Itake a fistful of his shirt because I am done waiting for a better time. There isn’t one.
The felony isn’t going anywhere. Neither is the contract. My mother certainly isn’t waking up tomorrow with a sudden appreciation for questionable decisions and twenty-three-year-old hockey players.
I have spent thirty-two years calling caution patience, and it isn’t. I want him. So I pull Finn through my door.
He comes at me fast, one hand catching my waist, the other sliding into my hair, his mouth finding mine with three weeks of restraint behind it. My back hits the door. His body follows, hot and hard against mine, and for one dangerous second I let him.
Then I put my palm against his chest. “Slow.”
He stops. Not gracefully. His chest rises beneath my hand, every muscle tight with the effort of holding himself exactly where I put him. His eyes find mine, and then it clicks.
I almost smile. “What?”
“I remember.”
Three weeks ago in my kitchen. His hand at my back, his feet fighting mine. Despacio. I go. You wait. You feel where I’m going, half a second after me.
“I’m not telling you to stop.”
“I know.” His voice is rough enough to scrape. “I’ve wanted this too long to fuck it up.”
“Finn.”
“Yeah?”
“Can you do slow?”
His eyes close for a second. “You know that’s not exactly my natural setting.”
“You learned.”
He looks at me again. “Yeah.” His fingers flex against my waist. “I did.”
I kiss him, and this time I set the pace.
His first instinct is still more. More pressure. More mouth. More Finn. I pull back, and he catches himself before I have to say anything.
“Half a second.”
He breathes out through his nose, then waits.
I move first. His hand follows the curve of my waist, half a second later, and heat moves through me so fast I almost resent him for noticing.
His mouth tips at one corner. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
That gets a quiet laugh out of him. I grab the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head.
His skin is warm from the day, chest still damp, a bruise fading yellow along his ribs and another near his shoulder. I run my palm over his stomach, and his muscles jump. I do it again.
“Shit.”
“Sensitive?”
“No.”
“Convincing.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
He reaches for my shirt, too quick, and I catch his wrist. His jaw tightens.
“Catalina.”
“You’ll live.”
“That remains extremely unclear.”
I lift my arms, and he pulls my shirt over my head and tosses it somewhere behind him. Then he looks at me. Really looks until the humor leaves his face.
His gaze drops, but it doesn’t stay there. It comes back to my eyes, and something about that makes me more aware of my body than staring ever could. Cool air over hot skin. My pulse at my throat. The whole weight of his attention.
He reaches for me, stops himself, and waits. God. I take his hand and put it on my waist. His thumb moves once across my skin and my stomach tightens, and he notices, and for once he doesn’t make a joke.
His hand moves higher, slowly, and when his thumb brushes beneath my breast my breath catches.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
“That was me.”
“I know.” His forehead comes down against mine. “That’s why I said it.”
I laugh, and his mouth takes the sound from me.
We make it to the bedroom with considerably less dignity than either of us would probably prefer. Finn catches a boot on the rug, I back into the dresser, and he grabs me before I can lose my balance, and suddenly we’re both laughing.
“Professional athlete.”
“Shut up.”
“Elite coordination.”
“You walked into furniture.”
“You were attached to me.”
“That sounds like blame.”
“It is.”
He kisses me again, still smiling, and then his mouth moves to my jaw, my throat, the place below my ear, and the laughter disappears. My knees soften; his arm tightens around me.
“Got you.”
Something about the words catches where it shouldn’t. I answer by pushing his jeans down, and his breath leaves him hard.
“Jesus Christ, Catalina.”
“What?”
He gives me a look. His erection is obvious, and the sight of exactly what I’m doing to him sends heat low through my stomach.
He reaches behind me and unhooks my bra. This time there’s no rush. He lets it fall, and his mouth lowers to my breast, and the first brush of his tongue pulls my back into an arch.
“Finn.”
He does it again, and my fingers close in his hair. His palm cups my other breast, rough against sensitive skin, and my body answers him before my brain gets involved. My hips move toward him.
He lifts his head. “There you are.”
“Do not get cocky.”
“I’m trying really hard.”
I pull him back to me. The mattress catches behind my knees, and we go down together, his weight settling over me, solid without crushing me, his thigh between mine.
For a second, we’re still. His breath warms my cheek, his jaw scrapes mine, and one of his hands rests against my hip. It trembles.
“You’re shaking.”
“So are you.”
“I am not.”
He looks pointedly at the hand I have locked around his shoulder. “Shut up.”
His grin flashes, and then he kisses me and slides his hand between us. My breath catches. He tries something, and my body tightens for the wrong reason.
Finn stops. Immediately. “Too fast?”
“Yes.”
He swallows. “Sorry.”
“Slower.”
His jaw works once, and then he tries again. Better.
My eyes close. “Like that.”
His forehead drops against my shoulder. “You saying that is making slow significantly more difficult.”
“Sounds personal.”
“It is absolutely your problem.”
His fingers move again, and I lose interest in winning the argument. Pleasure gathers slowly; every stroke makes me want the next one before it comes. My thighs tighten around him. My breathing turns uneven.
Finn loses the rhythm once, and I catch his wrist. “Back.”
“Right.” He adjusts, finds it.
And that matters. He doesn’t have to know. He has to listen.
His mouth closes over my breast again, and my hips lift. His name leaves me before I decide to give it to him, and he groans.
“Again.”
“No.”
“Catalina.”
“Work for it.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
I laugh, and then he does exactly what worked before, and the laugh breaks apart. My fingers twist into the sheet. Pressure coils tighter.
“Finn.” He looks up. “Stay there.”
“I’m not moving.” His hand moves again, and I come hard enough to lose the room for a few seconds. My back lifts from the mattress, my thighs tighten around him, and I grab his shoulder and hold on while everything inside me contracts and releases.
Finn stays exactly where I told him. When I finally open my eyes, he is staring at me.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“My face is having a difficult night.”
I laugh, still trying to breathe, and then I notice the tension running through him.
“You’re miserable.”
“I’m twenty-three and naked in your bed. I would not choose miserable.”
I reach toward the nightstand. The condom has been in the drawer for months because I am an adult woman with a sex life, even if lately it has been mostly theoretical.
Finn watches the packet land between us, then looks at me. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was going to say you’re terrifyingly prepared.”
“You’re welcome.”
He takes it. There is no fumbling, no stupid joke, no ambiguity; he puts it on before he comes back over me. His mouth finds mine, and his body is shaking now.
“Slow,” I whisper.
His eyes close.
“Finn.”
“I know.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Despacio.”
That word in his mouth does something dangerous to me. I shift beneath him and bring him where I want him, and he waits. I move first.
He enters me slowly. The stretch steals my breath. Finn stops, every muscle in his body locking.
“Fuck, Catt.”
I wrap my legs around him. “Wait.”
His eyes squeeze shut. “You cannot possibly be serious.”
I laugh against his mouth. “I am.”
“I hate your dance.”
“No, you don’t.”
His eyes open. “No. I really don’t.”
I move beneath him, small, and his breath breaks. He starts to follow, catches himself. Half a second. When I move again, this time he comes with me.
There. Not graceful, not polished, just us trying to find the same rhythm while the mattress shifts beneath us and our breathing gets too loud.
His mouth misses mine and I laugh; he swears. Then we find it. I move, he follows, his hands settling at my hips, mine sliding over his back.
Slow lasts maybe thirty seconds before Finn begins turning it into a race.
“Finn.”
“I’m trying.”
“You’re sprinting.”
“I am absolutely not sprinting.”
“You absolutely are.”
He slows. I kiss him. “That.”
His body moves into mine again. Better.
Somewhere after that, I stop keeping track of who is leading. That should scare me. Instead, I let it happen.
His rhythm deepens, and my body begins tightening again. He feels it.
“Catt.”
I grip his shoulders. “Don’t stop.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
This one comes faster. My thighs tighten around him, and I come looking straight at him.
Finn breaks. His head drops beside mine, his rhythm losing every bit of control he has fought for all night. A few hard movements and his whole body locks over me. My name is against my throat when he comes.
Afterward, the room goes quiet except for us trying to breathe and something outside screaming into the Texas night like it has a personal grievance.
Finn rolls away long enough to deal with the condom, then comes back. His hand moves slowly up my spine. Back down. Still keeping the pace I taught him.
“I didn’t know it could be like that,” he says into my hair.
I put my hand over his heart. Still racing. “No?”
“I thought slow meant waiting to get to the good part.”
I smile against his chest. “And now?”
His fingers move through my hair. “Turns out I’m an idiot.”
“I knew that already.”
“Mean.”
“Accurate.”
He goes quiet. “I’d have waited longer.”
I lift my head. There is no joke waiting for me.
“For you,” he says. “However long you needed.”
That gets through, because wanting is easy and Finn has wanted plenty of things. Waiting is different. The man who attacks most of life at full speed would have stayed half a second behind me for as long as I asked him to.
I look away, and his fingers touch my jaw until I make myself look back.
“Stay.” The word escapes before I can organize it into something safer.
Finn’s expression shifts, and then he settles deeper into the bed. “Yeah.” No joke. Just yes.
Later, he sleeps with one arm heavy across my waist, and I stare at the ceiling.
The felony is still there. So is the contract. My mother remains, regrettably, my mother. I knew all of that when I pulled him through my door, and I chose him anyway.
Somewhere between telling Finn to follow and forgetting which one of us was leading, I stopped managing the moment long enough to actually live inside it.
The consequences can come tomorrow. Tonight was mine.