Chapter 11 #2
He strips my shirt one-handed without setting me down.
My bra follows. His mouth closes over my nipple and I arch against the wall, my head tipping back, my fingers tangling in his hair.
His tongue circles the peak while his tusk grazes the underside of my breast, the contrast between smooth and jagged pulling a moan from my throat.
"Finn—" His name breaks apart on my tongue.
"Give it to me, Kitten." He shifts me higher on his hips, the friction dragging his cock against my center through our jeans, and the pressure wrings a moan from me that bounces off the kitchen ceiling.
He fumbles with my waistband, both of us struggling with the angle, laughing between kisses when the button jams. He sets me down long enough to shove my jeans off my legs, and I drag his zipper down while his lips stay on my throat, teeth and tongue against my skin.
He lifts me again. Bare skin against bare skin, the heat of him searing, his cock pressed between us, thick, hard and slick at the tip. I reach down and wrap my hand around him, stroking, and his forehead drops to my shoulder with a groan that shakes through him.
"Jess." His voice, stripped raw. "I need to be inside you."
I guide him to my entrance and he pushes in with one deep thrust, filling me so fast and full that my back slams against the wall and a cry tears from my throat.
My body knows him now—no hesitation, no careful stretching, just the ache of being full and the relief of having him there.
My inner walls clench around his cock, the stretch thick and aching, and through the bond I feel what he feels: the tight, wet grip of my body pulling him deeper, the heat, the pressure.
His pleasure feeds mine and mine reflects back and the loop builds until my fingers curl against his scalp and the boundary between his pulse and mine dissolves.
He fucks me against the wall, bracing my thighs, his mouth on my neck, each thrust driving deep enough to push the air from my lungs. The wall groans behind me. Candlelight flickers across his face, catching the line of his jaw, the tusk, the raw want in his expression.
"When do you want kids?" I gasp it against his mouth. Not exactly pillow talk, but I've never had good timing.
"Soon." He adjusts his hold, shifting the angle, and his cock hits a spot that whites out my vision. "Not immediately, but soon."
"How soon?"
"I want to do this right, Kitten." He presses his forehead to mine, his breath ragged, his hips driving a rhythm that builds heat behind my navel in a slow, devastating wave. "I want to be your husband first."
The ring catches candlelight on my finger where my hand clutches his shoulder. Carved metal, four generations of women who loved hard and held on. His mother's ring on my hand while his cock fills me and his heartbeat runs beneath mine.
He carries me to the couch without pulling out, sinking down with me straddling his lap, and the shift in angle slides him further.
I brace against his shoulders and ride him, rolling my hips, controlling the pace.
His head tips back against the cushion and his palms settle on my waist, letting me take what I need.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he breathes, his thumb finds my clit, circling with a pressure that makes my rhythm stutter. "Every time. Every damn time."
I lean down and kiss the broken tusk. Trace its edge with my tongue.
A groan rolls out of him, guttural and low, his hips snapping up, his cock driving hard, and the combination of his thumb on my clit and the thickness of him inside me and his pleasure pouring through my veins crashes through me without warning.
My orgasm rips through my core in hard, clenching pulses, my pussy gripping his cock in rhythmic contractions that drag his release out of him in the same breath.
He comes with my name on his lips, his arms banding around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
We end up in the bedroom. Eventually. After the couch and the floor between the couch and the hallway, after laughter about rug burns and knocked-over candles, after he carries me down the hall with my legs around his hips and my face buried in his neck.
The bed is better, slower. His hands tracing every scar and freckle like he's got nowhere else to be. Tangled in sheets that smell like both of us, the bond humming low and warm between us. His fingers laced through mine, the ring pressing against his knuckle.
"I need at least two months to plan a wedding," I say against his chest afterward.
"One month."
"Finn, I'm not getting married in someone's backyard with folding chairs."
"Six weeks. You can get Sarah to help."
"Deal." I press my lips to his collarbone. "You know I'm going to drive you crazy with planning. I'm very particular."
"You always keep me on my toes, Kitten." He draws me closer, his arm heavy across my ribs, and the bond settles into the rhythm I've come to think of as ours. Steady and deep. Home.
Dawn spills through the window. Gray light turning gold, catching the ring on my finger where my hand rests on his chest. I trace the edge of his broken tusk in the early light, the jagged ridge I've mapped with my fingers and my tongue and my mouth, the imperfection I fell in love with first.
He closes his eyes.
Through the bond—home.