38. Sophie #2
He does it again. His whole palm cups me this time, and the sound I make against his mouth when I lean in to kiss him again is embarrassing and real and I have stopped caring entirely.
He pulls back. We’re both breathing hard, and he looks at me for a long moment, his eyes dark, the humor completely gone. What’s left is just Finn. Sincere and a little wrecked and looking at me like he still can’t believe I’m here.
“Sophie.” His voice comes out rough. “We need to slow down. I don’t want you to do anything you’ll—”
“Don’t say regret.” The words come out before I can stop them.
He blinks.
“I know what regret feels like,” I say. My voice is steadier than I expected. “This isn’t it.”
Neither of us moves, and all I can think is, Please don’t stop. Please don’t stop. Please don’t stop.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says.
Then he kisses me again, deeper this time. The moment my tongue slides against his, a rough moan tears out of him.
His whole body reacts. His fingers dig into my hips, his stomach tightens against me, and for one second the careful restraint slips. He kisses me harder, almost desperate, like that single touch snapped something he’d been holding taut all morning.
The sound of him losing control because of me goes straight through me.
My legs tighten around his waist and I pull him closer, and I roll my hips against him, searching for the pressure, and when I find it—the length of him against my core—the moan that comes out of me is loud and shameless.
His whole body shudders. “Fuck, Sophie.”
I do it again. Deliberately this time, rocking against him, and his hands grip my hips, pulling me to the edge of the counter.
Then he starts moving too, rolling his hips against mine in a slow, steady rhythm that makes my vision blur.
I can feel every inch of him, hard and thick, pressing exactly where I need him.
“Finn,” I breathe. “God, that feels so good.” My hands are in his hair, pulling him closer. I’m half-possessed, wanting to feel him, all of him, against every part of me.
He moves his hand under my shirt and cups my breast directly and the world goes white.
The feeling of his palm on my bare skin, without fabric between us, is so different, so much, that I lose my breath.
The warm, rough pad of his thumb circling my nipple, and my body arching into his hand like it’s been starving for this and didn’t know it until now.
He kisses me until I can’t think. My hands move to the hem of his shirt, pulling it up, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to yank it off with one hand.
Then he’s back, bare skin warm under my palms, and I’m touching every surface of him, marveling at the firmness, the soft hair on his chest, the way his stomach tightens under my fingers.
“Fuck, Sophie.” His forehead drops against mine as my hand moves lower, and his breath comes out ragged.
“I want to see you too,” he whispers, and slowly, he lifts my shirt over my head.
And he just... looks. At my breasts, at my skin, at the body I’ve spent a decade hiding. He doesn’t glance at the scars. They’re there and he doesn’t care, and the relief of that is so overwhelming I have to bite my lip to keep from crying.
“God, you’re perfect.” His breath is uneven. “You don’t know how much I’ve thought about this.”
Then his mouth drops to my breast and my head falls back.
His lips close around my nipple and he sucks, his tongue flicking over the peak.
The sound that rips out of me doesn’t sound like me at all.
His other hand cups my breast, kneading, his thumb circling the nipple while his mouth keeps working the first, and I’m gripping his hair, arching into him, making sounds I couldn’t stop if I tried.
He groans against my skin, the vibration shooting straight through me, and switches sides—his mouth hot and wet on the other nipple now, sucking until my toes curl, his hand squeezing the breast he just left, slick from his mouth.
“Finn—” I gasp. My thighs are shaking around his waist.
He looks up at me, his lips swollen, his eyes dark and half-wild, and he looks nothing like the man who makes everyone laugh. He looks like an alpha who’s barely holding on.
I kiss him again, harder, and I can feel his bare chest against my breasts, his hands in my hair, his cock hard against me, and I want—I want—
Then I feel him pull back. The kiss slows. His hands settle on my waist, and I can feel the effort it costs him, the restraint vibrating through every muscle in his body.
“Sophie, sweetheart.” His forehead rests against mine. “The first time I take you, it won’t be in a kitchen. It’ll be somewhere I can take my time. Because that’s what I want for us.”
My heart is pounding and my core is still pulsing with need.
He reaches for my shirt from where it landed on the counter and gently pulls it over my head, easing my arms through the sleeves, his fingers brushing my skin as he tugs it down. He smooths it into place and presses a kiss to my forehead.
Then he turns toward the fridge, still shirtless, the muscles in his back shifting as he moves, and I sit on the counter in his packmate’s shirt and think I might actually be losing my mind.
“Cheesecake,” he announces. “This is the perfect time for cheesecake.”