Page 32 of The Neighborly Thing To Do
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-assmarriedwoman, 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’mhorny, 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 mewife,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 wanthim.
“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.
