Page 91 of Finders Keepers

He leans in, his lips brushing against mine in a kiss so soft it’s almost tentative. But then I grab the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and the kiss deepens. His hands slide into my hair, his fingers tangling in the strands as he kisses me like he’s been waiting for this moment forever.

The guilt creeps in, though, unbidden and unwelcome. How can I want this? How can I feel this way when I’ve spent so long being afraid? My mind races, but his touch anchors me, pulling me back to the present. His lips move against mine, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of me.

I shift, straddling his lap, and his hands settle on my hips, holding me steady. His breath hitches when I press against him, and for a moment, I feel powerful. This is my choice. My body. My life.

But then he stops, his hands stilling on my waist. “Bailey,” he says, his voice strained. “Are you sure? We don’t have to—”

“Yes,” I interrupt, my voice firmer this time. “I’m sure.”

He searches my face again, eyes dark with desire. When he finally nods, I feel a rush of relief. He’s not pushing me. He’s not taking. He’s giving me the space to decide, and that’s what makes this feel so different.

Suddenly he stands, lifting me effortlessly. I wrap my legs around his waist. My arms lock behind his neck as he carries me down the hall all the while still kissing him. The room he brings us into I suspect is his bedroom smells like sandalwood and fresh laundry. He sets me down gently, the mattress dipping beneath me, his hands lingering on my hips as he steps back to grab a condom from the nightstand. I notice the way his fingers hesitate for half a heartbeat before snatching the foil packet, like he’s double-checking my consent.

When he turns back to me, I stand and reach for the hem of his shirt, sliding it over his taut skin as I pull it over his head. His chest is broad and muscular, scattered with dark hair. My palms skate down his pecs, tracing the ridge of a scar near his collarbone. His breath hitches when I brush a thumb over his nipple, and I bite my lip to hide a smile. Powerful, this. The way his eyes darken to burnt umber as he watches me explore, his throat bobbing like he’s swallowing a thousand unspoken words.

“Your turn,” he murmurs, calloused hands sliding under my t-shirt, fingertips skimming the sensitive dip above my hip bones. I lift my arms, the cool air hitting my stomach as he pulls the fabric off, and suddenly his mouth is on my neck. Hot, open kisses that scatter my thoughts. His hands map the curve of my waist, the flare of my ribs, his touch leaving trails of fire that make me squirm. When his palm cups my breast, my back arches instinctively, a whimper escaping before I can cage it.

We finish undressing each other slowly. His belt buckle clinking as I unfasten it, my jeans catching at my ankles until he kneels to help. His stubble scratches the inside of my thigh as he tugs the fabric free, and I fist his hair to stay grounded. Every revealed inch feels sacred, his gaze lingering like he’s memorizing the constellation of freckles on my shoulder, the faint stretch marks along my hips. When he shrugs out of his boxers, I let myself look, really look, at the way his erection curves upward toward his stomach, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he shifts onto the bed over me.

He pauses then, hands framing my face like I’m something fragile, his thumbs brushing my cheeks.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice cracking mid-word, and it’s the rawness that undoes me, the way his pupils blow wide even as his jaw trembles.

I kiss him instead of answering, pouring every fractured hope into the slide of our tongues. His groan vibrates through me, hands roaming from my jaw to my bottom, pulling me flush against him until I feel every desperate inch. With a low, shaky breath, he tears open the condom and rolls it on, and when he finally slides into me, it’s a slow burn. A stretch that makes my toes curl, my nails marking half-moons into his shoulders. He stills, forehead pressed to mine, sweat already gathering at his temples.

“Okay?” he grinds out, veins standing stark along his neck.

I nod, dragging my teeth over his bottom lip. “Yes,” I whisper against his mouth. “Please, Gavin. Don’t stop.”

He starts with shallow rolls of his hips, each thrust winding the coil in my stomach tighter. But when I rake my fingers down his back, whispering “more” into the shell of his ear, he really starts to move. The bed frame creaks in protest, our mingled gasps fogging the air between us. I bite his shoulder to muffle a cry, tasting salt and desperation, and he growls my name like a prayer gone feral.

The rhythm of our bodies falls into sync, our breath coming in sharp pants. I can feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter, a delicious ache building deep within me. His eyes are closed now, his jaw clenched as he fights for control. His biceps flex with each thrust, his muscles straining with the effort of holding back.

I reach between us, my fingers finding the sensitive spot where our bodies join. His eyes fly open, his breath catching as I start to move my hand in time with his hips.

“Bailey,” he groans, his voice ragged. “I’m not gonna last much longer.”

I smile, a mischievous glint in my eye. “I don’t want you to.”

With a growl, he grabs my wrist, stilling my hand. “Not yet. ”

Before I can ask what he means, he flips us over, his hands gripping my thighs as he pulls me onto his lap. I wrap my arms around his neck, my legs hooking over his as he starts to move again. The new angle sends sparks of pleasure shooting through me, making my head fall back in abandon.

Gavin takes the opportunity to trail kisses down my neck, his tongue swirling over my pulse point. His hands slide up my sides, his thumbs grazing the undersides of my breasts. I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders as he teases my nipples with his thumbs.

“Gavin,” I moan, my hips stuttering as I chase the feeling. “Please.”

He chuckles his breath hot against my skin. “Please what, Bailey?”

“Touch me,” I beg, my cheeks flaming even as the words spill out. “Please.”

He groans, his hips stuttering as he continues to fight for control. “Where, Bailey? Tell me where you want me to touch you.”

I bite my lip, my eyes fluttering shut as I imagine his fingers between my legs. “There,” I whisper, my voice thick with need. “Please touch me here.” And I place his hand exactly where I want him to touch me.

He doesn’t make me ask again. His fingers slide up and down, finding me more than ready for him. My hips buck at the contact, my breath catching as he starts to move his fingers in time with the thrusts of his hips on my sensitive nub.

It’s too much and not enough all at once. The pleasure builds and builds, a tidal wave threatening to crash over me. I can feel his breath hot on my neck, his own control hanging by a thread.

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