Page 65 of The Pucking Date
It’s not a kiss; it’s a statement. Bold. Possessive. The kind that sayswe’re not finishedandyou’re not going anywhere.
He slides his tongue between my lips, holding my face, moving it with a slow, lethal precision that leaves no doubt where this night is going.
The sound that comes from me is a needy whimper. I part my mouth, asking for more. His thumb presses under my jaw, tilting my head back so he can kiss me more deeply.
His touch is hungry, greedy, demanding, like he wants to put me on my hands and knees and fuck me until I can’t remember my own name.
And maybe he will. God, I hope he will.
When he finally pulls back, I’m breathless, my hands fisted in the front of his jacket.
His eyes drop to my lips—swollen, parted—and then lower, dragging down my body, already mapping out every inch he’s about to touch.
“Say no now, Novak.” His voice is wrecked but still holding that edge of control. “Or you’re coming upstairs with me.”
I should say no.
I should.
But instead, I nod.
His jaw flexes, satisfaction flashing in his eyes as he takes my hand again. He leads me back through the ballroom, a man on a mission, not caring who sees. His grip is firm, his pace unhurried but direct. He’s walking me straight into surrender.
The elevator ride is silent but electric. His thumb strokesover my knuckles, a small, possessive gesture that shouldn’t make my pulse race the way it does.
When the doors open, he doesn’t pounce. No, Finn O’Reilly is far too controlled for that. He walks me down the hall, unlocks his room, and lets me step inside first.
I barely turn before his hand is at my waist, spinning me to face him. His mouth crashes onto mine—hot, hungry, but still measured. He’s savoring the first bite of something he’s craved for far too long. His hand skims up my back and grabs my neck, and my entire body tightens at the anticipation. I loop my arms around his neck, and for a second, he squeezes his eyes closed and shivers.
Watching that shudder move through him undoes me. But then he opens his eyes and is in control again. His hands stay high, cupping my face, fingers threading into my hair, not rushing, not fumbling. Just owning me, one kiss at a time.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, his breath ragged.
“Tell me this ain’t just for tonight,” he says, voice dipping to a slow, dangerous murmur, wet heat against my skin.
I don’t answer.
He bites just below my ear, then soothes it with his tongue. His grip tightens in my hair again, pulling my head back so he can look at me. “Tell me you feel this too.” His forehead presses to mine.
I nod. My hands are on his chest now, fingers splayed over his heartbeat. And I hear his words. Feel the certainty in his touch.
I kiss him instead of answering, and he takes my silence as agreement. His hands are everywhere. On my shoulders, in my hair. He drags my dress down and throws it to the side, his eyes lingering on my body.
“You’re not wearin’ a bra?” he snarls, palming my breast and thumbing over the stiff peak. “These tits…damn, darlin’…they’re bigger than I remember. You tryin’ to drive me clean outta my mind?”
He doesn’t know.
Doesn’t know how tender they’ve been lately. How my body’s been shifting under the weight of hormones I can’t control, how my breasts ache some mornings like they’re bruised, how my belly revolts at random, how I’ve cried twice this week over nothing but a tight waistband and the wrong kind of tea.
Even now, his touch is almost too much—pleasure braided with the kind of ache that makes me gasp.
But I don’t flinch. I lean into it. Because his touch makes me feel desired. Tethered. Alive.
I can’t tell him any of it yet. So I just tip my head back, breath catching, and say the only thing that matters in this moment.
“Take me to bed, Finn.”
Because I don’t want to explain the biology of everything that’s happening to me. I just want to feel him on me and believe, for one night, that I can want something selfish and soft and still be okay.
