Page 66 of Player
Clarissa
Finn is unusually quiet.
We’ve spread out a blanket on a grassy knoll overlooking the church grounds below. I’m relaxed after consuming a bottle of wine and an Irish feast of small meat pies, fruits and grilled vegetables. Finn arranged for the innkeeper to pack “a little bit of this and a little bit of that.” I’m presently nibbling on a scone topped with fruit preserves while Finn drinks from a can of Guinness.
I study him beneath my lashes while he stares off into the distance.
He’s ridiculously handsome, with short, neatly styled hair, thanks to an early morning trip to the barber while I slept in. A jawline smooth to the touch, many more thanks to the same barber. The bruising around his eyes has faded. He seems moreGQmodel than barbarian.
His good looks should make me nervous. Except the memory of him in all his un-glorious gruffness isn’t something I’ll ever forget. Besides, we’ve grown close in such a short period of time.
And, memories—nightmares—or not, I find myself wanting to get even closer.
He brings a strawberry to his mouth and bites into it, juice reddening his lips.
The things I could teach him.
He licks his lips. God, he’s a woman’s wet dream, isn’t he?
I toss my half-eaten scone onto a napkin then crawl across the edge of the blanket toward him. He doesn’t say a word as I climb over his lap and straddle him, plucking the can from his grasp and tossing it onto the grass before pushing him down.
“I’m going to corrupt the hell out of you.”
His blue eyes shimmer with amusement.
I lean forward to nuzzle his ear with my nose. “We’re going to fuck. And, if you listen well and do exactly as I say, I’ll let you come inside me.”
He makes a noise deep in his throat.
I nip his earlobe, lightly but with intent. “Nothing to say?”
“Do your worst, storeen.”
I pin him to the ground then my lips are on his. All day long, I’ve wanted to kiss him. This morning, after he surprised me with this trip. On the rock, when he slipped his arm around me. With each and every single step, as we climbed this knoll. It’s demanding and aggressive. Lips locked. Tongues entangled. An exchange that puts the“ah, oui”into a French kiss.
He follows my lead and matches me inch for inch, thrust for thrust.
Needing more contact, I fold into him until my chest presses into the hard plains of his body.
He weaves his fingers through my hair. Holds me still while he deepens our kiss. Devours me like a man born to pleasure a woman. Like a man who can make a woman come from his kisses alone.
We kiss until I’m breathless. “Much improved,” I murmur, coming up for air.
“Fast learner.”
We grin at each other.
“I’m going to ruin you,” I promise.
“I’d say you already have.”
Something crosses his expression, and he grows serious while studying me closely. Under any other circumstances, I’d be worried.
Always a contradiction.
Always so difficult to read.
“Clothes off. Now.”
