by Rebecca Ryan
"I called Nic, my business partner, and our friend Bryce. They'll be up tomorrow to close it up. And Jackson may show."
Laurel is all about the facts. "What did you do? I mean before this?"
"I ran my own business for a while and then gave it to Nic," Finn says.
"You mean you sold it?"
"Yeah, that's right. I sold it." He shifts slightly, pain flickering across his face, and the Russo sisters are on alert.
"We should go," says Devon.
I suddenly don't want to be alone with him. Not now. Not after that kiss. "Do you want to stay for dinner?"
Laurel shakes her head. "We've got pizza dough that needs toppings. Count to ten, Cory, and then we have to go."
As Cory loudly begins his transition countdown, Devon rises, folds the throw back up, and pats me on the arm before descending the stairs.
Once the Legos are secure in their plastic container, Laurel and Cory follow with Cory hollering out a fierce, "Nice to see you! Again!" before the door slams.
From the edge of the sink window, I can see them walking down the road back toward town. Salty watches them too, and after throwing some swordfish in the oven and draining potatoes for mashing, I head out a few minutes later to take care of him.
It takes about a half hour to hay and grain him, and the horse seems genuinely glad to see me. I try to touch him again and he lets me stroke his neck. I hope by next week he'll let me trim those hooves again, without anesthesia. It’s bitter out again though and in just the few minutes with the gloves off, my hands are numb.
By the time I'm back inside, Finn's sitting on the ottoman poking at the fire. He's cleaned up and smells like my shampoo, all vanilla and soap, and the hallway is warm and damp from the shower. I strip the sheets in his room— Chloe's room, my kid room—and spread clean blue cotton ones. By the time I come back out into the living room, it's dark outside.
Now Finn's on one of the sofas, a knee cocked, his ankle on the other knee, a novel resting on his thigh. "You okay?" he asks, rising slowly, stiffly, but then moving with a grace that’s truly breathtaking. He rounds the kitchen island. "Your dinner's hot."
The surprise must be on my face "Did you eat?"
"No. Not yet. Tomorrow," he says with such authority, I don’t question it. He reaches in with an oven mitt, removes a plate, peels foil from the top, and sets the dish down on top of a tea towel at the counter. "Wine?"
I nod. My hands are thawing. I think other parts of me are too.
I clean up my plate while he returns to his book and savors a glass of wine. The comfortable-old-sweatshirt quality of the evening is not wasted on me.
Finn isn't leaving, and now I don't want him to go. With the electricity still off, The Inn will be an icebox. Ralph Burke and David Keller had come through this morning and wrapped the pipes most near the foundation, so Finn wouldn't have to deal with broken pipes, but one more day of no electricity and there would be little anyone could do. Emily had gone to every sink, turned the water on to drip, and left all the cupboard doors open.
If I don’t want him to go, then what do I want him to do?
He reaches absently for his wine glass, and as I stand at the sink washing up, I realize I'm slippery in all those dark places and a dull ache begins to throb just at the edges of my sex. I straighten my back in a weird defiant gesture to myself.
I know exactly what I want him to do.
I just don't know how to ask for it. How to trust it. How to trust myself.
Just as he rises, the phone rings. "Who has a landline?" he says, swinging onto the one barstool by the kitchen counter. When he sits down next to me, his bare forearm brushes against mine and I shiver.
A hand over the receiver, I mouth, "Patient," and turn to face the wall.
I can feel his stare from behind me and my heart trips.
I put the receiver down.
One of Molly's miniature horses is tangled in barbed wire.
***
By the time I get back, two hours later, it's nearly eleven and my feet are so cold they’re nothing but dead weight.
At sixty-three, Molly Wilson raises the horses herself and she's not facing the very real truth that she needs to stop. To at least hire some help. Tonight, little Minnie turned out fine with just a few scratches, none of which needed stitching, but next time, it may not be so easy. My wire cutters worked, and Molly's were broken. The stubbornness of Mainers is two sides of the same coin: one admirable; the flip side, irritating.
Finn's gone to bed. The fire in the front room is bright and the room is warm. Too warm, as my fingers and toes begin to sting. I run the hot water in the sink and throw my hands under the spigot.
"Shit, shit, shit," I hiss, hopping slightly in my wool socks.
The good news is that the Wilson's stable is a quarter of a mile down the road. The bad news is that the Wilson's stable is a quarter of a mile down the road, so I always walk the distance. Or run it. It's quicker than scraping down the Jeep.
I creep down the hall, shivering, past his door. I listen to every sound, every creak of his bed, every rustle, and I don't know why. Then there's the sigh of blankets settling. After grabbing my toothbrush, I go back out to the kitchen, so as not to wake him with running the water. And just as I'm drying my face with a paper towel, I hear him come up from behind.
"I just got back. Sorry to wake you," I say, turning around.
He stands at the end of the counter in nothing but red and white striped pajama bottoms. His chest catches the light and throws my heart out of sync. His nipples tighten as he comes near me and I am hyper-aware of the distance between us closing. I shiver, whether from cold or excitement, I can't tell, and I don’t care.
"This worked before," he says, and he wraps a hand around one of my wrists.
I pull back slightly, overcome by him, by the smell of his skin and by the fact that I don’t know what's going to happen next. My body knows, though.
"Come here," he says and pulls me closer.
I tilt my head up, but instead of a kiss he wraps his arms around me and the heat from his body begins to infiltrate my muscles, releasing the cold, loosening me up.
He's careful not to press his hips against me. Instead, he leans forward and whispers, "Is this okay?"
All I can do is nod and he kisses the top of my head. Chaste, sweet, but when he releases me, sliding his warm hands up my arms to hold my shoulders, that pulse between my legs begins again. "Finn," I start to say, start to tell him how I can’t take much more of this, but then my body reaches a decision.
I take his hands and place them on my breasts.
That move, that one small moment, makes his breath go ragged. I know he's searching my face, but I can’t look at him right now.
Taking my hand, he leads me to his bed, the PJ bottoms dropping to the floor, and for a moment I take him all in while he moves under the covers, shifting to a position that's comfortable.
"We don’t have to do anything," he says, "but you're freezing, and we know this works." His attempt at a joke doesn't leave him smiling. His stare is intense, focused entirely on me as if either one of us might bolt and the only thing tying us together is his focus on me.
I sit beside him on the bed and start to take off my heavy sweater.
"Stop," he says.
The care in his face makes my heart break. I can hardly breathe.
My heart slams up against my ribs as he takes an index finger and rubs it over the top of my hand. And then he circles his hand around my wrist, slips it under the sleeve of the bulky sweater, and very gently runs it up my arm.
The pulse in his neck beats, hard, fast, the V of his throat deepening as he struggles to sit straighter.
I can’t think of what to say, so I say nothing. When his hands reach my shoulders, he pulls me closer to him, so close his breath is in my hair, and his lips are so close to mine I can clearly see the stubble on his face. Then his other hand reaches up, untangles my hair, and he slides it down the other directi
on under the sweater, between my shoulder blades. A rush of warm slippery cream wells between my legs.
"I want you," he says gruff and quiet, and though his body demands mine, I realize he is asking for permission.
As if in a dream, I swing my other leg up onto the bed. Without saying a word, I straddle him.
His hands slip out of the sweater, and I raise my arms and pull it off. As it drops to the floor, he moans softly, his mouth slightly open, and I am suddenly aware of him under the covers—hard, his maleness making him stare at me, making him devour me.
I can feel this, this need he has, all over my body. I strip off the light turtleneck and sit there for a moment in a tight pink tank top, glad I opted for no bra.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers. "Jesus. Look at you."
I still can’t speak. I'm so afraid I will fuck this up.
He's gorgeous.
His hands are so warm on my cold skin, and now he gently slides them up underneath the tank top, the spandex pushing his hands flat against my stomach, up higher, until he cups my breasts. His hands are so warm, and heat roils up from his chest. My head falls back, my back arches; I can feel all this and I want him in me. I want him to fill me up, and when he starts to rub my nipples between his fingers, his touch is so gentle.
I shiver again. But I'm embarrassed. He's probably used to sexually confident women. I can run my own clinic, but I can't run my own heart. Taking the tank top in his fingers, he peels me out of it.
His voice reaches me with, "Are you sure?"
"Yes," I say, leaning forward, being careful not to touch his right side.
"You're going to have to do most of the work," he says, his jaw clenching as he pulls me to him. Having to rise pulls on his side, so I grab the two extra pillows and shove them behind him so he's half sitting up in bed.
My breasts touch his chest, grazing his skin, and I am so aroused, so wet, so ready to take him in. But instead, he kisses me, sweetly, on the lips. Just on the lips, as if testing waters. His scent of musk and clean sweat and salt has eclipsed the vanilla, making me moan again.
Again, he kisses me, this time deeply, and he sucks my breath away, his breath hot on my face. Then he takes my arms and folds them against my chest.
His need comes out almost like a plea. "I want to feel you." Then he pushes me back a little and undoes the button on my pants.
His breath is more ragged now, uneven. His chest rises and falls so erratically I am left aching. Moving off him, I quickly unzip my pants and slip out of them. When I turn around, he's pulled back the covers and he's just lying there, his brown skin luminous in the firelight, swirls of dark hair catching the light.
Oh. My. God. This is really happening. It’s been three years.
His cock is right there, throbbing slightly, dark and thick and waiting for me. It’s like he's hungry.
For me.
"Do you have protection?" he asks.
I nod, though I'm thinking, Shit. I hope those condoms are still in the bedside drawer.
I reach over, and reaching with a confidence I don’t have, I find a small stash way in the back. I set one on the table. Resuming my position, I'm careful my left knee is nowhere near his right side.
He touches me again, and then his hands are everywhere, rubbing my skin, cupping my breasts, kneading my ass. Quivering, I feel his finger slip into me. And then from the front he begins small movements with his thumb.
"Finn," I gasp.
But he's silent, focused, and I can’t seem to get any air. He's around me, consuming me, a finger deep inside my pussy, touching high inside, against my pelvis, another finger swirling my nub.
I have no control. My hips tilt as I surrender to him completely and he keeps rubbing my clit, knowing exactly what to do.
His hands drop for a moment and I hear him peel the condom out of its wrapper. Rising up, I feel so flushed and swollen, and then his cock, smooth and hard, brushes against me. He finds my sex with his, but I don’t want him to move anymore, afraid trying to thrust will hurt, so I adjust. And then his tip enters, gently, and I'm on my knees and slowly, slowly, I come down on him. He pulses inside me.
I gasp as he fills me up, and he grabs both my arms.
"Don’t move," he says, his voice hoarse. "Look at me. Look at me, Claire."
I didn’t even know my eyes were closed. What I see now is him. His face wiped of pain, his eyes clear and as dark as the sea.
"Look at us," he whispers. "Look."
My hands on his shoulders, I look down to see where we meet, where his skin touches mine, pelvis to pelvis, almost bone on bone he’s so deep in me.
I grip him hard with my sex and pull up slightly.
He arches backward, and those muscled arms drop to either side and tighten as he grips sheets, covers, anything he can. His moan is deep, rumbling in my pelvis and chest. "Jesus."
Now I watch him. When he throws his head back, his throat moves. That pulse in his neck quivers and I know I have him. I sink down again.
He brings his face back up to meet mine. "Claire."
I love watching his face, but then I see he wants to watch mine. And that's when I feel his fingers up against my clit again.
Crying out, I move against him, with him, clenching, feeling him stretch me inside. The tension is too much. With a tiny movement, I feel him move the hood of my clit back, press a thumb there as he pulses inside me.
I come. Wave after wave after wave, my throat widening as a groan escapes from somewhere deep. And I don’t care if he sees me. I want him to see me. I want him to see all of me.
My vagina quivers and then his cock moves again and I shift my weight, put my feet under me, with him still deep inside.
"Claire, what are you doing—" but it's not a question. He reaches up and grips the wrought iron headboard, the long tendons in his arms beautifully tight and hard.
I rise until I am at the apex, his very tip, and I straddle him, feeling the glans of his penis just at the edge of my grip. Then I sink down, hard, to his root.
"Oh fuck!" he gasps, and then, "Sorry."
"Don’t be sorry." Leaning forward I kiss his sweaty forehead and rise again.
"Oh my god, Claire." Just as his mouth closes on my name I slide down again and he groans loudly. His chest jerks forward involuntarily and he barely has the strength to reach for my face.
"Just let go. Let go, Finn." I can sense his surrender as I rise up again. I love the feeling of his cock, how it fits me, how wet I am and how we look together.
My hips move again in slow circles. With each turn, he shudders, gasps, and searches my face. The edges of our sex just graze each other. This is exquisite torture.
I am doing this to him. The power of this hits me, and I grab his face, lean forward sucking in his breath, as I slide my hand down his chest and squeeze a nipple. I come down hard, gripping him with my sex. Then his hips rise to meet mine and he comes, ejaculating, his cock quivering, my face buried in his neck. His strain comes in waves over and over until he drops back.
I shift back on my knees, with him still inside and lay on top of him. Neither of us moves.
I don't know how long it is before we part. Gently, I straighten my legs, trying not to settle more weight on him and I roll over to his good side. My legs shake so badly I'm afraid I won't be able to stand. He slips out of me and I feel the last of our heat leak between my legs. He kisses my cheek and moves slightly, and then he's off the bed and in the bathroom, running water.
"Where'd you go?" My voice sounds thick.
"Tell you what, you just lie there."
"What are you doing?"
"Close your eyes," he says and kisses my eyelids. He moves to my mouth, gently, his tongue finding me sweetly, not deeply, and as he kisses me I feel the warm washcloth between my legs, wiping my thighs, my labia. Then it's just his hand on my belly.
Breaking away, I open my eyes to see him looking at me. I smile. "So, you can multitask?"
"Your skin
is beautiful," he says. "You're pink all over." He kisses my hand but I catch him wincing as he starts to lie back. The pain has returned.
"Okay, okay. Now it’s my turn. Lie down." I take the cloth from him and rinse it out before giving it a wring. I return and lay it over his cock and the nest of black hair. The smell of cum is everywhere. My nipples tingle as both tighten.
Slipping on my tank top, I get up, amazed my legs can still move, to get a glass of water from the kitchen. I hear him fold the blankets back so I can slip into bed next to him.
But by the time I return, he's asleep on his back, his dark lashes flat against his cheeks. I light a candle from the mantle and then sit on the edge of the bed and watch him. One arm is out in a sleepy invitation, his torso slightly elevated, his breathing even, and I lick my lips. It’s like I can’t take in all of him at once. I can only do small doses of Finn Colton.
Like just his soft, curling black hair. Or his deadly symmetrical, six-pack stomach. Or his beautiful arms. Or like now, where the covers are just low enough to hit at his obliques and the firelight catches all those delicious shadows.
Oh God.
He's asleep, his chest rising and falling so softly I’m not sure he's breathing.
I'm lying here watching him do the thing I can’t right now. A thought has wormed itself into my brain, denying my quest for sleep, boring a hole of insecurity. The fact that I had to control what went on in bed had thrilled me. But it left me confused, too.
Will I ever be able to just let go completely?
Is Devon right?
Am I that much of a control freak I can't enjoy life? Sex?
She said it kept me from love—that I was one not bound for love, but just working substitutes. That it’s why nothing ever works out between me and men. Devon said I just fuck them.
But I've never had an experience like this, so sudden, so hot, so right.
In the middle of my own sexual analysis, he shifts and a sharp intake of breath tells me he should have taken a painkiller.
He moves, agitated, and rises up partially. "Allison?" He peers at me, half-awake, his body on alert, tense with something unknown and unexpected: a woman in his bed.
