Dirty Rowdy Thing

by Christina Lauren

  “More,” I manage.

  Finn’s eyes seem to gleam with victory at my reaction—my hands pulling his face to my chest, back arched off the bed—and very carefully he bites deep grooves into an intricate pattern all over my breasts. Around my nipples and in the full curve below. Along the sides, and at the smooth slope of them just above the swollen peaks.

  He kisses each spot, licking and sucking until my skin shines, and I’m on the verge of screaming. He drags my hand up so I can feel each small indentation. “Touch them,” he says, dragging his teeth down over my shoulder, to my arm. “Tell me how it feels when I lick you.”

  The tiny grooves remind me of the rope marks, but are more intimate somehow. These red marks that tell the room and the sky and the swollen moon outside for only a tiny trip of time: I belong to him. My body is his.

  I don’t want them to disappear, and can tell he doesn’t, either, returning to the first one, pushing his possession back into my skin.

  I need his body pressed to mine, covering my breasts so the puff of his breath across the peaks won’t make me cry out, and I want the wet, soothing slide of his tongue over the sensitive bite marks. I feel cracked open, devoured and hollowed out, filled with a desire so consuming and deep I can sense how warm and soft I am beneath him, ready to pull him down onto me. Into me.

  He sucks at me while his hands are busy elsewhere and I hear the crinkle of a condom wrapper and the wet sound of its lubricant as he rolls the latex down his length.

  “Tell me if it’s too much,” he says into my skin as he positions himself and then presses his chest to mine, sliding into me in a long, smooth stroke.

  I might be screaming or cursing or begging—I don’t know. My skin is aching for friction but terrified of it all the same. It’s a divine torture. The bite marks pulse and heat, and my chest is so wet Finn slides across me, groaning as he moves in and out. Oh God. The drag of his skin across my breasts burns and aches, pleasures and soothes, and when he lifts his chest away I need it back. Pulling him down over me I beg for faster.

  Please . . .

  “Tell me how it feels,” he rasps.

  “It feels . . . it feels . . .” My breasts are pulsing with every heartbeat and so sensitive I’m sure he could drag his tongue across the peak and—

  Finn bends and presses his flattened tongue just below my nipple and drags it up just as he shoves in deep and begins fucking me in these tiny perfect jabs. I cry out, clutching him.

  It feels like I’m yours.

  His tongue soothes the burn but makes me arch, makes me beg and beg for his hips to move faster and his mouth to make my breasts wetter and for him to please

  please

  please

  please make me come.

  He makes a noise against my skin right when I jerk beneath him, gasping. His sound is half laugh, half thrilled groan and in a flash he draws my hands up over my head, pinning me, working me with his hips and his mouth until I’m thrashing.

  I’m filling with pressure, climbing, skin flushing hot and wet, and then I’m screaming his name, consumed by the silvery, pulsing of pleasure until I can’t differentiate any particular touch. It’s only Finn over me and the pleasure tearing through me and his soft hoarse sounds of encouragement: “That’s it. That’s it. Oh, fuck me, you’re coming. Oh fuck.”

  It’s strange to lose one’s mind, but it’s what he does to me—in these moments of wild bliss, when I’ve just come and he’s losing himself in me—everything else in the world disappears. The stars could fall, the ocean could take over the land, and I wouldn’t even realize it until long after Finn slows his hips and runs his hand up my leg and along my side, until he reaches my jaw, cupping it and telling me he’s never wanted anything the way he wants me.

  IN FACT, IF the world ended tonight, I suspect we wouldn’t hear about it until morning. Finn gets out of bed only long enough to get rid of the condom and come back with a wet cloth, wiping the lubricant from my skin so he can do some of the most wicked things with his mouth between my legs.

  His tongue laps at me, he grazes me with his teeth and growls like a wild animal, spreading my legs apart with one hand gripping my thigh, fingering me with the other. I feel the full depraved meaning of the phrase eating her out. He is devouring.

  And then, with his eyes pinned up the length of my body, he slides his fingers lower and does something so unexpected, the only way he knows I like it is the way I scream when I come harder against his mouth than I think I ever have before.

  Finn kisses my thigh, my hip, my navel, rasping, “Fucking hell.”

  And then he pulls me down the mattress, setting my feet on the floor so he can bend me over the bed.

  “You sore yet, you dirty fucking girl?” he asks quietly, tearing a new condom packet open with his teeth.

  I turn and look at him over my shoulder, lifting my chin in challenge. “No.”

  “Good.”

  Because when he positions himself and pushes in so deep I collapse against the bed, I know he’s going to fuck me, dirty and hard.

  It’s Vegas all over again: rowdy, with his palm on my ass and his other hand digging so hard into my hip I look forward to the tiny bruises I know I’ll find tomorrow. But I finally recognize Vegas for what it was: It wasn’t his “usual” stranger fuck, Finn being domineering and rough. It was Finn unbound, Finn laid bare with me, his perfectly matched stranger. All at once I know with someone else he would have been careful that first night—slower-handed, softer words, easy, rolling hips—but with me he couldn’t be.

  He could only do rowdy because he felt what I felt: that whip-crack unleashing that comes when you meet the person who frees you.

  Finn lowers us to the floor, running his hand down my sweat-slicked spine, and then I feel his own sweaty chest press into my back as he curls over me, entering me again and immediately riding me fast and smooth, his greedy hands cupping my breasts.

  He’s insatiable on the floor, against the wall, back up on the bed with my legs on his shoulders. It’s like this, under the firm touch of his fingers, that I come apart with a scream and his teeth bared against my ankle. I can tell he’s close to his own release but he slows his thrusts, humming into my leg.

  “What do you want me to do?” I ask, running my hand down his sweaty chest and lowering my legs to his sides.

  “It feels fucking amazing,” he says through heavy breaths, bending to kiss me. “I want to come, but I also don’t.”

  “There’s no rush,” I purr, pulling him down so his chest presses all along mine.

  “I got a taste of you bare, earlier,” he admits quietly. “Do you have any idea how good you feel without this fucking condom? I can’t stop thinking about how warm and sweet you were.”

  How is it possible I’d forgotten what we’d done in the car? A mixture of longing and anxiety shadows my thoughts.

  “It’s like I’m trying to fuck this thing off.” He laughs into my shoulder and begins moving again. I remember how warm he felt, how smooth.

  I want to feel it, too.

  I push on his chest so he pulls out of me and I reach for him, sliding the condom off.

  “No, Harlow, I didn’t mean—”

  “Shh, I know,” I say, reaching for the wet cloth on the bed and using it to wipe him off this time. “Come here.”

  I lay back, pulling his hips up higher, over my face. Of all the things he’s done to me, he’s never let himself finish this way.

  With his knees on the mattress at my sides, he carefully slips between my lips, and into my mouth.

  “Fuck.” He groans, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

  He gives me tentative, short strokes at first until he’s wet and hungry and so tight against my tongue that I can’t help but make little desperate noises as he moves deeper. There is nothing in this world I want more right now than watching him slowly start to climb, his hands flat against the wall at the head of the bed, his chest shuddering with his jagg
ed exhales. He chokes out a tight “Close.”

  I slide my hands up his thighs, and to the middle, circling his base and behind his balls with both hands.

  “Keep doing that and I’m coming in your mouth,” he warns.

  I squeeze my hands, suck harder, and he arches his back, swelling against my tongue and coming with the hottest fucking groan I’ve ever heard in my life. He hovers over me, sweat dripping from his forehead onto the pillow beside my head, watching me with flared nostrils and savage eyes as I lick and kiss him.

  Pulling slowly away, he sits back on his heels over me, catching his breath. “My God.”

  His cock rests heavily on my chest and I feel thoroughly wrecked, in the best way. I’m exhausted, boneless, sweaty, and probably the most satisfied woman in the history of sexual relations.

  Scooting down my body, Finn seems far more serious. He does a careful inspection of my breasts in the dim light filtering in through the bedroom window. His fingers trail across the nearly vanished bite marks. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  He lowers himself, covering my chest in small, sucking kisses. “I needed this tonight.”

  “I needed it, too,” I say in a burst, exhaling a huge breath. “It’s scary how much.”

  “You good?” he asks, rising above me in the dark. “You need more?”

  “I’m perfect.” He could go again? Holy shit.

  He bends and kisses the tip of my nose, as if he can see every one of my features in the dark. “Yeah.”

  For all his surly expressions and monosyllabic answers, Finn is a surprisingly generous lover. I’m sort of rocked by the realization that he gets off on my pleasure more than he does when I touch him.

  “Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of amazing?” I blame my post-multi-orgasm high for the way my voice comes out a little shaky.

  But, predictably, he laughs, pressing a kiss between my breasts. “No.” He gets up to walk across the room and into my bathroom, getting a drink of water.

  “Well, for the record, you’re amazing, Sunshine.”

  When he returns, the mattress dips and I feel the unbelievable heat of his body slide behind me beneath the covers. He’s careful not to jostle me but curls along my spine, the thick band of his arm sliding around my waist, hand splayed across my stomach with a new, thrilling possession. Eventually my breathing evens out and I’m in that delicious space just before sleep, where everything in the entire world is perfect.

  “It’s you,” he whispers, and then bends to kiss my hair.

  It’s you.

  And suddenly, I’m on an epic mental bender, imagining all of the things he could have meant when he said it. It takes no time for him to clarify, though.

  “I want to be good to you.” He rolls me to face him, and kisses me once before admitting, “I’m just fucking wild for you.”

  “I think I spotted that just now,” I whisper.

  “I mean,” he clarifies, “the I love you kind of wild.”

  I feel every drop of blood in my body collect in my chest, pressure and thrill building, and then it bursts into my limbs in a mad rush of adrenaline and relief and a love so enormous I feel light-headed.

  “Yeah?” I ask through a smile so dopey I’m relieved he can’t see me very well in the dark room.

  But his laugh tells me I’m wrong, and he can see me just fine. “Yeah.”

  I manage to say it back, laughing into the firm press of his mouth over mine, hard and rowdy, all over again.

  Chapter TWELVE

  Finn

  I’M GROWING FAMILIAR with this position: in bed, my mind going nonstop while I stare up at the ceiling.

  But this view is new, and instead of the shadow of palm trees on the plaster above me, there’s the shimmering night-reflection of a pool in the courtyard just outside. Harlow’s neighborhood is quieter than Oliver’s: There’s no teenage band playing in the garage on the corner, no barking dog in the yard next door, fewer cars passing by at every hour of the night.

  It’s so peaceful—with only the soft, measured sound of her breathing right next to me—that I imagine if I try hard enough, I could hear the ocean a few blocks away. It’s pitch-black out and she’s been asleep for the last hour, her leg slung easily over my hip and practically every inch of her bare skin touching practically every inch of mine. And when she shifts in her sleep, tightening her grip on the sheet at my waist, it’s almost enough to distract me from the silence, to tempt me into waking her up and wearing her out all over again.

  Almost.

  I’ve never been a huge talker. I’ve never had the inclination to put into words all the things that are going on in my head. Never felt the need some people have to fill silence with pointless chatter. I get the feeling that’s usually who Harlow is for people—she’s the one who carries on the conversation and manages to pull sentences from even the least talkative person around—but she never really tries that with me. She can outtalk and outwit almost anyone I know, and yet when we’re together, she’s okay with my silence. She’s okay letting me be me.

  I thought I knew what we were for each other, but underneath the stress and anxiety of the last few weeks, something changed. It’s a complication I wasn’t expecting and now that it’s here, I want it. Last night was the first time we really talked about what we are, but did we actually decide anything? I want her. That’s all I really know.

  Harlow mumbles something in her sleep and I shift to my side, brushing the hair from her face. When I’m this close to her it’s easy to forget the stack of bills waiting on the boat, the broken-down equipment and the start of the next season that gets closer and closer every day.

  But fuck, I need to go home. I’ve been putting it off as long as I can but I’m needed there. I belong there. But how do I leave now? One smile or smart-ass comment from her and all my thoughts sort of rearrange themselves, the inappropriate, usually pornographic ones sliding to the front, while the important ones like family and responsibility are shuffled to the back.

  I’ve tried to ignore it. I’ve tried to downplay the way my heart jumps in my chest when I hear her name, done my best to explain away the times I find myself thinking about her, wondering what she’s doing, worrying whether she’s all right. But I can’t anymore. I don’t want to.

  Jesus, I’ve never thought this much about a woman in my life.

  “Finn?”

  I look down to see her blinking awake. “I’m here,” I tell her. I kiss her temple, her cheek, let my hand move down her body to rest at her hip.

  “You stayed.” It’s not a question, and I feel the moment she really wakes up, realizes that I’m still here, with her. Harlow pushes herself up before she climbs on top of me. Her silhouette blocks the streetlights filtering in through the dark window and all I can make out is the shape of her body, the pink of her nipples against her skin.

  “I stayed so I could fuck you again,” I tell her and she laughs.

  Actually, I’m as surprised as she is that I’m still here. I’d promised myself I’d wait until she was asleep, I’d make sure she was okay and then I’d head back to Oliver’s. I’d come up with some sort of a plan. Clearly, I’m a liar.

  Her hands move over my stomach, my cock already hard between her legs. She rocks her hips and I can feel where she’s still wet, the way she slides over me.

  “Done sleeping?” I ask, placing a hand on each of her hips.

  She nods, slow and sleepy. “Dreamed about you.”

  I trace my thumbs in small circles over her hip bones and in, toward her navel. “What about?”

  She rocks a bit more forcefully now, with intent. “This.”

  With every shift backward she brings the head of my cock closer, closer, so close to slipping inside. Bare.

  “Careful,” I warn, but it’s halfhearted at best.

  Harlow’s head falls forward, the ends of her hair brushing my stomach, my chest. “Feels so good,” she says, hitching in a breath. “Oh . . . God, it’s
so good.”

  I know I should take control, guide her away from where I’m hard and greedy, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

  One more time.

  One more second.

  “Wait,” I start to say, and hiss in a breath when I feel the gentle rise of her clit, warm and slippery. “Let me get something, sweetheart.”

  “Just for a second?” she asks, grinding over me. “Ahh . . . right there. Right there.”

  “Yeah?” I say, propping the pillow behind my head and watching my cock disappear over and over again between her legs. “Fuck, this is so crazy. Baby, what are we doing?”

  But even as I’m saying the words, I’m canting my hips off the bed, helping her slide over me. There’s something about seeing her use me like this, use my body to get herself off, that leaves my brain fuzzy, trying to remember why we should ever stop. It’s just enough friction and I’m sure I could come from this alone, the two of us rutting against each other like a couple of teenagers.

  Harlow leans back, reaches to steady herself on my thighs, and it’s that slight movement, the tiniest change of angle that opens her up, and lets the head of my cock slip inside.

  “Oh fuck,” I say, tightening my grip to keep her still. I feel hot all over, feverish and hungry, and know I should stop this but every instinct fights against it.

  Harlow moans and sinks down a little farther. “Do you want me to stop?”

  I nod my head but the word “no” comes out instead. Actually a whole lot of curse words come out but I’m not sure Harlow is paying attention to any of them.

  “Fuck. Right,” she says, voice pained. She straightens, and moves to climb off me but I reach for her waist, stopping her.

  “God. Wait.” I take a deep breath, suddenly aware of the sweat at my temples, the way the sheets are clinging to my back. Every muscle is strung too tight, like live wires ready to snap with the slightest pressure. Her body feels like it belongs to me now. “Just let me . . . feel you. Just for a second.”