Page 153 of Intense
“All mine?”
I nod as we just stand there, watching each other, like whoever moves first will lose. I break, curling my fingers in his tie and pulling him down. The kiss starts soft; it’s strange for us. My lips brushing his, testing, tasting.
Then it deepens. His mouth claims mine, slowly at first, his tongue sweeping deliberately like he’s cataloguing me.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. His breathing is unsteady. Mine’s worse. We’re a hot mess. But it’s beautiful.
His hands move to my arms, sliding down over my ribs, like he’s memorizing me by touch alone. The slow drag of his fingers makes me shiver. I expect him to pin me. He doesn’t.
Instead, he says, “I want you to touch me.”
My brows knit. That’s new. It feels so powerful. A moment where he breaks for me. Not in a harsh way, in the most perfect way. Chipping off another layer of his armor.
I place my hands on his chest, feeling the solid muscles beneath the shirt. No flinch. No tightening in his shoulders.
I slowly work on removing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. Sliding the fabric over his shoulders, I see them—the faint scars beneath the ink. My fingers hesitate over one near his ribs.
He wants to hide them. Yet, not from me. He is allowing me to get under his skin, his scars, and into his heart.
He catches my wrist, his grip warm. “Go on.”
So I do.
I trace every inch over the planes of his chest, across the dips and rises of his abdomen, and around the swell of his shoulders. His breathing changes. Not rough, but heavier.
Like he’s on the edge of falling, and I am the anchor he needs. Dr. Finn Quinn is vulnerable to my touch.
“You’re dangerous like this,” I whisper.
He smirks faintly. “Not half as dangerous as you.”
I unbuckle his belt and push the waistband of his pants down just enough to slide my fingers along the hard line of muscle there. His eyes go darker, pupils blown wide.
When I slip my hand under his boxers and wrap my fingers around him, his breath leaves him in a slow, shaky exhale.
“Is this okay for you?” I whisper, searching his face.
He nods once. Not rushed. Not barking orders. Just… letting me.
I keep stroking him, feeling every twitch and pulse under my fingers, until I slide his pants and boxers down fully. He helps me, kicking them off without looking away from me.
With my free hand, I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging him down until his lips are on mine.
“I want you in my mouth, Finn,” I murmur against his lips, tasting whiskey and heat.
His voice drops. “Get on your knees then, wife.”
I lick my lips as I sink to the floor in front of him. The carpet brushes my knees.
A thought flickers. Has he done this before? This breaks his rules. No touching. No eye contact. Those boundaries he’s kept like a wall between him and the world.
Does that mean I’m the first one to suck his dick?
But then he smiles; it’s soft, almost shy, and he strokes my cheek with the backs of his fingers. Like he’s reading my damn mind.
“Just you.”
Those two words settle deep inside me.
