Covet (Sinful Secrets 3)

I fumble with his pants then push at his hands. “Take them down,” I order.

I must be no good at drunken blow jobs. He’s not even fully thickened up and firm.

“I’m sorry,” I manage. I wipe at my eyes.

“Why?”

“I’m not good.”

His hands on my shoulders, down my arms. Gentle. “You so good, Finley.” His eyes seem to reach for mine. “You’re so good. Never doubt that I think so.”

My eyes shut. Our dizzy kisses. I adore the weight of him above me, making things feel better. Safer.

And then I’ve lost him. We’re moving, and he’s behind me. His hands build a fervor in me, make me want his sex inside.

“Your fingers,” I hiss. “Not enough…”

His hand is gentle on my back. “Hmm, I don’t know. I don’t think I mess around with drunk girls.”

“I’m not a drunken girl,” I try. “I’m your girl.”

He answers with a snap of latex. With his sex shoved into me. I’m numb on the surface, but deep there, I feel him. The sensation makes me grunt. It draws loud cries from me.

“You okay?” he keeps asking.

“Oh yes. Never better…”

I’m near climax when his hand catches a handful of my hair and tugs.

I gasp.

“Is this okay?”

“It hurts a bit,” I squeak.

And then it doesn’t hurt. He lets go. He reaches around and rubs me till I’m screaming his name. As I come, he slaps my backside harshly, and I feel the condom swell.

Nine

Finley

The weight of my drunken words grows nearly crushing as my mind clears and the headache comes on.

What must he think? I don’t know, because Mark Glass has called him off. It seems Mark’s washroom pipes have sprung a leak, and he’s ripping up the tile floor. He came knocking as I soaked in the bath Declan drew for me, asking if Sailor wanted to help. Because why wouldn’t he want to help? Cue eyeroll.

Before he left, I begged him not to mention me—in any manner. While they’re working, though, what topics might arise? If my name surfaces, what more might Mark Glass say of me?

I pace around the house, talking to Baby before deciding to walk back down to the clinic residence and give Doctor a call. It’s been a few days since I’ve heard from him, and it won’t do to have him calling frequently, failing to reach me because I’m spending nights elsew

here. I’m checking the voice mail daily, but the notion of him catching on still frightens me.

He answers on the second ring and tells me that his father passed last night.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“It was peaceful.” He says nothing more.

I open my mouth to solicit details. Doctor and I have seen two Tristanians through their final moments. We understand the workings of death in a way few do. But it’s his father, and he didn’t offer me the information.