Roark kisses like he’s trying to crawl into me. I cling to the front of his shirt and his fingers somehow bury themselves in my hair. I need more, more bare skin and heat. My hips jerk against his and I groan because he’s as hard as I am, which means this isn’t a dream or a trick or a lie.
He pushes me back a step, hard enough I brace for the punch. But he doesn’t swing. He stands there, lips swollen, chin reddened from the scratch of my stubble, hair mussed, light eyes flashing like quicksilver.
“Roark—”
He makes a slashing motion toward the front door. Ice crackles and cements the door shut, but I barely have time to note that before he’s on me again. Hitting the wall doesn’t hurt. His mouth doesn’t hurt, even though his teeth are sharp on my lower lip.
He rubs my dick through my jeans, and nothing hurts as much as when he stops so he can fumble with the button and zipper. I try to do the same to him, even though I’m gasping for air. My hands shake so badly I can’t manage it. He frees me first, pushing my pants and boxers down and growling when his hand finally closes around me.
My head thuds against the wall and I arch into his grip. His thumb swipes over that narrow slit, sliding over the beads of moisture he uses to help him twist over the crown, and my knees start to go.
He wedges his thigh between my legs, catching and pinning me with it as he frees himself.
His hand slams into the wall near my cheek and he presses his face against mine, so all I smell is his shampoo and soap.
Then his cock’s sliding hot and hard against mine. Roark’s hand tightens around us as he rocks his hips, pressing our bodies up and into the wall over and over. He makes a needy noise in the back of his throat that’s so at odds with everything I’ve known about him. That’s because of me. Lightning gathers at the base of my spine, threatening to loose itself through me. My muscles strain and tremble against the onslaught, desperate to make this last even if it’s a losing battle.
He nips my neck, a tender spot just below my ear, and I gasp.
“Finn,” he huffs against my skin, licking away the hurt and nuzzling against me. “Finn—”
I think I’m whispering please over and over like it’s some kind of prayer, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Not when he says my name that way.
My vision explodes with light and dark. Wet heat streaks over my abs and chest, spattering against my neck. I tremble, consumed, but the ley line isn’t there. It’s just me and Roark and he pants and shudders as he comes with me.
It’s a controlled slide to the floor. We end up a tangled mess, covered with jizz and sweat and trapped by the pants we never managed to finish pulling down. I can’t stop kissing him. He doesn’t seem to mind.
At some point, reality intrudes. He pulls back a bit, watching me from half-lidded eyes. His brain’s going a million miles a minute and I’m about to lose him. Before he can say anything, I tease, “Do you believe me now?”
Roark
“We can’t do that again.”
Finn smiles when I say that. He lies on his back, head hanging over the edge of my bed, his towel uselessly wadded at his side while he lets his body air-dry. His skin’s still pink from the heat of the water and both our fingers are pruney from how long we were in there together.
“I’m serious,” I tell him, toweling off my hair one more time. I hate when it drips everywhere. “That was a mistake.”
His expression is soft and fond and he ignores my baiting. He laughs when I run a finger over his ribs, but it trails off when I wander to his chest and trace the deep scars hachured into his skin.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, even though he hisses in surprise a moment later when I press my lips to the old injuries and trace them with my tongue.
It’s not. He still needs my help with the ley line. He’s become a topic of interest to the monarchs of both Courts. In a few weeks, I’ll walk away from him and never come back.
He runs his fingers through my hair. I close my eyes and turn into his touch. “It’s okay.”
“Stop saying that,” I mumble into his neck.
“Make me.”
He tastes like warmth and summer and rye whiskey and I’m drunk on him.
* * *
“We should probably talk,” he mumbles.
The moonlight glows over his sweaty skin, his closed eyes, the flaxen dusting of hair on his pecs that leads lower.
“What?” My brain won’t work. My head’s full of white noise after that round. The slightly bitter aftertaste of him lingers on my tongue still. He cried out my name when he came and until the day I die, it will be the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.