“Let me touch you.” I squirm against him.
Finn uses his body to press me against the wall to stop my movement, one powerful thigh thrust between my legs. He lowers his mouth to the crook of my neck. My skin is so hot, his breath is a cool caress. “Just . . . be still. This feeling will pass.”
I rock into him, needing release. “I ache.” I don’t care that I sound pathetic. Desperate. Nothing matters but the coiling heat low in my stomach and the need burning in my blood.
“I know.” He keeps his face buried in my neck, and I can barely hear his muffled words over the roaring in my ears.
“Is it me?” My voice cracks. It’s me. I’m not enough.
“Never.”
“Prove it.”
The sharp sting of his teeth against my neck makes me gasp, but then his tongue flicks across my skin, turning the pain to pleasure. My blood pulses there, silently begging for more attention.
I let instinct take over—instinct and this need to escape my own spiraling thoughts. My hips move, rubbing my center against his muscled thigh, begging with my body for more, but his grasp remains firm on my wrists, his mouth and tongue moving up my neck to nip my ear, hot and delicious. I focus on that point of friction between us with every ounce of my awareness, chasing my pleasure until it pulses through me.
Finn groans against my neck. “Brie,” he whispers, his hot breath caressing my skin. “Fuck.”
I collapse against the wall, limp and shivering, and Finn carries me to bed.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I ROLL OVER AND PRESS my hand to my forehead. My mouth feels like it’s full of sand. Every muscle aches. I curl onto my side and whimper.
“Don’t be dramatic,” Finn says.
My eyes fly open, and I sit up so fast the room spins. Images come at me in waves. The party. The dancing and the wine. Emmaline’s—no, Pretha’s hand on my wrist as she dragged me away.
Then Finn. The shower. The begging.
Gods above and below . . . so much begging.
My face burns, and Finn smirks. “Problem, Princess?” he asks, rocking back on his heels.
I wanted it to be me. I hadn’t even admitted that to myself, but last night I told him. I threw myself at him, and he denied me. Held me in place as I begged for his touch. And even through my humiliation, the thought of his lips on my neck makes my skin heat.
I collapse back on the bed and cover my face with both hands. “Go away.”
He chuckles. “You didn’t want me to go away last night. In fact, when I tucked you into this bed, you were begging me to stay. I have to admit, you made some pretty intriguing promises.”
I peek at him between my fingers, and just as I expected, the ass is smiling. He never smiles, but of course this most mortifying morning of my life would be the occasion of his shit-eating grins. “I hate you.”
“Also not what you said last night.”
I roll over and bury my face in the pillow. “I was drunk on faerie wine. I didn’t mean it.” My words are muffled, but judging from his chuckle, he heard them anyway.
“That’s not how it works, Princess. It lowered your inhibitions, made you aroused, yes, but you’ll notice you didn’t pull Pretha into the shower and beg her to touch you.”
No. I’d very specifically wanted Finn, and he had endured my pathetic pleas. “If I had any taste at all, I would have,” I mutter. I roll to my back and frown. “Faerie wine never affected me like that.”
“The wine isn’t to blame. Whatever was in the wine is your culprit.” He places three vials on the bedside table. “If anything ever makes you feel like that again, take one of these at the first sign and get somewhere safe. The elixir will counteract the effects of the drug, but you must take it right away. By the time Pretha got to you last night, it was already working its way through your system and we had to wait it out. Many fae would have taken advantage of you if they’d found you in that condition. They could’ve gotten you to . . . make decisions you might not be ready for when sober.”
But not Finn. “Thank you,” I say, but I can’t get the scowl off my face.
He tosses clothes on my bed. “Quit feeling sorry for yourself and get dressed.”
I throw my pillow at his face. He catches it in one hand and smirks at me. No, not smirks. Smiles. Something’s changed between us, so I risk a question. “Who’s Isabel?”
His light brown skin pales, but for once he doesn’t evade. “Isabel was the woman I loved. I planned to marry her and give her children.” He swallows. “But she died.”