Chasing the Wild Sparks (7 page)

I reluctantly drag my lips away from his neck only for him to passionately claim my lips again. His tongue explores my mouth and I fervently lick his tongue with mine, savoring his taste. When he begins to pull out of my mouth, I gently clamp my teeth around his tongue to stop him. I then greedily suck on it, causing his breathing to kick up a notch.

He leans down to place me on the bed, stepping away and robbing me of his touch and tongue. He gazes down at me with a stare that sets my world and underwear on fire. I kneel up, not taking my eyes off of his, and slowly pull down the zipper that rests on his muscular chest. As I drag it downward, his chest hair comes into view. No shirt this time. I bend my head and lick his chest through the smattering of hair, which envelops all of my senses: Tasting the deliciousness of his skin, feeling the smoothness of it with my tongue. Inhaling his heavenly scent that clings to me when we touch. The sight of his eyes intently watching me. Hearing his staggered breathing as I lick him.

“Baby,” he groans.

“What, Finnigan?”

His hands bury into my hair, lightly yanking at strands. He snarls, “I
want
you.”

I smile against his skin and unhurriedly pull the zipper the rest of the way down, slowing even more when I reach his prominent bulge and letting my fingers drag over him through his gray boxer briefs.

“Shit.” He readily pushes through the zipper opening. I wrap my fingers around his length and lightly tug. “Becks, baby,” he pants. With my other hand, I push the leather on his shoulder. He quickly shrugs, making the material slip off so he can pull his arm out. I switch my hands, still stroking him through his underwear, and do the same to his other shoulder, pulling the leather down his arm myself. He yanks his arm out of the suit. He grips the bottom of my T-shirt and lifts it up over my stomach. I let go of him so that he is able to take my shirt off, tossing it on the floor as I kneel on the bed before him in only my underwear. I grab ahold of the rest of his suit and push it down over his hips. As he takes it off, his eyes are locked on mine. When he’s finished, he gazes intently down at me, unmoving.

“What is it?” I ask anxiously. What did I do?

His hands return to my hair and he whispers, “You are so damn beautiful, Becks.” I warily grin and look away. 

Trying to distract him from his incisive stare, I say, “You didn’t wear your leather suit on the Air.”

“No. I ran downstairs to the lobby’s bathroom and changed as soon as the camera was off of me.”

“Nobody asked what you were doing?”

“No. There aren’t a lot of people around for a weekend night broadcast.”

“Still, you didn’t care if anyone asked why you were in your riding suit that late?”

“No. I don’t care what anyone thinks of me. I did it for you.”

“Your coworkers must think you are either strange or mysterious.”

“Don’t care. The only person that I care about what they think of me is you.”

I smile and Finn smiles back at me. His hands clutch my face and he leans down to kiss me. I push my tongue between his lips and taste him. He hungrily licks my tongue and I grasp his biceps, digging my nails into his flesh over his tattoos. The one on his left bicep is a big, green shamrock that appears to be three-dimensional the way the leaves are designed. He got that one for his Irish heritage, thus Finnigan.

The one on his right bicep is an elaborate black and gray Celtic cross with a thin banner wrapped around it. The points of the cross look like spears with curled layers peeled back on each point. He got that one for his faith. It’s so beautiful. That one is my favorite of his.

On both arms below his cross and shamrock tats, he has a band of double-barbed wire circling his biceps. The middle of each section is tight, coiled springs curving menacingly outward. He picked those because barbed wire can signify a person's belief in God, since Jesus was forced to wear a crown of thorns before he was crucified.

My hands travel up and I curl my fingers over his shoulders, covering his two other tattoos. On the back of his left shoulder, he has a blue N overlaid with a blue Y for his New York Yankees. On his right shoulder, he has a soccer ball with intricate orange and red streaked flames flying from it.

“Touch me, Becks.”

I smirk. “I am, Finnigan,” I tease. I kiss his jaw and trail kisses down to his collar bone, licking down to his shamrock. He grabs my right hand and shoves my fingers into the front of his waistband. I yank down the material and set him free. He moves to pull down the sides of his underwear. When he stands, my fingers grasp his concrete-hardness. He harshly inhales and sighs as my fingers work back and forth over him, gliding my thumb over his slick tip.

He gasps, “Baby.” He closes his eyes and traps his bottom lip with his teeth, looking even sexier. I reach down with my other hand and gently run my fingers over his balls, knowing he likes that. His eyes fly open and he places a knee up on the edge of the bed next to my leg, and he slowly pushes me back. I move my legs out so he can climb on top of me and between my legs. I hold his body tightly with my thighs and he kisses me ardently, his hands are in my hair, lightly clasping my head as his lips consume mine. He moves his right hand from my hair down to my left hip; his fingers tightening on my skin as he travels downward.

“Finn, I want you,” I moan.

“You have me,” he responds. He pries his finger into my waistband and glides my underwear down my legs. Returning to me, he looks down my body as I lie totally naked beneath him. “I can’t look at you enough, Becks, or get used to the fact that you’re all mine.”

“I don’t want you to leave me.” I soon as I say those words, I regret saying them because I don’t want to ruin our moment together like I almost did earlier.

His gaze meets mine. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll always be with you, Becks,” he avows. He kisses me, pushing tentatively inside me. I put my hands on his jaw and he raises his head to stare at me, the music serenading us.

“Make love to me, Finnigan,” I pleadingly whisper up to him. His wanting gaze flicks over my face as his fingers possessively stroke the inside of my thigh. I close my eyes and his sweet, hot breath floods my face.

“Becks,” he imparts before he thrusts into me.

“Oh, Finnigan!” I roll my head back and squeeze my eyes shut, reveling in the feel of him being one with me. All mine.

“Fuck,” he growls through his panting. He slides back and shoves hard into me again, pushing me over the mattress from the force.

“Baby,” I moan. He reaches above my head and intertwines our fingers together.

“I’ve wanted to do that all fucking week,” he says over my lips. He holds my hands tighter, his thumbs stroking my fingers as he kisses me.

I turn my head away from his lips. “I hope it was
me
you wanted to do it to.” I shouldn’t have said that. What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I keep my mouth shut to anyone I talk to today?

He stops moving. “Becks,” he utters testily. “Yes
you.
Nobody else. Don’t you get that?”

I look up at him with uncertainty under his concentrated stare. How do I turn this around? I don’t want to get him mad again. I lift my head off of the bed, angling it to the side to get a better view.

“What are you doing?” he asks, confused.

“I want to watch you making love to me, Finnigan.” He lifts his body off of me and he looks down at our connection. He slowly pulls out of me and then pushes back in. He does this several times as we both watch our bodies move together.

He raises his head up and my gaze slides to his. “Like that, baby?” he asks. “Is that what you wanted?” I nod and lay my head back down.

He groans and drives into me faster. “That was so fucking hot.”

I smile. “I know.”

He places his thumb on my lip as we move together. “Becks, I love you.  Don’t
ever
doubt that. I need you.”

“But, I do, Finn,” I say gloomily. “I don’t know if I’m enough for you.”

He blinks and his sexy eyes darken to a bothered gaze. “Don’t do that. I’m so in love with you. It’s crazy how much I am. There will never be anyone else for me.”

“I love you, too. You’re my Finnigan.”

“Shit,” he huffs. “You’re making me come.” As I lift my hips up to meet him, he sits up, clutches onto my hips and thrusts into me once more.

“Oh,
fuck.
  Baby, I love you,” he breathlessly affirms before I feel the hot rush of him flooding me. The sensation sends me into my own climax.

“I love you, too,” I gasp. I hug his neck and he pushes himself into me again as we ride the waves of my orgasm. He covers me again and kisses my cheek as we catch our breaths.

He mumbles against my throat, “We needed that.”

I nod in agreement and then lightly giggle. “We only get better and better.”

He lifts his head and grins. “We do.” He gives me a quick kiss before he pushes himself up, and gently pulls out of me.

My arms fall to the bed. “I miss you already,” I coyly pout.

“Aw, baby, you know I always come back to you,” he says kneeling up over me. “I wanted to give you something.”

“You just did.” I laugh and he smiles wickedly as he moves off of the bed. I sit up and watch him open the bottom drawer of his nightstand.

“I was going to give this to you at Mom’s next weekend, but I thought I’d rather do it here in private.” My heart begins to thunder in my chest. Is he going to propose? Did he actually change his mind? Oh. My. God.

He raises an eyebrow at me. “What?” I ask as he sits down on the bed.

“You look panicked.” Just a little!

I fib, “No. I’m just curious.” I brush my sexed-up bangs off to the side and scoot closer to him.

He strokes my leg. “I wasn’t sure what to get you for our anniversary last month. So, I got you silver earrings and a chain bracelet. After I gave them to you, I think you were disappointed.”

I shake my head, being less than truthful again, “No I wasn’t. I love them.”

“Well, I thought something was missing. I went out two weeks ago and got you this for Easter.” He looks up at me as he hands me a black velvet box. He shrugs. “To go with them,” he adds.

I glance down at the box and my hands start shaking. I don’t think I can take it from him without dropping it. I also don’t want him to see me so nervous, in case I’m wrong and it’s not what I’m thinking it is; however, unable to stop them, my eyes begin welling up with tears. Damn it! I can’t look up at him. All I can do is stare at the box.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, alarm building in his voice.

I shake my head. He says quietly, “Maybe
I
should open it.” I nod and tuck my nervous fingers into a fist and prop my chin on it, my elbow on my knee. I watch him as he looks down to pry the box open. Its clicking sound makes me close my eyes. Is this it? Is this what I’ve been praying for?

“Becks.” I open my eyes and look into his hopeful ones. He smiles. “Aren’t you going to see what it is?” Without moving my head, I dip my gaze and he lifts the box up. Inside the white silky lining is a blue and silver band. My eyebrows wrench together and harsh disappointment unwilling surges through me. I bend my head to get a better look at it, though I don’t really want to now. The ring is a brushed silver metal with a blue overtone to it. The edges of the ring are jagged, sort of reminding me of his barbed wire tattoos.

“I wanted to get you something that was unique.”

“It is.”

“Blue is our favorite color. I liked the design.” I nod, avoiding his expectant stare. “Inside of it, I had it engraved.”

Now intrigued, I pull the ring out of the box and tilt it to the side, catching some of the candlelight.

Forever and always. Love, Finnigan

The inscription encircles the complete interior of the ring.

I whisper, “I love it.” His grin is almost childlike, seemingly relieved by my approval. “What does this ring mean?” I ask, wishing I didn’t as I watch his face fall.

“It means I love you.”

“Oh,” I reply, unable to hide my frustration. I notice his hand on my leg tensing, his muscles in his arm rippling.

“Becks, we talked about that.” His own frustration is clearly evident.

“We did,” I answer flatly, incapable of tearing my eyes away from his bed’s beige sheet.

He says, “You know how I feel.”

“Yes. And you know how
I
feel.”

“Why can’t we just be together?” he asks.

“We
are.”

“You want more than that.”

“I do,” I say, noting the irony of those words.

“Marriage has torn my family apart…repeatedly. My parents divorced when I was 11, and after that, they married other people. Then both of my parents divorced them, as well. My mother even went on to remarry again. Marriage doesn’t do anything except hurt people. It’s a piece of paper that divides couples, not bring them together. I don’t want that for us, baby. I want us to be always in love. It would kill me if you ever wanted to divorce me.”