15. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Finley

I 've never had a more horrible interview. A part time position at my old high school would have been ideal if the principal hadn't been an old teacher of mine who hated me. He used the entire interview to belittle me for my life choices and tell me how irresponsible it was to study art—even though it was a requirement for the art teacher position I was applying for. Asshole.

I barely wait until the door to the apartment is closed before I let out a frustrated scream.

"What happened?!" Cyrus comes skidding around the corner. He moves so fast I can barely register he's there before he's touching me, his gaze traveling over me like a doctor studying a patient.

"Are you hurt?" Large hands cup my face. His brows wrinkle together, eyes wide, pinched, assessing. "Say something, Finley? What's wrong? Are you okay?" His forehead drops to mine, and he's whispering, "Please, tell me you're okay, little flame."

"I'm fine." I move my hands up to his face and force him to look at me. "Cyrus, I'm fine."

His breath rushes out. "Thank the goddess." But then his eyes narrow and anger creeps into his voice. "Why the hell were you screaming? You scared the life out of me."

We step away from each other at the same time, and I drop my messenger bag on the floor. "Haven't you ever just needed to release some frustration?"

"I prefer other ways to release tension." His flirty smile could dissolve a girl's panties, and it definitely has me clenching my thighs.

After our kiss and cuddle time yesterday, I spent all morning worrying that he'd pull away again, but the smile he's giving me now gives me hope.

I step into him and run my hands up his chest. "Not all of us can be sex gods."

"A sex god, huh?" His chuckle is just as sensual as everything else about him. His arms come around me, and I lean into him.

"Don't act dumb." I pat his cheek. "You know you're attractive. I'm sure you can find someone more than happy to fuck you whenever you need to let off some steam. Not all of us have that option. So sometimes, I scream. It helps."

His eyes darken. "I don't use sex as a tension release. I haven't in… not since I met you."

"Wait, are you telling me you haven't had sex in six years?" I know he told me he hadn't been in a relationship in six years, but I have a hard time believing he didn't have a casual fling or a one-night stand, and my incredulousness comes through in my tone.

"Yes." There's no hesitation in his voice.

I squint, trying to find the lie, but he looks sincere. So sincere. And earnest. And his arms are so warm around me. "What… what do you do to release tension, then?"

The grin he gives me is almost boyish. "Come with me."

He takes my hand and pulls me along, leading me upstairs, down the hall, through a door I thought was a closet, up a spiral staircase, to a room I didn't know existed.

It's a massive gym. Large floor-to-ceiling glass doors let in bright sunlight. Mats line the floor. There are a few workout machines, but mostly lots of free weights and a massive punching bag. There's enough space between everything for an elephant to walk through.

"No wonder you look like a sex god. You're one of those gym junkies. Well, enjoy." I turn to leave. Working out isn't my scene. I like a long walk, and I love a good swim, but just standing there lifting weights? No, thank you. "I'll stick to my screaming."

"I don't just work out when I'm frustrated. I spar."

"Like some kind of warrior in a fantasy book?" I can't help laughing.

"Exactly like that." He walks over to a wall and picks up a gigantic stick that's taller than him.

I hide more laughter behind my hand. Who fucking spars these days? "You want me to fight you? With sticks? Like we're pre-teen boys?"

"I want to teach you to defend yourself."

Some of the worry I've felt about potentially being kidnapped for a ransom returns, making me shift from foot to foot. "Is someone still after me?"

"There's been no new whispers. I'm not really worried. But it's never a bad idea to learn some self defense. We can take it slow."

"And you think that's the place to start?" I nod toward the stick in his hands with a half-smile.

"No. I just thought you might enjoy beating something with a stick." He's grinning as he holds out the smooth piece of wood and motions at the heavy punching bag in the corner. "We can do some self-defense training tomorrow. Right now, I just want you to work off some aggression so you don't give me another heart attack with your scream therapy or whatever the fuck that was."

I take it from him. "I don't hate this idea."

Going over to the punching bag, I wind the stick back like a baseball bat and let loose. It barely moves. Cyrus chuckles, which just makes me irritated, so I hit the bag again, throwing all my strength into it. All I manage to do is lose my footing and almost fall on my ass. Cyrus is full-on laughing now.

"All right, hotshot," I say. "Stop laughing and teach me how to use this fucking thing." I toss him the stick.

He catches it with ease while striding toward me. "Step back."

I cross my arms and move to the edge of the mat, watching him. One moment he's still and the next he's a blur of movement. Graceful, controlled movement. Movement that has me feeling hot and sweaty without having done much of anything.

"Show off," I snark .

He crooks a finger in a come-hither motion. My belly erupts with a fluttery feeling of anticipation. I cross over to him, and he gives me back the stick, positioning himself behind me. Close behind me.

"Soften your knees." For the briefest second, his knees tap the back of mine, and my legs buckle. His hands come to my hips. "Relax," he whispers as he gently, but firmly, uses his hands to guide me to twist forward and back. The little motion is stiff at first, and then, as I lean into his touch, it becomes more fluid.

"Like that," he says, voice just a touch breathless. "Just like that."

He doesn't let go. His hands tighten. He moves closer. With his chest against my back, his thighs bracket mine. His hips grind. The hard length of him presses into me, and I arch my back just enough to push my ass against it.

His breath hisses, a response that gives me far too much pleasure. So I do it again. He groans and drops his head to my shoulder, muttering a curse.

I place one hand over his on my hip and slowly guide his hand across my belly, up to my breast.

"Fuck, you feel good," he groans.

There's something illicit in the way his words come out, barely above a breath, strangled like he's fighting against every syllable. He's not pulling away like he would have before our kiss yesterday, but he's also not making any effort to take over or take things further. It doesn't make sense. We're both consenting adults, alone, clearly attracted to each other.

There's a moment where he puts enough space between us that I think he's going to back up and withdraw yet again, but instead he spins me, pushing me back against the giant punching bag. His hand slips under my shirt. Skin on skin, a jolt of electricity. My head drops back, and he kisses a path up my neck, muttering my name over and over, like he's trying to convince himself I'm real.

Teeth skim my neck, his hand reaching up under my bra. "Fuck, Finley, your tits feel so good. And your nipples… so tight and hard. Are you wet for me, too?"

"Stop messing around and find out."

In one smooth motion, he kicks my legs out from under me, catching me before I fall, and slowly lowering me to the mat. He pushes up my blouse and bra at the same time, not bothering to take them all the way off before his mouth is on me, tongue circling my nipple, then sucking it, hard and hungry.

Each draw on my breast is like an arrow shooting arousal straight down my spine to my core. So good, but not nearly enough. I buck my hips against his. He moves to my other breast, evening out the sensation, but not giving me what I want.

"I thought you were going to find out if I'm wet," I tease between moans. "Touch me, Cyrus."

His gaze flicks to the window, almost… nervous? As if someone could see us from so many floors up. I try to draw his attention back to me, but he stands. A spike of anger hits me like a gavel. "I thought we were done with this cat-and-mouse thing."

He holds his hand out, still looking at the window. "Come here." Hand in his, he pulls me to my feet. "If I'm going to taste you, I don't want it to be on a sweaty gym mat. You deserve more than that."

He draws me toward the stairs, and I try to pull my bra and shirt down to straighten myself up while we walk, but he barks a sharp, "leave it," without looking back.

The moment we're in the narrow stairway, he's on me. Kissing me like he can't get enough, like I'm keeping him alive.

I climb him like a tree. His hands cup my ass, fingertips grazing almost where I want him, but not quite. He swallows my moan. He tastes salty and sweet, like sweat and sugar and sin.

"Now, Cyrus. I need you now." I've been starving for him longer than I realized. Since that first moment I saw him all those years ago, and now I can't get enough.

He charges down the stairs with me in his arms. When we hit the wide hallway that leads to the bedrooms, his strides get longer, practically flying toward his room at the end of the hall. I'm bouncing with each step, moaning, holding him tighter as I kiss the tender skin behind his ear.

He kicks in the door, breaking the hinge in a way that shouldn't be possible. I laugh into his neck.

"You have no idea how much I've wanted you." He throws me down on the massive bed and crawls over me with such fervor it makes my insides clench. His hands work the button and zipper of my pants, tugging as he says, "Lift."

I do as he commands, and he yanks my pants and underwear down, but not all the way off. I've never felt so disheveled. Hair half out of my ponytail from his hands running through it. Shirt and bra pulled up my chest almost to my neck. My pants and panties around my ankles.

"Fuck, you're a gorgeous mess." He looks wild with lust and something else I can't quite place. His smirk returns, but it doesn't diminish the heat in his eyes, the dangerous flame dancing in the center. It looks so much like fire I can't quite dismiss it as a trick of the light, but before I can fully process that, he grips my thighs and spreads them as wide as they'll go with my pants binding my ankles.

He stops, speechless, like he's seeing a beautiful sunrise for the first time.

"It's just a fucking cunt, Cyrus."

His smile is knowing and dangerous. "There's that mouth of yours."

With an eagerness I've never seen from a man before, he dives straight between my legs, suctions his mouth to my clit, and sucks so hard I buck off the bed.

"Yes," I moan, tremors shaking every cell.

He looks up through heavy lashes, eyes meeting mine. "You have no idea how good you taste."

"Show me." I'm not sure what I'm asking for, but I tug him up by the hair, eager to see his face.

With a wicked smile, he dips a finger inside me, rubbing just the right way while watching me. Removing it, he smears my arousal over my lips, the illicit act making my core heat. He crawls up my body to suck my bottom lip into his mouth. My clit pulses, desire building even higher. Impossibly higher.

I whimper, unable to speak with him sucking on my bottom lip.

He releases me, tenderly tucking my hair away from my face. "So. Fucking. Good."

And then he's moving down, lavishing my breasts with kisses, swirling his tongue in my belly button, licking a path all the way down. His tongue drags over one side of my vulva and down the other, purposeful, teasing strokes.

I buck my hips, looking for more, and he holds me down, keeping me from the friction I need.

"Stop being a tease!"

"You like it when I tease you. Look how wet it makes you." He laps straight up my center. "You're drenched."

I try to thrust against his face again, and his nails bite into my thighs. It feels so good that I make an animalistic noise I've never made before. "Make me come, Cyrus."

"Hmm." He hums against my clit, and I shake all over, the tension too much to take.

Something buzzes against my calf, and I look down to see my phone on the bed where it must have fallen out of my back pocket.

"Ignore it," Cyrus barks, nipping at my thigh.

Gripping my hips, he finally gives me what I want, licking, sucking, scratching his teeth against me in a way that drives me wild. Then he gives me long steady flat licks, lapping like I'm an ice cream cone.

A phone rings, and Cyrus grabs it from his back pocket and hurls it across the room with a growl.

The strokes of his tongue fall into a steady rhythm with the ringing of the phone, staccato and firm. A finger penetrates me and then another. I cry out, louder than the ringing, adding my voice to the wet noises between my legs.

Heat builds at the base of my spine, a burning pleasure, impossible to control or hold back. It races over me, sizzling in its intensity. I'm caught in it like a single flame in a brush fire. I come calling his name, "Cyrus!"

He works me through my orgasm, stretching it as I shake uncontrollably. With the last notes of my pleasure, the phone cuts out. Cyrus kisses my clit. "That was beautiful, little flame."

His lips find mine in a kiss so tender it almost makes me cry. "Shh, Ra'ia, shh. I know." He brushes sweaty tendrils of hair from my face, laying gentle kisses on my cheek.

The phone goes off again.

"Ignore it," I repeat his words back to him, gliding my hands down his chest to the button of his pants. I work it free and slip my hand inside, rubbing his length along the outside of his boxers. My mouth waters, remembering those gold tattoos and how badly I want to trace them.

The doorbell rings. Cyrus furrows his brows. He reaches for my phone next to our legs just after it stops ringing.

"Midas," he says with a frown and a shake of his head. Getting up, he picks up his phone from the floor, and his frown deepens.

I prop myself up on my elbows. The euphoria of a moment ago washes away in nerves. "Do you think everything's okay with Jess?"

He doesn't respond because he's calling Midas back. I wiggle my pants up and pick up my phone, dialing Jess while I straighten my shirt. "No answer."

Cyrus nods, "Same."

The doorbell rings again. With a worried look, Cyrus heads for the stairs, and I follow a few steps behind, trying to keep up with his long strides.

When he opens the door, it's Jethro, looking more serious than I've ever seen him. My stomach twists into knots of concern. I lean against Cyrus's back, one arm wrapping around his waist as I look over his shoulder, needing his closeness.

Cyrus flinches, unwraps my arm from around him, and takes a massive step to the side. The rejection is so pointed, so impossible to miss. Jethro's eyes widen, then narrow.

Regret lodges in my throat. Why did I think he would stop being hot and cold with me just because I let him eat me out? All it proves is that he's attracted to me. It doesn't prove I'm relationship material. I'm clearly not. Cyrus might want me in private, but now, when it really matters, he's showing his true colors.

Something snaps inside me like the line of an anchor being cut. I told myself I wouldn't chase after men who didn't chase me, but here I am, right back where I was with Tim, standing next to a man who's embarrassed to be seen with me.

I'm not doing this again.

Hugging my arms over my chest, I force myself to smile at Jethro. "Is everything okay?"

"Well…" He pauses and looks from me to Cyrus. "Our Ra'a has gone into labor."