Page 24 of Intense (Beneath The Blaze #3)

FINN

Song- Marry you, Bruno Mars.

S he’s losing.

But she’s too stubborn to say it.

Round seven hit her hard. I saw it. The tremble in her hand. The unfocused blink. Her spine’s still straight, but her soul’s sliding sideways.

I’m not much better. I’ll admit that.

But I’ve danced with worse poisons than tequila.

She finishes her drink and slams the shot glass down like it offended her mother.

Although, I shouldn’t bring up her parents. I know they’re in jail for a homicide. Probably an awkward conversation topic. And I don’t know how I’d deal with a crying Stephanie.

“I hate losing,” she mutters, voice rasped.

“Good thing you’re used to it,” I reply, lips curling into a grin.

She glares at me like she’s about to lunge across the table. “You are such a smug, self-absorbed, egotistical?—"

“Careful,” I cut in, lifting my glass. “You’re starting to sound like my therapist.”

She laughs. A real one this time. Unfiltered. Unpolished. Like she forgot how to be angry for half a second.

It’s the best sound I’ve heard in months.

“I should’ve known you had a therapist. Makes total sense. Even sociopaths need someone to talk to,” she says.

It was a complete lie. There is no way in hell I could let a shrink dive into my subconscious. My brothers are right, I would end up in a padded cell and have to kill everyone in there to escape. Although, that does actually sound quite entertaining.

“You want his number?” I ask. “You could use a session. Or twelve.”

She holds up two fingers and signals for more shots.

I raise a brow. “You trying to impress me, Stephanie?”

“I’m trying to forget I’ve been professionally humiliated by a man who wears rings like a mob boss.”

I chuckle. “Don’t knock the rings. They have more personality than half our department.”

The shots arrive. She pushes one toward me but then picks mine up, with a naughty glint in her eye.

“Have you ever done body shots before, Dr. Quinn?” She wiggles her eyebrows.

I chuckle.

“Stephanie, I don’t have the energy to fight every guy in here if you strip and lie on that table,” I tell her.

She shivers at my words and then, without breaking eye contact, places the shot glass between her breasts. I swear to fuckin’ god, I’m salivating looking.

I shouldn’t even be admiring her tits like this. But, fuck, I can’t help it.

Grabbing the salt, I lean forward, reveling in the fact her breath hitches the second my tongue connects with her shoulder. I lick slowly before pulling away and shaking some salt. As I sit back, my cock twitches.

Picking up the lime slice, I place it in front of her mouth. Her pillowy lips open, and she bites down on the skin.

“Atta girl,” I wink.

With one hand on her thigh, I lick up the salt and then put my lips around the shot glass. But I don’t move; I stay, just for a few seconds.

Knocking my head back, the tequila burns its way down my throat, but that ain’t nothing in comparison to the heat radiating from Stephanie.

Our eyes lock, and the fire blazes as I lean in and retrieve the lime from her mouth, sucking it dry.

Without a word, I pick up her shot and hand it to her. Her fingers are trembling, and I can’t help but smile.

“To Vegas,” she says, taking the shot without the salt or the lime.

As if she’s desperate to calm the inferno within her.

She wipes her mouth and leans back in the booth, eyes half-lidded, legs tangled with mine beneath the table.

“You know what we should do?” she slurs.

I tilt my head. “Can’t wait to hear this.”

“We should get married.”

I choke on my drink.

She grins wide. Drunk yet still deadly to me. “Come on, Finn. Let’s do it. It’s Vegas. Isn’t this what people do? Get married on tequila and bad decisions?”

“You think marrying me would be a bad decision?”

“I think it’d be the worst decision I’ve ever made. Which is why it fits perfectly with tonight’s theme.”

I bark out a laugh, leaning back, completely wrecked.

“Fine,” I say. “But only if I get to file for an annulment before sunrise.”

“No prenup,” she adds. “You lose half your fortune and your spot on the surgical board.”

“And you’ll have to deal with the emotional turmoil that you were my first and only wife.”

She pretends to think. “Worth it.”

There’s a lull then.

“Wait. You never actually want to get married?” she asks.

I shrug. “Never crossed my mind before.”

She frowns. “Yeah, me neither actually. Maybe that life isn’t meant for us.”

That sadness is back in her voice and I chew on my lip. I think actually, she’s wrong about herself there.

“Looks like we better tick that off the list and get married then.”

She gives me a naughty grin that makes my cock twitch.

“Really?”

I nod slowly. I might regret this. But I’ll do it just because of the way she’s looking at me in this second. I want to grasp onto this feeling. Even if it is alien and hurting my fucking chest.

Her eyes drift toward the dance floor, where couples sway under string lights and pop music.

She blinks.

Then turns back to me.

“Dance with me,” she says.

My brows shoot up. “Now? I don’t dance.”

“Why not? Come on, Dr. Quinn. Show me you’ve got rhythm.”

She grabs my hands and bolts of electricity sizzle. She bats her lashes dramatically and pouts. Fuck. Turns out I’ll do whatever this woman asks without a second thought.

Is she… making me weak? Or is it all the alcohol?

“Please, Finn.”

Fuck. I can’t say no to those eyes.

“I could perform open heart surgery with one hand, Stephanie. Of course I have rhythm.”

“Prove it.”

She stands on wobbly legs, yet still looks hot and fucking electric in that dress. She holds out a hand, but I hesitate.

She notices.

“You scared?”

I grit my teeth and take her hand.

“Let’s go, future Mrs. Quinn.”

Her eyes go wide. “I’m not sure that suits me.”

I smirk. “Too late. Vows will be legally binding. Non-refundable.”

She’s wrong. It sounds fucking perfect.

We make it to the floor, and I pull her in by the waist, her body flush to mine. And fuck, it feels good.

She laughs again; the sound makes my heart race.

“I hate you,” she whispers.

She rests her head against my chest, and I don’t flinch. I don’t do comfort. I don’t do cuddles. I don’t let people touch me.

Yet, here she is, with her hands all over me and her face snuggled against me.

I’m drunk. But I’m not sure if it’s from the tequila or her.

“I know,” I murmur. “But right now, you’re wasted enough to forget why.”

She pulls back and starts spinning like an idiot, dragging me with her.

We’re a mess. Laughing, stumbling, and colliding on the dance floor, but something in the chaos feels good.

Like breathing. Like not just surviving for once.

Just living.

And for the first time since I was ten years old, I let myself do exactly that.

Even if it’s only for a single song.