"You know, if I wanted to, I could probably find a better use for your mouth," I mutter, almost inaudibly.
I silently curse the December air for making his lips so chapped, because every couple minutes he licks them, and it drives me over the fucking edge. I look at him, sending telepathic messages: Finn. Shut. Up. I swear to God, all that kid does is talk.
And then, all of a sudden, it must have worked because Finn breaks off and turns to me, annoyed.
"Puck. Are you even listening to me? Jesus."
I grin broadly at him, leaning closer to his alarmed face. "Not really. See, it's like I said, Finn . . . I can think of a better use for your mouth."
