Fuck me. I’m the pornographer’s dirty secret.
‘What don’t you understand?’ she repeats with an air of inconsequence. ‘The scope in that question is so wide.’ Stepping away from me, she takes with her the smell of her floral perfume while also giving me a lovely view of her arse.Chastity giveth, and Chastity taketh away.‘What are you doing out here, anyway?’ She crouches in front of little Juno, the movement making her dress bloom around her, blessing me with a glimpse of her stocking covered legs. It makes me wonder what else under that dress as she pulls Juno’s little pink pompom hat more solidly over her ears.
‘Same as you. I’ve come to play with the kids.’
‘Ah, your intellectual counterparts.’
Hands still in my pocket, I dig my toe into the spongey child-friendly surface. ‘You got me there.’ Her soulful brown eyes meet mine, mischief burning there. The connection is broken as Juno wraps four pudgy fingers around Chasity’s index ones, pulling her in the direction of one of those springy rocking horses.
‘Horsey!’ she exclaims, making grabby starfishes of her hands.
‘You want to ride the horsey, sweetheart?’
‘I know what I want to ride,’ I say quietly, coming up behind her again.
‘Stop,’ she whispers. ‘People will see.’
‘Fuck ’em,’ I counter, frowning, though moving slightly away. For her, not me.
‘Flynn, come and show Louis how you make a pound coin disappear.’ Sorcha pulls on my arm, pulling my hand from my pocket.
‘That’s easy,’ I say, looking down at her pleading gaze. ‘Take him to the lolly shop. It’d disappear quick there.’
‘How many times do I have to tell you,’ Sorcha’s says in a singsong reprimanding tune I recognise from my childhood. ‘We don’t have lolly shops. They’re called sweetie shops, unless you’re from ’merica, like Paisley, then sweeties are called candy. But lollies come on sticks, not in bags. Andthat’sthe same everywhere.’
‘Not in Australia, it’s not. We eat red frogs and call them lollies.’
‘You’re so funny, Flynn,’ she says, giggling, her fingers digging into my arm as she lifts her feet from the ground. My bicep strain from the weight of her, but I’d keep her balanced there for hours just to see Chastity look at me like that.
‘Push me on the swings, Flynn. Please!Please!’
‘All right, ratbag. Race you there.’
Sorcha takes off like a shot, allowing me another look, or ten, at Chastity’s arse. At least until she stands. When she turns, she’s holding Juno in her arms.
Ever had your breath taken away? Me, too. It happened earlier on the field when Mac decided to wipe me out and blacken my eye in the process.
But this? This is different.Whoosh!
‘Go on,’ she says with a resigned sigh. ‘Say whatever witticism it is you’re clearly dying to say.’
‘Say?’ The word is more like an intake of breath. ‘Nah, not me. I’ve got nothin’ to say.’ I stick my hands in my pockets again, my shoulders up around my ears. I amnotgoing to tell her that she looks like... like an angel holding a smaller angel or something. A cherub? And I’m not gonna tell her that the little cherub— ‘Juno looks at home there.’Fuck me.
‘Does she?’ It’s such a small compliment, yet she looks stoked. Tickled pink. ‘Well, I’m very happy to have you here, too,’ she says to the baby, not me, as she bounces her in her arms.
‘Flynn, we’reread-y!’
‘Looks like you’ve got double the work.’ Chastity’s smiling gaze travels to the other side of the playground to the swing set where Sorcha and Louis sit, happily dangling their legs.
‘I’ll cope.’ I don’t miss the way her eyes travel across my chest before touching my exposed biceps.
Feet planted wide, I tighten my hands into fists, not that she could tell. And not that it stops my desire to reach out. Pull her to me. Kiss the snark right out of her mouth.
Jesus, but it’s fucking cold out here. I’d only meant to step out for a minute so hadn’t brought my jacket. No. I’m lying. Chastity had offered to take Juno for a toddle in the playground following lunch, and I’d thought I’d play it cool by drinking my beer and lounging back in my chair. That had lasted about two minutes before I’d followed, trotting behind her like a little dog happy for scraps and a pat on the head. Or penis, in my case. A man has to have aspirations.
But she’s still looking at my pecs, so that’s a good thing, right?
She steps closer. ‘What does your T-shirt say?’
