FLYNN
‘I’ve been thinking about you.’
My words are more growl than anything, and for the first time, I notice our surroundings. We’re at the dining end of an open kitchen. Modern, bright, and with older accents. A whitewashed table, a matching cabinet, and a window seat looking out over a garden. The space is stylish enough to feature in a home magazine but still homey. I slot away the little insights for examination later as I push her up against the island bench.
‘Have you thought about me since that night?’
‘No,’ she whispers, holding her chin a fraction higher. ‘Not one bit.’
‘You’re a terrible liar.’ I chuckle through my accusation as I begin loosening her hair from the bun she’s wearing it in, ready for exercise. But she still looks fucking pristine. I work the hair tie loose, and blond ringlets spring everywhere. It looks the same as it did in St Lucia, so much wilder than the way she wears it usually.
‘And you are delusional,’ she whispers, one hand reaching for the curls almost self-consciously. ‘You were in my garden, digging up weeds. Maybe I should call some kind of mental health crisis team.’
‘So I just imagine the way you look at me?’ My voice is raspy, my fingers on the zipper of her jacket.
‘I’ve no idea what you mean,’ she says as I pull slowly.
‘No? It’s the same way as I look at you.’
‘Which is?’ Her expression suddenly reads like she hates asking. She bites her lip as though biting back words as I slide the jacket from her shoulders. As it hits the floor, she’s already toeing her feet out of her running shoes. Game fucking on.
‘Like I’m imagining you without your clothes.’
Her head in my hands, I lower my mouth to hers, all soft lips and sweeping tongue. At least for a moment, because our kiss suddenly becomes sweet music fast reaching a crescendo. Lips pressing hard, all growling, and sucking, and fucking tongues. I don’t even realise it’s happening, but my fingers are on the hem of her t-shirt and I’m pulling it over her head as her fingers fumble with the zipper of my jeans.
I push off my boots, trying hard not to make a fool of myself in my haste as I swipe my wallet from my jeans. Slamming it down on the worktop, I pull out a condom with one hand, then pull back a few inches as she wiggles her fantastic self out of her running leggings.
I don’t move after that, I just freeze, smiling down at her like a fucking idiot. It takes her a moment to realise I’m watching, her complexion flushed as her gaze darts up to mine. Her lips are slightly swollen and kiss-pink. Her hair is an mess from where I’d threaded my fingers, curls springing in all directions, tumbling across her shoulders. Her undies and bra are cute but functional, though nothing like the lace I tore her out of when we snuck away from the wedding.
My hands at the back of her thighs, I lift her onto the island, putting her pussy at optimalFlynn-dick-height, then I pull her against me, sliding my fingers in her hair.
‘Want to know what my favourite part of your book is?’ My question is just a rasp of air, my lips on her neck as I press my cock harder against the soft cotton layer—just a fraction away from where I want to slam myself.
‘The library fuck,’ she answers, all breathless and desperate, pulling on the waistband of my boxer briefs.
‘No.’ I growl the word into her mouth, whispering my answer along her jaw. ‘When he writes her the letter.’
‘Oh . . .’
It could be that she remembers, or it could be the realisation that I’m sheathing myself with a condom, my fingers and cock so close to her pussy. Whatever the reason, she melts into me as my mouth reaches her ear.
‘I can sympathise because I dream of kissing your cunt, too.’
It’s such a dirty word, even if this time it was pulled from honest-to-goodness literature. And it’s gratifying to get such a visceral reaction as she spreads her legs wider, wrapping her hand around my cock and pulling it between her legs with a breathy, ‘Yes!’
‘You in a hurry, duchess?’ I span my hands across the pale skin of her ribcage, rubbing soft circles over the fabric of her running bra. Her nipples stand to attention, and I can’t wait to get my mouth on them. But I might have to as Chastity lets out a frustrated breath.
‘Flynn Phillips, stop talking and just fuck me.’
Never let it be said I can’t take a cue.
My heart beats like a drum—though it could be the pulse in my cock that’s deafening—as I hook her knickers to the side, and she feeds me between her soft thighs.
‘Holy fuck.’
The heat of her against my tip.
The soft slickness of her as I push in.
