Chapter 5
CHASTITY
Aunt Cam:What’s new on the website?
Me:I loaded a new sequence yesterday calledAnal Adore?
Aunt Cam:Darling, anal doesn’t interest me. Not since my first husband left me for a man.
I look up from my phone, my pink running shoes almost screeching to a halt at my garden gate. Not that I’ve been running. I don’t. Run, that is, unless I’m being chased. But I do like chocolate biscuits, so I walk most mornings, weather permitting. And that’s where I’ve been this morning, and I come back to . . . this. To him.
Flynn bloody Phillips.
‘What are you doing here?’
Is it not enough that he taunted me at Paisley’s barbecue last week—that he made comments and poorly veiled references to the night we’d shared at the wedding?
That afternoon, I had a plan to play nice—to not bite—to invite him back to my house and make him give me a good seeing-to. A night where he could return my orgasm to me, proving that the problem was all in my head. That it was nothing to do with his stellar bedroom skills.
Butnooo. It was too much trouble for him to behave nicely—I couldn’t bring myself to suggest a hookup. Not when I’d spent the night glowering at him. Not whenhe’dspent the night getting on my tits. So like a scaredy cat, I’d left. Left before my wave of wine bravery swept me away.Or threw me at him.He was still in the garden when I snuck out, so I didn’t even say goodbye.
And now he’s here. Inmygarden, if you can call this postage stamp of space such a thing. Sweat slicking his black hair back, he’s holding a garden spade in his hand. At my exclamation, he smiles, slices the spade once more into the barren flower bed, then props one foot on the metal and his weight on the handle.
‘G’day, duchess.’
‘Flynn, are you having some kind of psychotic breakdown?’ He laughs but doesn’t answer. ‘What on earth are you doing digging up the flower beds?’
And be still my beating heart. Did he hear Paisley last week tell her new friends about ourLady Chatterley’s Loversegment? My aunt Camilla loaned us the woods and gardens of her place—a large manor home an hour out of the city—where we’d spent the day filming Sophia, a lovely Spanish adult actress, being banged all over the potting shed and wheelbarrow by our very own Mellors. Whose name is actually Alan.
One conversation flowed to another, and before long, we were discussing what our likes and turn-ons were. From a business perspective, it was a useful conversation. And I might have been a little forthright about my own likes, too. But Flynn couldn’t have heard us. Could he? I dismiss the thought because.. . God, no. The world isn’t that cruel, surely.
I’m not a fan of alfresco sex, especially not when the weather is a little biting. However, I am a fan of classic literature. I might’ve said that, too. I also happen to be a fan of a Henry Cavill lookalike standing in my garden in honest-to-goodness biker boots and a thin t-shirt, sweat and use moulding it to his body. Add the authentic smudge of muck on his forehead, and I’m afraid I might be a little too much into this.
‘This do it for you, does it?’ My mouth works silently, though I prevent myself from looking down to my crotch to see if my leggings are wet. Because, yes, Flynn bloody Phillips does indeed do it for me.
Every. Fucking. Time.
‘D-does getting my weeding done turn me on?’ I stutter, ending with something just as smooth. ‘I usually just get a man in.’
At least, in my dreams I do.
His deep burst of laughter is startling, and like God himself is trying to save me from the extra mortification, he sends a deluge of rain from the clouds above.
‘Fuck!’ I put my hands over my head—because rain and my curly hair don’t get along—and jog up my short garden path. Jog, not run. Hair emergencies and all. I pull the key from my pocket and shove it in the lock before I realise he’s behind me.
The door falls open, and I stumble in with Flynn directly behind me.
‘You weren’t going to leave me in the rain, were you, duchess?’
‘I... I... ’ Fuck. ‘Yes.’ I nod, feeling just a pinprick of shame.
‘That’s harsh.’ He chuckles a low dark sound as he pushes a slick of damp hair from his head. Biceps. Flynn Phillips has biceps for days. He takes a step closer, and I take a step away.
‘Yes, because I found you in my flower beds and, quite frankly, I think you might need help.’
He nods as though considering my point of view, still stalking slowly towards me, forcing me deeper into the room. ‘Connie let Mellors fuck her on the forest floor.’
‘W-what?’ My body tightens through shock. Or through something else entirely.
