Epilogue
CHASTITY
‘Well, looky who I’ve found here. ..’
I jump at the sound of Flynn’s voice. I hadn’t realised he was still in the house.
‘You’re not supposed to see the bride before the wedding.’
‘I’m pretty sure you’re alsonotsupposed to sleep in the same bed as the prospective groom the night before. Or have sex with him. Unless you’re the stripper, of course.’
I shoot him a glare. ‘Strippers aren’t sex workers.’
‘And that was a joke that fell flat on its arse.’
‘That’s okay, I’m used to your poor sense of humour,’ I reply, turning back to face the mirror to tame my hair. ‘And no one has their bachelor party the night before the big day, anyway.’
We’re getting married in a couple of hours and though I’ve said those words out loud at least a dozen times this morning, it still doesn’t seem real.
‘Christ.’ Behind me, Flynn shivers, no doubt recalling his own buck’s night. It took him two days to recover from what he describedas feeling a bit dusty, when wrecked was clearly a more suitable word.
‘I’ve a confession to make.’
I don’t turn, rather lift my eyes to his reflection again. Dark pants and a crisp white shirt, the jacket to match hangs on a wooden hanger on the back of the door. Which is unusual in itself—the man is a bit of a slob. But that’s only obvious when contrasted against my type A personality, apparently.
Yes, we’re still keeping up the verbal foreplay.
It’s safe to say that things haven’t really changed between us in a lot of ways. In the year we’ve lived together, I’ve lost count of the number of times Flynn has driven me to the edge of despair just to drag me back again by kissing the grouch out of me.The grouch he’s often responsible for in the first place.We still bicker and argue but that just means we get to make up more. You could say we’re experts at that bit. Just like we’re experts at loving each other, too.
‘Do you want to hear it?’ he asks.
‘Your confession? Go on then, but make sure it’s worth hearing.’ I put down my comb, grateful for the distraction. ‘You’re eating into my beautification time.’
His mouth hitches in one corner and he shakes his head. ‘You can’t improve on perfection, babe.’
Something bright and warm and perfect blooms in my chest but I don’t have long to ponder it as, in several large strides, he’s in front of me, grabbing my chair by the arms. Like it weighs nothing—likeIweight nothing—he lifts it, turning me to face him.
I might squeal and giggle a little, my heart pounding as he drops to his knees.
‘Forgive me, Chastity,’ he begins, his tone a fake kind of sombre. ‘For I have sinned.’
I place my hand on his head in a gentle benediction. He’s recently had a haircut, the short dark hairs on the back of his head a soft bristle against my palm.
‘You weren’t a choir boy, or else you’d know confession isn’t done with your head in your confessors’ lap.’ At least, not last time I went to church.
‘Depends on the church of your choosing, duchess.’ His tone takes on that husky bedroom quality of his as he trails his hands up the backs of my legs, from ankle to knee. ‘Because you are the altar at which I worship.’
With a deft flick, he moves the sides of my robe open, our collective breaths hitting the air in a rush as he pushes his hands between my thighs, spreading me wider.
‘You’re fucking perfect,’ he whispers. His eyes roam my skin, setting my every nerve ending alight.
‘Flynn... ’ I’d meant it as a warning, not a encouragement as he lowers his head, slipping his thumb between my slick lips to expose my clit.
‘So pink and perfect.’
I’m aware of everything and nothing all at once. The knot in my belly under his splayed hand. The tremble in my thighs as he lifts my leg over the arm of the chair, spreading me impossibly wide. The devil in his expression as he raises his gaze to mine, his tongue flicking out to deliciously caress my heated flesh. His first touch is electric, my back bowing as I thrust against him.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ I cry out, tightening my hand in his hair as though to contain the pressure—the sensation.
