“My sister and I have matching ones,” she says, her fingers playing with my hair. “It’s a wattle flower, because we had a huge tree in our backyard growing up and my mother would always find the yellow flowers in our hair.”
I think this might be the only truth she’s told me so far.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Drew
SO MUCH FOR not letting Mr. Suit see the real me. I’d been doing so well, keeping the truth of who I am locked away and letting my alter ego take the wheel. But the way he’d lowered to his knees, touching me in a place that’s so personal, and doing it with such reverence... I’m slayed.
Vas had teased me about the tattoo—calling it “tacky”—saying he liked it because it made me look a little bit slutty. I’d almost walked out on him then. I should have walked out on him because that one comment said more about his opinion of me than anything else. To me, my tattoo is art, a representation of something I care about deeply. I’d drawn the image on a napkin before dragging a nervous Presley into the tattoo shop on our eighteenth birthday, and we’d gotten them in exactly the same spot on our hips.
It was a symbol of our bond, of the life we’d shared and the thing that mattered to us most: family.
There wasn’t anything slutty about it.
“It’s beautiful.” Mr. Suit presses his lips to my skin, peppering my hip with kisses as his hands slide up my thighs. “Did you draw it?”
“Why would you guess that?” My voice is shaky because it’s like he can see me clearly and that’s not what I want—yet it feels like sunshine on my face. To be seen. Understood. Isn’t that all anyone craves deep down?
“You seem creative.”
“Goes with my rule-breaker tendencies, I guess.” I rake my fingernails along his scalp, and he growls, burring his face against my leg and nipping my skin. The sharp flash of pain is instantly soothed by a swipe of his tongue and I almost melt. His hands are working my muscles, thumbs kneading circles into my skin. “I’m not going to be able to stand up much longer if this is going where I think it is.”
“It is definitely going where you think it is.” He gets up and reaches for the hem of his jumper, tearing it and the layer beneath it over his head.
I back up and sit on the edge of the bed, determined to enjoy the show. Mr. Suit moves with the sleekness of a tiger, his body fit for a museum. He’s muscular, but the thing I love most is the dusting of fire-tinged hair on his chest. Just a smattering. I curl my hands over the edge of the bed as he pulls his jeans down past his hips.
“Black boxer briefs, huh? That’s a little boring,” I tease. He’s straight as an arrow, right down to his underwear.
He raises an eyebrow. “What were you expecting? Looney Tunes boxer shorts?”
I snort. “That would be a sight.”
“Well, this will have to do.” His shoes and socks and jeans and belt lay in a pile on the floor. When he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear and slides the stretchy fabric down, I find it hard to breathe.
“It’ll more than do.” I’m in sensory overload, barely able to vocalise the words dancing in my head.
His cock is long and hard, and it curves up toward his stomach. There’s no hesitation in Mr. Suit’s step as he comes toward me; he’s a man totally confident and comfortable in his body. And why wouldn’t he be? The guy could put the statue of David to shame.
“Like what you see?” He asks it in that self-assured way of a man who’s never been turned down. He kneels at the foot of the bed, spreading my legs and planting a soft kiss to the inside of my knee.
I’m suddenly feeling self-conscious—his confidence is overwhelming. I’ve always wished I could be like that, but I’ve only ever managed to fake it. But as his lips work over my skin, getting higher and higher, the thought slips from my mind. Hell, all thoughts slip from my mind. Soon there’s only teeth and tongue and lips and warm breath drifting over my skin.
“Lie back,” he says, gently pushing me down.
I let my eyes shut, my body cradled by the silky-soft bed covers. He draws my thighs over his shoulders and slides his hands under my butt—lifting me to his mouth. The sensation is so intense, so sharply beautiful, that I cry out. He’s an expert on me already—finding my sweet spots with ease. Playing me like a musical instrument.
It’s almost embarrassing how quickly I come. But maybe that’s because I’ve been so hollow these past few weeks, and this is the first drop of something good.
Mr. Suit rests his cheek against my thigh, his stubble a pleasant scratch against my tender skin. But he doesn’t come up, instead kissing me again. Softly at first so I shudder and squirm, but as he builds up the pressure that too-sensitive feeling starts to shatter into something power and desperate. He swipes his tongue over my clit, flicking and teasing while his finger presses against my entrance.
“I didn’t think I was ready yet,” I pant. “But my God that feels good.”
It’s strange, a sensation of too-much and not-enough and everything in between. He works me like a master, making my body go liquid and my pussy pulse. “You want me to keep going?” The words are muffled against my sex and the movement of his lips sends pleasure flaring through me.
“Yes.” I arch into him, flinging one arm over my eyes to blot out the senses that don’t matter right now. I only care about touch—his lips against my most private part, the feel of his finger working in and out of me, curling in a way that hits me deep and right. “Don’t stop. Please.”
Satisfied, he feasts on me. Bright bursts of light shatter behind my lids, and release rushes up from deep inside. I cry out, because it’s all I can do. The feeling is intense and I come harder than I’ve ever come before. I’m grinding against his face, taking everything from him. Taking it all.
When I sag back against the bed, my limbs heavy and my heart racing, the world slowly filters back. There’s a thump from the apartment above us, and the sound of a door closing somewhere. The scent of Mr. Suit’s aftershave dances in my nostrils and the bed shifts as he comes up beside me. I’m feeling everything now—feeling it with a sensitivity that’s new. Even the gentlest brush of cool air ripples across my heated skin in a way that feels foreign and exciting.
It’s like he’s turned up the dial so I feel as though I’m experiencing it all for the first time.
“I don’t know if I can move,” I admit, grinning and trying to turn away to hide it.
But Mr. Suit isn’t having it, and he draws my back to him. I feel the hard press of his cock against my butt and it’s impossible, but I’m so turned on I don’t even want a minute more to rest. I rock back against him, eliciting a moan. His strong arms wrap around me and his lips come down by my ear.
“You’re good to keep going?” he asks. His voice is roughened and darkly sexy.
“That’s like asking a girl if she wants to keep eating a piece of cheesecake after she’s only had one bite.” I catch the quirk of a smile on his lips. “Yes. I’m good to keep going.”
He chuckles and pulls away for a moment. There’s the sound of rummaging and when I roll over, I see him going through his drawer. “I swear I had some in here.”
“Been a while?”
He shoots me a look over his shoulder that tells me not to prod, but I’m a little warmed by the idea that we’re both dipping our toes back into the waters together. For some reason, it makes me feel comforted. Safe. I admire his ass until he finally produces a foil packet from the depths of his sock drawer.
“Are you worried I’m out of practice?” He rolls the condom down his length. Watching a guy handle himself has always gotten me hot—there’s something so primal about it. So...animalistic.
“No.” I resist the urge to tell him that it makes me feel less intimidated, but I decide to keep that information to myself. This is not about being vulnerable. “With a mouth like that, I’m sure I
have nothing to worry about.”
A wicked smile lights up his face and he comes down to the bed, dragging me beneath him. Mr. Suit brushes the hair from my face and hovers over me for a second—not rushing. Not racing toward the finish line. He seems like the kind of guy who likes to enjoy the anticipation.
“You were right about something that first night,” he says, scraping his teeth along my neck and grazing my skin with his stubble-coated jaw.
“What’s that?”
“I did want to fuck you the second I opened the door to the stairwell.”
“I knew it,” I reply smugly. “I could see it in your eyes.”
“You’re hot. That’s no secret.” He kisses down my chest and draws one nipple into his mouth. The pressure makes my sex pulse and I suck in a moan. “Wearing that tiny little skirt and those high-heeled boots...fuck. There was no way I was going to get that image out of my head.”
The comment sets off a little warning bell inside me, but I brush it aside. That’s why I’m here—mutual attraction. Nothing more. If he sees me as a piece of ass, then that’s fine. This is just sex. I don’t even know his real name and that’s exactly how I want it.
But the damned voice in the back of my mind whispers its disagreement.
“And then none of that mattered the second you opened your smartass mouth.” He nips at my breast, then soothes the mark with his tongue. He’s driving me mad—giving me enough to keep the pleasurable feeling swirling, but going no further.
I rock my hips up, trying to encourage him to push into me. But instead he rubs back and forth, the tip of his cock bumping against my clit in a way that makes me ache. He’s teasing me, getting me so wound up I know I’m going to burst the second he enters me.
“There’s nothing sexier than a woman who doesn’t take any shit.” He works his way back up to my face.
“I thought I wasn’t your type.” I reach down between us and wrap my hand around his cock, squeezing. The little power play that’s been going on between us since day one is addictive—it’s a sexy game of cat and mouse, only I have no idea who’s the predator and who’s the prey.
“I didn’t think you were.” He lowers his head to mine and kisses me hard. I taste traces of myself on him, the scent of sex and power and lust drawing me deeper into the moment. I guide his cock to my entrance, showing him what I want. “But no other woman has ever tempted me to break my own rules.”
It makes me feel strong and beautiful and desired, things that have eluded me for some time now. But the thing is, I can’t afford to be fooled into thinking this means something. “You don’t have to sweet-talk me, Mr. Suit. I’m already here.”
“I’m not sweet-talking you, Blondie. I don’t say something if I don’t mean it.”
I loop my arms around his neck and pull his face down to mine, because I need to distract myself. I will not fall for him. I don’t even know his name, for crying out loud.
“I’d prefer it if you stopped talking all together,” I whisper into his ear.
“Bossy,” he teases.
“Shut up and fuck me.”
His gravelly laugh lights my body up. Flipping on every damn switch I have.
He pushes into me with one smooth thrust and the feeling of fullness consumes me. I’m dripping, aching and needy. I rock my hips up to meet his as we create a rhythm that’s wholly ours—he’s big and thick and my body takes a moment to adjust. But it’s perfect, dirty and sexy and a little rough. A little wild. I tug his hair and rake my nails down his back, and in kind, he pulls out for the briefest second to flip me around.
“That’s how you want to play this?” he growls.
I’m on all fours at the edge of the bed, with him behind me, and I’m so desperate to come again I’m almost weeping. “Yes.”
He pushes into me and wraps my hair around his hand, giving it enough tension that my head is pulled back slightly. It doesn’t hurt and I know I could stop it if I wanted to, but the fact that he can read me so well is making my legs tremble. He’s still buried to the hilt and I squirm back against him.
“Tell me what you want,” he demands.
“I want you to fuck me hard.” I’m breathless, wanton. Wanting.
“What else?”
“Pull my hair.”
“You a dirty girl, Blondie?”
“Yes,” I whimper.
“You’re a dirty girl who does peep shows and phone sex and likes to be fucked from behind.”
Oh, God. I’m so wet I’m sure he’s totally coated in me. “Yes. I am.”
“I fucking love it.”
His fingers bite into my hip as he thrusts into me, the sounds of our sex echoing through his apartment. All that teasing we’ve done has been nothing but a path leading to this moment. I gasp as the tremors begin, my orgasm building and building and building...
“Oh, my God,” I gasp, squeezing my eyes shut.
The end is frantic and sharp, like a thousand bubbles bursting. I shake and tremble as release washes through me and Mr. Suit drives into me one last time with a sound that’s going to be etched onto my memory forever.
He pulls me down to the bed, wrapping his arms around my body and cradling me. Warm breath puffs against the back of my neck and I feel totally and utterly sated.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Flynn
BLONDIE DIDN’T LEAVE my bed all night—well, except for the brief interlude we took to shower and rehydrate. Then it was back to bed, more sex. More teasing. More laughing. I don’t remember the last time I woke up feeling so exhausted and yet so satisfied.
I stand at the foot of the bed, stifling a chuckle. Blondie sleeps like I imagined she would—messily. The sheets are totally ripped from her side of the mattress and bunched around her body. Her mass of platinum hair is spread out around her, gleaming in the pale morning light. One arm is flung over her face and her bare breasts are exposed to my hungry eyes. Her other hand is stretched across the bed and is resting below my pillow as if she’s reaching for me. She takes up as much space as possible, stretching out like a misshapen star-fish.
It’s adorable, and more than a little sexy.
She has this air of chaos about her that I’m finding unnervingly addictive. Perhaps it’s the antidote to my heavily regimented lifestyle—opposites attract and all that. Even though I know it’s not going anywhere, I don’t regret breaking my “no casual sex” rule. That’s not a night I’ll forget in a long time.
I dress quietly, so as not to wake her, then head downstairs to chat with the building manager about getting her back into her apartment. Next, I duck into my favourite café and order us some breakfast—two coffees, bagels and those sweet Danishes with the strawberry jam in the middle.
By the time I make it back, I find Blondie sitting upright in my bed. Her hair is a fluffy, tangled cloud.
I set the coffee cup next to her. “There’s breakfast out here, if you’re hungry. Security is going to come up with the building manager in an hour to help you into your apartment.”
Blondie eyes me with a whole lot of suspicion. Then she wraps the sheet around her and gets out of bed. “Thank you.”
“Why are you looking at me like you’ve caught me snooping in your drawers?”
“Because I’m confused.” She comes closer, her pale eyes narrowed. “Why are you being nice?”
Christ. What kind of losers has she dated in the past that a coffee and pastry is considered a big deal?
“I thought you might be hungry. I know I am.” I shrug. I’m not going to turn this into a thing—Blondie has walls higher than I’m willing to climb. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to screw her and then shove her out of my apartment. “It’s nothing.”
She picks up the coffee and pads out of my bedroom, still wearing the sheet and letting it trail behind her. I shake my head. I was going to wash it
anyway, but it still makes me laugh.
“So you’re a genuine nice guy, Mr. Suit.”
“It’s not self-proclaimed, so it must be true.” I follow her and reach for the double-shot latte sitting on my kitchen table. I rarely eat at home, but there’s something nice about sitting here with her, enjoying the sunshine streaming in and taking a moment to relax. “And I really don’t like the whole Mr. Suit thing. Makes me sound stuffy.”
“You are stuffy.” She smirks. “Remember the whole rubbish chute conversation?”
“I’m considerate of my fellow residents.”
“Stuffy,” she repeats as she rummages through the white paper bag stamped with the Wooden Llama cafe’s logo. “Ooh, what flavour pastry?”
“Strawberry.”
She plucks one out and bites into it with a blissed-out expression. “My favourite.”
Somehow, I’d known that when I ordered them. Which is crazy, since I don’t know a damn thing about her—not her name, nor her profession. Only that when she cried out in the throes of sex, it was the best sound I’ve ever heard.
“I want to know your name.”
Blondie stiffens on the other side of the table. “I thought we weren’t doing names.”
“A name now isn’t going to change anything, but two people who’ve had sex are past the point of using pseudonyms,” I point out. “At least, that’s how it’s always been in my experience.”
“You really don’t know how this whole casual sex thing works, do you?” She wrinkles her brows. “The rules don’t include pastries and names.”
“Then what are the rules? Enlighten me since you think I enjoy them so much.” I roll my eyes and fish out a pastry for myself. It’s heaven on my tongue, and a rare treat. I don’t usually eat things that are quite so nutritionally devoid.
You really are stuffy.
“No follow-up calls unless it’s booty related. No deep and meaningful conversations. No romantic dates.” She ticks the items off her fingers. “No introductions to friends or family. And definitely no commitments.”
The Fling--A Scorching Hot Romance Page 7
