The Fling--A Scorching Hot Romance

by Stefanie London

  “True.” She nods. “I like that separation.”

  I suspect she likes separation with a lot of things, because today I saw something real in her. Something vulnerable and hurt. Something I would bet my last dollar that she never wants anyone to see.

  I’m officially, deeply and utterly intrigued by Drew Richardson.

  But this is bad. She’s a wild girl, a loose cannon. And there’s no way in hell anonymity will protect us now—her twin sister is becoming part of my family, which means whatever risk-free bliss we’ve dwelled in previously is gone.

  “Want to get out of here, Mr. Suit?” she asks coyly. “I can show you my Gene Simmons tongue action.”

  “Well, when you put it like that...how could I possibly refuse?”

  She walks past me, trailing her hand along the front of my pants, my cock crying out for release. How does she do this to me? Drew takes my restraint and crushes it without effort. I know this isn’t a good idea, but I’m like a puppet on strings, driven by my insatiable lust for her.

  “You don’t want to say goodbye to your sister?” I ask as she heads to the exit.

  “I have a feeling she doesn’t want to see me right now.” The sadness is quickly masked as she crooks her finger, beckoning me outside.

  There’s no point pretending I’m not going to follow her out there and take her back to my place so we can fuck like bunnies. It’s a bad move and for once in my life, I’m happy to knowingly make a mistake.

  * * *

  By midnight we’re lying in my bed, satiated. Drew is curled against my side, her cheek resting against my chest and her white-blond hair tumbling all around her. We’ve showered and she attempted to wash all her face paint off, but there are flecks of black and white in her eyebrows and along the edge of her hairline.

  I can’t help but smile. I do that a lot around her—even though I shouldn’t be smiling. I abandoned my best man duties merely seconds after arriving at the party and my phone has been pinging with texts from my cousin all night. I’m not that guy who shirks responsibility. I’m not that guy who picks pleasure over duty.

  But around Drew... I’m different.

  Drew shut her phone off after the fourth call from her sister. I did the same. Now it’s blissfully quiet. We’re in our own little bubble here, where the outside world doesn’t matter and mistakes don’t matter and responsibilities don’t matter. There’s nothing but her smooth skin and hot kisses and the rake of her nails down my chest.

  She looks up at me, eyes smudgy and hooded. “Did you have any idea who I was?”

  I shake my head. “None at all. In fact, when I first saw your sister tonight I had a heart attack because I thought I’d been screwing my cousin’s wife-to-be.”

  She laughs and presses her face against me. “Oh, man, I wish I’d paid more attention. Part of me had forgotten that you couldn’t see my face.”

  “You might look the same, but I knew she wasn’t you the second I shook her hand.” I stroke her hair away from her face.

  “No crazy vibes?”

  “No sizzle.”

  Drew is naked, the bedsheet draped only over her feet. She’s perfectly comfortable in her own skin, more than any other person I’ve ever met. I could worship her body for hours. In fact, when she sank her nails into the costume as we walked through my front door and tore the damn thing right open, I could have died a very happy man.

  “No sizzle, even though we look exactly the same.” She ponders this thought for a moment.

  “It’s not about looks, as much as I thoroughly enjoy that part of you.” I trace the curve of her shoulder.

  “Then what? You like my sparkling personality?” she teases, rolling her eyes. This is Drew’s mask. Her self-deprecating “I don’t care what anyone thinks of me” front that I bet is entirely bullshit. “My witty repartee.”

  “I like the fact that you don’t try to fit into someone else’s box.”

  “That was bloody obvious tonight, wasn’t it?” She lies still while I touch her, taking my time to explore the shape of her. Mostly I’m watching her face—for those small changes of expression, the subtle shift in her eyes. She tries to keep everything she feels far below the surface.

  We might seem different—me in my three-piece suits and her in leather and studs—but armour is armour.

  “You have a complicated relationship with Presley, don’t you?”

  Her body shudders a little as she draws in a breath, almost physically resisting my question. But slowly, she looks up at me with clear eyes and a naked expression. “Yeah, kinda.”

  I want to know more about her. Everything. Anything.

  “Why do you ask?” She looks at me with such suspicion I’m almost insulted. Except that I know it’s everything to do with her and nothing to do with me.

  “I’m curious about you.”

  “Why?”

  I sigh. “Look, you seem to be clinging to this whole mysterious bad girl thing, but I’m interested in who you are. You know, as a person.”

  “That’s terribly old-fashioned,” she says, but a small smile is creeping across her lips.

  “I’m an old man on the inside.”

  She sucks on her lower lip for a minute, her eye contact intense and unwavering, and I’m lost in their silvery depths. “Presley is the ‘good’ twin. She was always the better student, the more sociable and popular one. When she was a kid, she was really sick and my mother had to give her everything just to keep her alive. All the love and affection and attention, and sometimes I wonder if that’s why she’s better at everything now. Better with...people.”

  “You were left to fend for yourself?”

  “All the time. I didn’t mind, because she was sick and I wanted her to get better more than anything. I love my sister.” Drew traces circles on my chest, her eyes following the pattern. “But when we got to school, she shot ahead and now she’s always running rings around me. I feel like I can’t ever catch her.”

  “Why do you need to catch her?”

  She lets out a soft puff of air. “Just for once I’d like to be the good twin. I’d like to be better at something... I’d like to be ahead.”

  “Maybe you’re going in a different direction.” I tilt her face up to mine. “Maybe you’re never going to catch her because you’re running a different race with a different finish line.”

  Her eyes search my face, as though she’s looking for a sign of insincerity. Or maybe she’s looking for something else—a reason not to listen to me. A reason to push me away.

  But I won’t give her one. I don’t want her to go anywhere.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Drew

  HOW IS THIS the same man who’s been torturing me by email for the past few weeks? It’s not possible that the unexpectedly sweet, incredibly sexy Mr. Suit is Giant Pain in the Ass Flynn Lewis. My brain can’t reconcile it.

  “You said you had a brother,” I say, continuing the discussion against my better judgment. “Clark Gable?”

  He laughs. “Yeah, Gabe.”

  “Who’s older?”

  “He is.”

  Why am I asking these questions? This is sex, not a getting-to-know-you session. But tonight I feel like Flynn is the only one who gives a shit about me—the only one who sees past my makeup and prickly attitude and shock value. Presley probably believes I walked into her party dressed differently because I like the attention. Was she cringing the whole time I was trying to plan the costume party?

  Good old crazy Drew, at it again.

  But Flynn doesn’t seem to think there’s anything wrong with me. He’s asking me personal questions even when I’m offering what I thought all guys wanted—sex without the need for more. Hell, it’s what I thought I wanted. But the more time I spend with him, the more he wriggles past my defences.

  “Does he also have a
stick up his butt?” I’m going for the joking angle, because I’m really worried about how much Flynn is seeing of me now.

  “No, I’m the more serious one.” He looks up at the ceiling, his long body stretched out on the most massive bed I’ve ever seen. Flynn’s body is incredible—perfectly honed, lean with the right amount of bulk. He’s strong without making me feel like I’m hugging a brick wall.

  Hugging, huh?

  Well, sexy hugging. Not the emotional kind.

  “In fact, he told me recently I need to get laid more.” Flynn smirks.

  “You’re welcome.”

  The grin that splits across his face is cocky and indulgent. “Aren’t you a Good Samaritan?”

  I poke my tongue out at him. The tension from earlier today has finally left my body and I’m languid and liquid and more relaxed than I’ve been in months. I reach down for the sheet and drag it up over us, letting Flynn know I’m not going to rush off. “Tell me more about him.”

  He raises a brow. “He’s a good guy. Works for a bank in their technology department. He’s got a little girl named Zoe.”

  “You’re an uncle?” I’m surprised for some reason—maybe because I’d put Flynn into this compartment where he was a guy with no family, no real life. He was like a 2-D cutout and now he’s transforming into a real person in front of my eyes.

  “I sure am.” He looks proud as punch and it’s the cutest thing ever.

  I’m not one of those women who melts for stuff like this...usually.

  “Want to see a picture?”

  I nod. “Sure.”

  He reaches for his phone and brings up his home screen—he’s in a white shirt and jeans, his reddish hair glowing like embers in the sun, holding a little girl in his arms. Her dark hair is a wild halo around her face and she’s grinning like happiness is pouring straight out of her soul.

  “This was taken last Christmas,” he tells me. “She was four then.”

  “She’s adorable.”

  He looks at me for a moment, like he wants to say more, but then he tosses his phone to one side and I see the shutters go up. Disappointment stabs me, though I have absolutely no right to feel that way. I was the one who didn’t even want to exchange names, so maybe he doesn’t want to push this conversation too far.

  But now that we’ve started sharing parts of our lives, I’m kind of glad we’re here. Dangerous thoughts for a dangerous situation.

  “You know who else is adorable?” He pushes up and leans over me, sweeping my hair back to expose my breasts.

  “If you call me adorable, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

  Flynn chuckles, and the sound is rough-and-tumble sexy. “How about cute?”

  “Worse.” I wrinkle my nose up. “And don’t even start me on sweet.”

  He pushes me back against the bed and nudges my legs open with his strong, muscular thighs. He’s insatiable—how is he hard again? He’s like a redheaded sex machine and my body is begging for more.

  “What would you prefer me to say?” His lips are at my neck, teeth scraping along my skin and hands skating up my rib cage. “That you’re a dirty, rotten scoundrel?”

  “Did you just Steve Martin me?” I let my eyes shut as he kisses down my chest. I’m boneless and at his mercy—melting into sensation as he warms me up for round...what is this? Three? Four?

  I don’t even know. I can’t concentrate on his mouth and count at the same time, okay?

  “Is that really the worst thing you can say?” I thread my fingers through his hair and roughly tug him to my breasts. He grunts and gives me what I want—firm, hot lips around my nipple. When he sucks hard, I arch into him.

  “You’re a dirty girl, Drew. A filthy, sexy, intoxicating, devil of a woman.”

  Oh, my. I like that.

  “More.”

  He moves to my other breast, kisses trailing over my skin, lighting a fire inside me. “The way you looked with all that smudgy makeup and that dirty mouth, and that fucking obscenely skin-tight outfit tonight...like you want to be used good.”

  He reaches over to his drawer and pulls another condom out. No scrambling this time. He’s prepared for this. And my body is so ready for him. I stretch my arms over my head, groaning as he presses against my inner thigh. I’m already sinking into a bliss coma. The way he makes me feel...

  “You like my dirty mouth, huh?” I ask.

  He rolls the condom down his cock and then leans forward, hands braced on either side of my head as he finds my entrance. I’m tender and a little sore but I don’t want to stop. I want to lose myself in him again and again.

  “I fucking love it, Blondie.”

  I roll my hips up and encourage him forward, getting rewarded with a low, rumbling moan in my ear. Flynn’s hung. And unlike some hung guys, he doesn’t rely on his size. He knows exactly what to do—what spots to hit and how to set a good, hard pace. One hand slides up my thigh, lifting my leg up so he can push deeper.

  “I love your dirty mouth, your dirty mind, your dirty outfits. That catsuit, my God.” His mouth covers mine as he drives into me over and over. “It’s like you were made to torture me.”

  I laugh and press my head back into the pillow, the sound turning into a soft moan as he hits a good spot inside me. It’s like Flynn knows my body, knows every part of me. He knows how to turn me on, how to make me smile, how to push my buttons.

  He doesn’t know you. He knows Blondie.

  My alter ego. The spiced-up, rebellious, armour-wearing version of me.

  You’re going to get hurt.

  “I like you, Blondie.” The words are whispered against my ear. “All of you.”

  “I like you too, Mr. Suit.”

  He rolls and pulls me on top of him, and I feel powerful and beautiful and free. My head is screaming at me to back away, but I can’t. I’m addicted to how he makes me feel. Addicted to the red shade of his hair, addicted to the feel of his hands on my skin, addicted to his half smile and blue eyes and stiff upper lip.

  I like him a lot.

  It’s a rebound, nothing more.

  But as he looks up at me, like I matter to him—like this isn’t just casual fucking—I’m not so sure I know what this is after all.

  * * *

  The next morning I reach for my phone and turn it on. It immediately lights up with a dozen notifications, texts and voicemail messages. All from Presley.

  With a heavy sigh, I get out of bed and reach for Flynn’s shirt. My catsuit was...uhh...damaged in its enthusiastic removal last night, so I have nothing to wear and for some reason I don’t want to sneak back to my own apartment yet. So I shrug on the shirt and take my phone out into the living area to call my sister back.

  She answers on the first ring. “Oh, my God, I was so worried that something had happened to you! You walked out and then you wouldn’t respond to my messages and my imagination started spinning and—”

  She hiccups and I cringe. “I needed some space to think.”

  Yeah, “thinking” was exactly what you were doing.

  “I’m glad you’re okay.” She sighs. “About last night—”

  “It’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not fine.” Presley sounds like our mother when she gets like this. “We’re fighting.”

  “Are we?” Yeah, I’m being a stubborn bitch. Sue me, I’m hurt.

  “Don’t be like this, Drew. I want to make sure everything is okay.” Her voice wobbles and I feel worse. “You’re the only person I really care about having at this wedding.”

  I snort. “How does Mike feel about that?”

  “Aside from him. Obviously.” She huffs. “But the rest of them could turn up or not, and I honestly couldn’t give a shit.”

  I smirk. “Anne Presley Richardson, I am appalled at your language.”

  “Says you, potty mo
uth.”

  It’s weird, but I can hear her smile. Yes, hear. Being twins isn’t quite the “psychic connection” that some people claim, but there is something special connecting us. Something deeper. I feel her emotions keenly.

  Which is annoying when I want to feel angry, but instead I just feel...sad.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you didn’t want a costume party, Pres? I was only doing it because I thought you loved dressing up and you said a while ago that you never get to do it anymore.”

  “The Jack and Jill theme had to be a joint decision and Mike didn’t like the idea—apparently he told Flynn. So when the invites came through I assumed you’d all sorted it out.”

  “So it’s not that you didn’t want the costume party, but that you’re letting Mike make the decisions.” When did she turn into such a yes-woman?

  “Don’t say it like that.”

  “Like what? Like he’s calling the shots and you’re not standing up for yourself?”

  “Marriages are a partnership, Drew. Two people. I know you never have to think about anyone but yourself, but it’s not like that when you’re in a relationship.”

  I feel like I’ve been slapped. “I know what a partnership looks like, because we’re a partnership.”

  “Is this because I’m getting married? Are you worried that Mike is going to take me away from you?”

  “I’m worried because he seems to overpower you, and the Presley I know would never let someone treat her like that. Especially not a man.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Why?” I shake my head. “Because I’m so immature than I cannot possibly comprehend what it’s like to be in a committed relationship? Newsflash, Pres, I have been in a relationship and I know red flags when I see them. If Mike is treating you like this before you get married, do you think he’s suddenly going to change after he puts a ring on it?”

  The phone goes silent and it takes me a few seconds to figure out that she’s hung up. Shit. Why did I have to open my big mouth? Again?

  I scrub a hand over my face and turn. Flynn is standing in the doorway, a pair of red checked pyjama bottoms riding low on his hips and his muscled torso gloriously naked. His hair is sticking out in all directions and there’s a fine dusting of ginger stubble along his jaw.