by Donna Alam
Well, that’s for me to know, and Chastity to find out.
Chapter 5
CHASTITY
Aunt Cam: What’s new on the website?
Me: I loaded a new sequence yesterday called Anal 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 a that the problem was all in my head. That it was nothing to do with his stellar bedroom skills.
But nooo. 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 when he’d spent 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. In my garden, 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 our Lady Chatterley’s Lover segment? 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.
‘What was it you said last week? Everyone has their own fantasy, their own perfect moment in their head.’
‘You were eavesdropping!’ Oh, fuck.
‘Guilty as charged.’
‘But not very well,’ I crow. ‘Lady Chatterley’s lover wasn’t my thing!’ And just when I think I’ve got the upper hand . . .
‘I’m aware. That was the thing you last filmed. At your aunt’s house, I think you said. It was an interesting conversation, but not as interesting as listening to you describe your fantasy.’
‘You eavesdropping bastard, you!’
Ignoring my outburst, his eyes shine bright as he carries on. ‘The library scene in Atonement, you bad, dirty girl. Though, the way you described it, it sounded more like the movie than the book.’ So. Busted. But that scene is a work of art! ‘And while I thought about it, I reckoned you wouldn’t fancy meeting me in Chelsea public library, let alone be up for me throwing you against the stacks.’ His lips curve in a show of wickedness. ‘This was the next best thing. ‘Especially after hearing you describe your set. In detail.’
Oh my God. Flynn Phillips heard me say I want to be dominated in a library. And heard me describe the potting shed sex. And, ohmygod, Flynn Phillips has been thinking of ways to fulfil my fantasies!
In a bare minute, he’s pressed up against me, weaving his hands in my scarcely damp hair. ‘Tell me I’m reading the signals wrong.’
Heat spreads through me, crawling through my veins, all thoughts are drowned by a wave of want. I shake my head slowly and watch the dawning of his devilish smile.
Well, it looks like I’m getting my orgasm back today.
Chapter 6
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 shou
lders. 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 optimal Flynn-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.
The hot grip of her walls.
I dip my knees to prevent my legs from giving out.
‘Holy fuck!’ This time, the reaction is hers, just a short hiss as she arches her back, her mouth falling open with the plea.
I push into her, as close as two bodies could be, my hilt rubbing her clit as the nails of her left hand dig into my shoulder so sharply I hiss myself. As I pull out almost to the tip, Chastity’s eyes are so blue and so clear, and she lets out the best fucking sound. It’s somewhere between a breath and a moan as her insides clench around my retreat as though desperate to keep me there.
‘That’s it,’ I growl. ‘That’s fucking perfect.’ Grasping the back of her knee, I lift it over my thigh, and with a snap of my hips, I slam back in.
‘Oh, my God!’
This time, I’m not sure if she said it or me, but all I know is as she wraps her legs around my waist, my brain shuts down. I begin to fuck and rut, her arse in my hands, my body curling into hers as though I could crawl right inside.
‘Oh, o . . . there it is!’ she cries. ‘There. It. Is!’ If I’d thought the exclamation weird, the thought is lost as she punctuates the words with a thrust of her hips.
My cognisance is shot. I’m deaf, dumb, and blind to anything but the feel of her underneath me. I slide out a little. Slam back in. Rotate slowly. Repeat at speed. Pound into her, again and again, not able to get close enough for full satisfaction, yet no longer capable of restraint. Her arse feels fantastic in my hands, her breathy moans in my ear fucking sublime—I both feel and hear when the moment arrives, the moment she reaches her peak. She goes rigid, her pussy grinding against me, her body taut. Taut and tight and at risk of making me blow my fucking mind. And my fucking load.
I want to devour every soft inch of her. Fuck her until there’s nothing left of me. Eat her pussy, then kiss her mouth. Bite and suck every inch of her flesh.
My thoughts are wild and my movements frantic as I try to fuck my thoughts into her. I want to be in her deeper, harder. Leave my mark inside and out. And then in one brilliant moment, everything freezes, blurring around the edges like the best kind of special effect. I feel nothing but the pound of my heart and the throb of my release, and the latent pulse of hers.
I place my head against her shoulder as the white noise retreats, the sense of satisfaction almost overwhelming as I feel her throbbing around me.
‘Oh, Flynn,’ she pants, her palm on my head.
I’m a bright bloke, but just after I come, my brains are a bit like pancake batter. Still, it doesn’t take much to realise she’s trying to push me away.
‘Not so quick, duchess,’ I growl. ‘What’s your fucking hurry?’ I place my hands on her thighs, the backs tanned against the pale of her skin.
‘My brother is staying with me.’
Shit. Does that mean no second round?
‘Pizza delivery.’ My voice is still a little hoarse, though my wits are beginning to return.
‘W-what? You’re hungry?’ I look down at her wet pussy. I could go for a bit of that. Dessert. ‘I have some chicken,’ she says, her tone perplexed. ‘Would you like a sandwich? I suppose it’s the least I could offer after you . . .’
‘Ploughed?’ I wink. ‘I ploughed you good.’ Her eyes narrow, and if I’m not mistaken, she’s about to start shouting, so I make it quick. ‘Pizza delivery. That’s my fantasy; that’s what comes next.’ Literally.
‘What?’
‘Or I can meet you at the public library. I’m game.’
‘What?’
‘You already said that, duchess.’ I grin. I can’t help it. I’m fond of smiling in general, but I also know this kind of attitude pisses people off. Which just makes me smile all the more.
‘I’m not letting you fuck me in a library,’ she says, lifting my hands from her thighs. So I place them on the benchtop on either side of her, caging her in.
‘Next time we fuck, I get to choose the fantasy.’
And by now, I’m pretty sure the chance of her brother walking is bullshit, or else why would she still be talking? And naked.
‘Eyes up here, mister,’ she says, her fingers on my chin. ‘I’m not saying we will revisit this t-topic again.’
‘The topic of fucking?’ I lift my hand, pushing a bunch of her wild curls behind her ear. Jeeze, would you look at that. Fucking makes her ears go bright pink. ‘I’m pretty sure we will visit the topic. Again and again.’ Why the fuck did I leave it this long? I’m sure as shit not gonna wait six months until I’m inside her again.
‘Ridiculous . . . this conversation is ridiculous,’ she says, moving her hand from my chin to smooth the curls back over her ears. ‘This isn’t happening again, Flynn. Besides, I refuse to believe your fantasy is the most basic of porn plots.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ I say, my eyes flicking from her face dow
n. ‘Sometime soon, you’re ordering pizza. And I’m delivering . . . all over these perky tits.’
Chapter 7
CHASTITY
The third Sunday of every month, Paisley and I meet for brunch. Initially, it had started as a way for me to get her out of the house after her breakup. When I say house, I mean my house as she was staying with me after her fiancé did the dirty deed with another woman. It’s odd to think I barely knew her at the time. Odder still to realise how close we’ve become. This has been a strange year, not bad exactly. I’ve certainly gained a lot from it. Paisley, for one, and, of course, my business, which has gone from strength to strength. Thank goodness for pervy people. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, but I feel . . . restless. Sort of unfulfilled. Even as I think these thoughts, I’m chasing them up with how ridiculous it is to admit to them because I have a good life. I own my own home in one of the most expensive cities in the world. I have a thriving business. I have my brother, Max, and Paisley, and by extension, Paisley’s lovely new family, who involve me in their lives greatly. Yet, at times, I still feel like something’s missing.
Maybe it’s my looming thirtieth birthday. Maybe it’s the shock of finding Flynn standing on my doorstep. Or maybe it’s my screwing him again. Why is it, even when he’s not speaking, I feel like he’s teasing me? I’m so not going to think about him. I’m not going to remember how shocking it felt to be reminded how big he is. How manly. In an age where men are waxed from the scrotum up, Flynn is a welcome anomaly. And when he runs a hand across the stubble on his jaw, I can literally hear knickers in a five-mile radius dropping to the floor.
Maybe Max isn’t the only one suffering a quarter life crisis, even if that can’t quite be mathematically correct in my case. I’m more like a third.
‘Am I late?’
