by Donna Alam
Oh shit. I shake my head quickly because this is a job way above my paygrade. ‘No idea,’ I answer quickly.
‘Hmm,’ she says still studying the pair. ‘I’m pretty sure that’s when they have s-e-x.’
Chapter 19
CHASTITY
Paisley: How’s Operation Yoni going?
Me: I think I’d rather stick to calling my vagina Barbara, thanks very much.
I slide my phone away before Paisley replies with some other ridiculousness and make my way to the studio door to lock up for the day. I’m just about to set the alarm when the roar of a motorbike pulling into the carpark gives me a start. The studio isn’t in a great end of town. Also, “studio” might be too lofty a title because it really isn’t much more than a unit housed in an industrial estate because who wants to rent space to a company that makes dirty movies?
But I digress; the motorbike.
I pause at the doorway, one hand holding the large bundle of keys with the other wrapped around the heavy steel door. The clearly expensive machine pulls to a stop almost directly outside of the building. The powerful engine cuts out, and still I don’t move. While the registered office of my company isn’t this address, I still feel the slight warning edge of anxiety creeping in when I think of the weirdos I’ve had contact me in the past. Not that I’ve ever made myself the face of the company, but in the early days, certainly around Fast Girls inception, we did get quite a bit of media interest. And following that, a few strangers with even stranger requests had sought me out.
My footing is sure and my body tense as the rider dismounts and reaches for his helmet. A suit and a pocket square? This is either a man who means business or is here on business? Either way, I don’t think anyone is murdering me today. Not in the way my imagination had sprung to because I recognise the hard body under that suit . . .
Chastity Leonore Landry, peddler of posh smut, killed by the sight of a man in a sharply tailored suit.
The rider lifts his hands to his helmet, the action of removing it slowing to striptease pace, eventually revealing Flynn’s gorgeous, though slightly battered face.
‘Are you seriously wearing Tom Ford on a motorbike?’
‘G’day, Chastity.’ After our awkward Sunday lunch, it does my heart good to see his almost perma-cocky grin firmly back in place.
‘Well?’ I ask, sounding like my aunt Camilla. Out with it, boy! Yes, please, pings a voice somewhere in the vicinity of my knickers.
Flynn glances down at his suit before making a show of brushing invisible dust from his shoulders. I’ve never seen Flynn in anything other than jeans, apart from when we were in St Lucia, and I can’t for the life of me remember what he wore then. Though I remember every inch of him without his clothes because who could forget that? Those toned abs with a happy trail leading to a lewd kind of heaven. His strong, tanned arms and lightly furred legs. The pale scar on his side he’d attributed to a surfing mishap, and the way his hair had fallen over his forehead as his body rippled above mine.
‘You like the ge-ah?’ he asks, moving closer in a confident swagger.
‘The w-what? Oh, the gear—your suit. You scrub up well, I suppose. But isn’t it dangerous to ride a machine like that in just good tailoring?’ A dark blue suit, his white shirt unbuttoned at the neck and a tie that complements the brilliant shade of his eyes, knotted but loose from the collar. And a matching pocket square? He looks more GQ than Mellors the gardener.
‘You think I should wear protection?’
I’m not touching that. ‘Aren’t you supposed to wear leathers or something?’
‘That sounds like an invitation to star in one of your movies.’ His gaze flares cheekily, and then he’s in front of me, his eyes sliding over my shoulder to the darkened studio beyond. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
‘What for? Why are you here, Flynn?’
‘Maybe I’ve come to audition.’
‘We d-don’t audition. We interview. And in a public place.’
He sets off laughing. ‘You have hidden depths, my tiny, dirty girl.’
I frown and bite my lip rather than spit the words my brain has supplied—you wish—because that would probably take us tumbling down that tempting rabbit hole. And what would be the point of that? I’d just be repeating my mistakes. And that’s the definition of madness—doing the same thing over and over while expecting the results to change.
The jet black helmet dangles from his fingers of his left hand as he uses his other to loosen the single button on his suit jacket, only to slide that hand into his pants pocket.
‘You spend an awful lot of time with your hands in there.’ I glance down, automatically feeling the need to qualify the statement. ‘In your pocket, I mean.’ I continue to stare at the outline of his hand through the expensive suiting.
‘You’re doing it again.’ His voice is almost a whole octave lower, a hint of gravel in his tone. ‘You’re looking at me like you’re imagining me without my clothes. And I fuckin’ love it.’
‘Is it a comfort thing?’ I ask, ignoring both his tone and his dangerous words and keeping my eyes studiously from his. On second thought, staring at his pants as though wearing X-ray specs isn’t sending the right kind of message, either. As I lift my head, like a magnet, my gaze is drawn to his, my mouth running away with me again. ‘Or do you just like to make sure it’s still there? Constantly.’
‘You’re asking me if I like touching my own dick? Are you the masturbation police, Chastity? Feel free to say yes because I think you might need to take me prisoner.’
‘I didn’t remember you mentioning that you wanted to write scripts as part of the consult.’ Snark. This tone of voice and I are very familiar where Flynn is concerned.
‘Do you remember the rest of that statement? I’m only interested in consulting with one thing.’
I remember all right. And that particular part of my anatomy remembers, too, as it begins pulsing. Because he’d said he wanted to consult with my pussy before proceeding to convene with it in the most intimate of ways. He gave me more orgasms that night than I thought were possible, and certainly more than I’d had in the previous six months. It’s like I’d been storing them just for him or something.
I clear my throat, not trusting myself to speak. Flynn Phillips is like a ninja at dirty talking and probably holds a bachelor’s degree in innuendo. And this is coming from someone who makes their living by thinking up sexy, barely there plots.
‘Invite me inside, duchess, and I’ll refresh your memory.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’ I tighten my grip on the door even though my statement is only partially true because my body is all for letting him in . . . wherever. Wherever he’d like to go.
‘Paisley tells me you’ve got a killer coffee machine in there.’ That accent. Kills. Me. ‘Says she’s the only one who’s been able to work out how to use it.’
‘And that’s supposed to spur me to make a decision?’ I answer as I fold my arms. ‘To prove to you that I can master the coffee machine?’
‘You master a lot of things, including me,’ I think he says, but he speaks his words so quietly and quickly, I can’t be sure. He shrugs, then looks around, his hand rasping against the days’ stubble on his chin as he whispers an almost inaudible, ‘Fuck,’ to join his other mumblings. ‘Hold that for me, would you?’ he adds in a more normal tone, though just as quick, and he thrusts the helmet at me, forcing me to unfold my arms.
In the haste of the moment, I drop my keys into the bowl of the thing. And as my head comes up, I have neither the time to notice nor complain, not as Flynn takes my face in his hands to deliver the most perfect of kisses—sweet and soft but not without a delicious edge. The vibration of his groan as I open for his tongue brings my lust for this man from a simmer to a flame. But regretfully, it isn’t long before he pulls away and leaves me standing there, panting and almost without breath.
‘Put me out of my misery, Chastity. Let me in.’ What am I doing h
ere? I ask myself, even as I step to the side to allow him to pass.
I close the door, the majority of the light cutting out, and honestly, I’m still wondering what I’m doing—what he’s doing—as I set his helmet down on a stack of boxes in the hallway.
‘We’re just hanging out, shooting shit. No need to worry.’ His tone is mild as I turn to face him with my apparently questioning face. ‘Just like mates.’
I don’t for one minute think of us as friends, though it occurs to me he probably is the kind of person who makes a good friend. He’s quick to laugh and to make others join in, whether with him or at him, and his carefree nature is almost infectious and certainly good to be around. At least, when he’s not bugging the shit out of me. But something tells me Flynn Phillips isn’t all laughs and frippery. The man has substance to him, too.
But his is all moot as I’m not in the market for new friends, especially with him. Friends don’t fuck like we have. Like we . . . do?
‘But what are you doing here—here, exactly?’ I point at the industrial carpeted floor of the hallway. ‘How did you even know where to find me?’
‘I told you. Paisley.’ I find myself narrowing my gaze as I consider the conversation the pair seem to have had. What was said? ‘You look like that worries you, duchess. Like you’ve got something to hide.’ Cue a further narrowing of my eyes and add to it a little bite of the tongue. Not that I think she’ll have spilled the beans on . . . on my broken bean.
Not Paisley. Not her. Not to him.
‘So this is where the magic happens,’ he says, turning to the entrance to the studio. Bracing his hands solidly on the frame, he gives me his strong profile and not the bruised side. Not that it’s a terrible sight, especially coupled with the darkened scruff of his stubble and his impeccable suit. He still looks sexy, though in a thoroughly disreputable way.
Flynn sticks his head into the studio, and before I can tell him to stop, he steps out of the hallway and into the room. What’s a girl to do but follow him?
I try to see the space like he might, wondering if it’s titillation he’s after, because if it is, he’ll be seriously disappointed. The most visible tell in the room is a small rack of hangers containing robes. There’s no St Andrew’s cross, no whips or chains, or exposed dildos. On one side of the room is a set that could be a bedroom in some trendy loft—exposed brickwork and a contemporary four-poster bed dressed in pale linens. Nothing salacious. Move along, there’s nothing her to see, folks.
‘Details right down to the specs and the beside lamp.’ He gestures to the nightstand, a hardback book lying open and splayed on the wood, a pair of feminine glasses folded next to it.
‘Women notice the small details.’ Yes, even when there’s a ten-inch penis involved.
‘I bet the drawer holds a treasure trove of naughty delights.’
I smile and shake my head. ‘Looks like someone’s been watching my stuff.’
‘Someone can’t take his eyes off your stuff.’ As though to reinforce the point, his gaze makes a slow perusal of my body, and I have to bite my lip to halt the stuttering release of my breath.
‘Sorry to disappoint,’ I add swiftly, steering the topic away. ‘The content of that particular treasure trove is currently being sterilised.’ Not really. We haven’t been filming that kind of scene today. I expect more questions—demands for particulars—when he turns away, moving to the other side of the large space housing an abandoned office set.
‘Naughty secretaries?’ he asks, casting a wicked glance over his shoulder, a look that makes me wonder what mischief this devil has in mind for my soul.
‘Something like that.’
‘And don’t you look the part today.’
‘So do you.’ The words are out of my mouth without thought.
‘Is that because you think I’m someone’s glorified secretary?’ His gaze hardens a touch, causing my expression to falter. I hadn’t meant it like that at all.
‘I don’t weigh someone’s worth by their job description or their title.’ What kind of despicable arse would do that? ‘I simply meant you look like a boss this secretary wouldn’t mind being bent under.’ Jesús, María y José! Talk about inappropriateness and oversharing.
He laughs, a perfect burst of honesty—delight at the escape of mine. Maybe my reddening cheeks stop him from taking advantage of the fact, but I suddenly don’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed that he doesn’t latch onto my statement.
‘Do you always dress like that for work?’ he asks instead.
I look down at my outfit; black pencil skirt and white blouse. ‘Jeans normally,’ I answer, ‘but I had an appointment at the bank. Why do you ask?’
‘I’d have thought it was obvious. You look like a wet fucking dream.’
‘This is perfectly acceptable office attire,’ I reply testily.
‘Dunno what kind of office you’ve been workin’ in. You look hot, like some sexy librarian, your blouse hinting at the lace of your bra and your skirt hugging those curves. And those shoes . . . ’
He glances down at my black heels, and I concede he might have a point here. I don’t own a lot of heels, and those that I do own were bought for nights out, not to complement day outfits. Still, they’re just shoes.
‘All buttoned up and wholesome on the surface with just a hint of the girl down for dirty fucking.’
‘Flynn . . . ’ His name sounds like plea, though for more or for a halt, I’m not sure either of us can tell.
‘Seriously. I can’t imagine your actors lasting long being filmed by you in the first place, but dressed like that? No fucking chance. And I don’t remember seeing The Two Thrust Chump being in the title menu.’
‘My actors are professionals. They’re not looking at me like you would.’
‘Trust me. They’re men, and they have eyes. They’re lookin’. Want to know what else I’ve noticed?’
‘Please, give me the benefit of your fast knowledge.’ Sarcasm travels across the space.
‘Your actors, their dirty talk is weak.’
‘What?’ If I wasn’t so shocked, I might laugh. ‘I know you’ve been watching, but—’
‘Come on, duchess. The best kind of porn has a little nastiness in it.’ His eyes flick down to my lips and back again. ‘Your actors have got the beauty of sex down, but their dialogue needs work.’
‘Thank you, Flynn Phillips. Thank you for that insight,’ I reply with an unpleasant sounding chuckle. ‘However, thousands of subscriptions say otherwise.’
‘You like it. Admit it.’
This time, I don’t laugh. Not as he slides the jacket from his shoulders, dropping it to the adjacent desk. Not as his long legs eat up the space between us. And not as he takes me in his hands, not his arms. This isn’t an embrace.
‘I want to try something.’ His gaze is wide and innocent, but the man doesn’t have an innocent cell in his body as far as I can tell. ‘You game?’ And apparently, it’s not a question that really needs an answer as he crushes me to his chest. He just . . . holds me there, flush against his body, my heart hammering against his.
‘Is it working yet?’ His deep words rumble through me, and the idea of just letting go—of hugging him back just as tight—is so very tempting.
‘Is what working?’ I ask a little breathlessly, hating how I sound, hating even more that I find I have breath to squeak when his hand slides down my back to rub both cheeks of my bottom.
‘I was wondering if your undies would fall off.’ His chest expands against mine as he lets out a theatrical sign. ‘But they’re still there.’
‘With a hug? Not even you are that good.’
‘No, but I am pretty good,’ he answers with a gleam as he pulls back. ‘And maybe a little more in tune than your best mate, Paisley.’
‘What has Paisley got to do with this?’
‘She reckoned you are in the need of the kind of hug that turns into dirty sex.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ I gr
ate out, pulling free from his strong arms. ‘She wouldn’t say those sorts of things. Not to you.’ I find the thought of any possible conversation between the pair distressing, the idea tightening my chest.
‘But I suppose we both have our theories.’
‘Is that what brings you here? Theories and half-cocked plans?’
‘You’ve got it wrong, duchess.’ He grasps my flailing hand, the one I’m trying very hard not to thump him with, and brings it to the front of his jeans. He presses my palm firmly against his erection, arching into my hand. ‘And this isn’t what I’d call half-cocked, would you?’
‘Flynn . . .’ I swallow audibly, his name sounding as though dragged over rough ground. ‘We can’t keep doing this.’
‘Doing what?’ he asks using that innocent tone again. ‘I dunno what you’re talking about,’ he says, stepping away. ‘What’s this chair used for?’ Grasping the back of a plastic office chair, he lifts it, depositing it halfway between the desk and the other side of the room.
‘It’s either from my office or the break room,’ I answer distractedly. To be honest, I’m not sure. The same as I’m not sure what direction this is heading.
Flynn grabs his jacket, striding to the rack of robes and hanging it there. Taking my reluctant hand, he pulls me over to the desk. ‘You stay there,’ he says, leaning my butt up against the edge. Then he walks back to the chair where he takes a seat.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he begins, leaning forward to untie the thin laces of his black oxfords. ‘Something hasn’t been right with you.’
‘Why are you taking your shoes off?’ Next off come the socks. His feet are tanned and long and rather elegant, as far as feet go.
‘I tried to ask you the other morning, but you were hell-bent on going back to sleep.’
‘You wore me out!’ I snap my mouth shut.
If he tries not to smirk, it isn’t working as he stands and loosens his tie, hanging it over the back of the chair before he begins unfastening the buttons on his shirt, top to bottom. ‘You’re not much of a giver are you, duchess.’
‘What? What’s that supposed to mean?’
