by Donna Alam
~*~
As I help her pull the helmet from her head, I don’t know if it’s the ride, her brush with Tate, or the subterranean parking garage that has her eyes the size of dinner plates.
‘Where are we?’ she asks as I feed my fingers through hers to pull her to the lift.
‘Home.’ I bite back my grin. ‘Tell the truth, you thought I lived in some grotty flat share in Islington, didn’t you?’
‘I’m well aware of my privileges,’ she answers snippily. ‘There aren’t many under thirties living in London who don’t have housemates.’
‘Keep your undies on.’ I slide my gaze over my shoulder and shoot her a saucy wink. ‘At least until we get upstairs.’
The elevator comes to a stop. It’s not the penthouse, but a thirteenth-floor apartment overlooking the river Thames. Mutli-million dollar real-estate, the kind most personal assistants only get to dream about. As I slip off my jacket and drop my keys on the table in the hall, I can tell that’s where her mind has gone.
‘Do you rent?’ As the words hit the air, her expression turns a sort of wide-eyed horrified. ‘Ignore that.’
‘I think it’s time I clued you in on a few things,’ I say, placing my hands on her shoulders from behind. I push the old Parker she’d had in the boot of her car from her shoulders, dropping it next to mine. I’m pleased she had something to wear as bike rides are wicked cold in spring. ‘I work for Keir,’ I begin, lowering my mouth close to her ear. ‘Mainly because it saves me from being one of those rich arseholes who don’t work. I also work for Keir because I’ve been learning how the property development market works.’ Slotting away the insights to his killer instincts. ‘But none of that alters the fact that I am one of those rich arseholes.’
Her stay resolutely on the bank of windows and the terrace beyond, filled with greenery. The apartment is pretty stark; white floors and upholstery, the only real colour from a massive parlour palm and my huge TV on one wall. The space is light and bright, and I suppose in some ways, I’ve subconsciously brought a little bit of home here with me. Sadly, I can’t say the same for the sunshine.
‘And you didn’t think to mention any of that to me?’ Her tone is even, her voice clear.
‘Not until this week.’ Not until I offered Keir a cash injection and a partnership.
‘I don’t think I understand.’ And why would she? I’m the only one of my brothers that hasn’t really done much for themselves. Granted, we all went through that mad playboy stage coming into our inheritance after uni, but the Phillips clan are over-achievers, professionally. Apart from me.
‘You’re asking why not work for myself from the start?’
‘Maybe. Yes?’ she says, turning her confused gaze to me.
‘That’s easy.’ I step around her and take her hand in mine, leading her to the sectional sofa. ‘Because some of us don’t have the drive that you do. Or are half as brave.’
‘That’s . . .’ Baffling to her still, I can tell. ‘But why not mention it?’
‘Dunno. I suppose I don’t tell anyone. It’s not impressive or earned. It’s a family thing.’ My grandfather owned a small hardware store, passed down from his father. Don’t ask me how, but he designed and patented a multi-function tool table that took off like a rocket. Aussie blokes like their sheds and their tools almost as much as they like their beer. ‘Speaking of family, when I called them this week and told them about my plans, I also told them about you. You know, before you gave me the flick.’
‘Before I gave you what?’
‘My marching orders—the boot.’ She looks horrified, whether because of my phrasing or the thoughts that I have a family, I’m not sure. But they’re not bad, really. ‘Mum seems to think you’re some sort of miracle worker. Her and dad are going apeshit to meet you.’
‘Meet me?’ she repeats.
‘Anyone who’s had . . . how’d mum put it? Such a positive effect on me must be a very special person.’
‘But I didn’t do anything,’ she says, totally bemused.
‘You’re helping me live up to my potential. Or some such shit. Making me grow the fuck up, according to one of my arsehole brothers.’
‘But I like you the way you are.’ I feel like she has my heart in her hands for the purpose of giving it a good hug. ‘I don’t want you to change.’
‘You might feel a bit differently when we have kids.’
‘Flynn.’ She places her hand flat on my chest, her soft brown gaze turning solemn. ‘I’m not pregnant.’
‘Maybe not yet. We’ve got plenty of time to change that though, hey?’
‘You really want to do this? With me?’
‘Well, I’m not here to fuck spiders, love.’
When she laughs, it’s the very best of things. ‘Am I even supposed to know what that means?’
‘You know, the sooner you stop talking, the sooner I can show you my big bed.’
‘Your family—I won’t hide what I do.’
‘Who’s expecting you to? In fact, if you get any new subscribers with Aussie ISPs, feel free to block them. It’ll be my brothers. They’ve already decided you’re a dead-set legend. Just be grateful we live half a world away.’
‘You told them?’
‘Yeah. I’m in love with you; of course I did.’
‘You are the most perplexing—’ She shakes her head, her hand falling away. ‘I really don’t understand.’
‘I reckon we’ll work that into our wedding vows. Neither of us understands, but yet we know.’ She inhales sharply her mouth falling open, her expression filling my head with images that have no business there. Yet. ‘That wasn’t a proposal by the way. When I propose, you’ll know.’
‘Do you think we’re moving too fast?’
‘Maybe. But it works for me. Don’t overthink it,’ I say, taking her into my arms. I feel like a duck; calm on the surface, but under the water line, I’m manic. Or at least my heart is. ‘I can see right now the conversation you’re having with yourself,’ I say tapping her forehead. ‘Analysing. Criticizing. Second guessing, babe. I dare you to act on instinct, Chastity. I dare you to take a chance.’
Her tongue darts out to wet her pink lips. ‘You want me to take a chance on you?’
‘Not me, duchess. Us. What do you say?’
Her mouth is just a whisper away as she slides her hands around to the nape of my neck. ‘These brothers of yours . . . are they as handsome as you?’
‘Nah, they look like a hat full of arseholes.’ She laughs softly, the swell of her chest brushing mine.
‘I might pass, then,’ she says, screwing up her cute nose.
‘We’re going to make such beautiful babies, you know.’
‘Then I think we’d better make a start on that.’
She squeals a little as I lunge for her like a man possessed, pressing her back against the sofa as I begin covering her in kisses.
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 also not supposed 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 described as feeling a bit dusty, when wrecked wa
s 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—like I weight 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.
One flick, one lick of my full length, Flynn begins spreading open mouthed kisses along my wet flesh as he begins making out with my pussy.
‘Last time I get to eat you out as your boyfriend,’ he rasps, the words echoing through my insides. ‘Better make it good.’
‘So good,’ I whimper. ‘So fucking good.’
‘There she is. There’s my dirty girl.’
I feel so swollen and desperate and kind of dissolute. We’re supposed to be getting married in a couple of hours and I suddenly don’t feel very bride like—not at all. And he’s right. I am a dirty girl—his dirty girl, as I tighten my grip in his hair and begin rocking into his mouth, taking my pleasure from him.
I ache, my pussy pulsing emptily, every inch of me hungry for his touch. And as though he could discern my wishes just from my moans, his lips cover my clit as he thrusts two fingers deep inside me. Sucking and thrusting. Licking and finger fucking. His actions undo me, picking apart my soul, stitch by stitch, only to put me together again in a rush.
‘Come on, Chastity,’ he’d whispers. ‘Come for me. Come on my tongue.’
Everything inside me draws tight, my spine an impossible arch as I throw my head back against the chair. I want to watch, want to see the slide of his fingers and his tongue. See the pleasure on his face as he groans against my pussy.
But it’s all too much—my arms grasp the back of my chair as though to prevent my fall. But I do fall. I give into him. Give into the needs of my body.
‘God. Oh, God. I’m—I’m—’
Unable to process the waves of pleasure pulsing through me—the rush and sensation of a heat so thick and overwhelming, I feel I’m sure to burst. And when I come to, dizzy and panting, Flynn stands above me, loosening his pants.
This man owns me, body and soul. Just as I own him.
His fingers slide from my throat down, the backs of his knuckles ghosting the hardness of my nipples.
‘How did I get to be so lucky?’ His next breath is sharp as I lean forward, wrapping my hand around the base of his cock.
‘Looks like you’re about to get very lucky,’ I reply, sliding my tongue the length of him. I kiss his tip, swirl my tongue around his silken head.
His eyes squeeze shut as though taking a moment to graps control, and when he opens them again, he releases a masculine groan as he slides his hand to the back of my head.
Pleasure shimmers through me, joy, power, and a sort of ownership. Flynn isn’t what I’d call a man of few words. Quite the opposite. That I can make him lose the power of speech is some achievement, I feel.
He shifts his hand through my hair, snagging his fingers on a knotted curl. My complaint is non-verbal though it makes his body bow, his hips jutting forward as an encore, feeding me as much of his length as I can take.
‘Chastity . . . Fuck, look at us. Look at you.’ His hand still in my hair, he twists my gaze to meet his in my dressing table mirror. ‘You look so beautiful with my cock in your mouth.’
My breasts bounce a little and my cheeks are hollowed as I continue to work him with my tongue and my lips.
‘I’m going to fuck you,’ he rasps. ‘I want you to feel me everywhere. And when you’re standing in front of me in your pristine dress, I’m gonna know what’s going on under it. I’ll know how aching and wet you’ll be, just waiting for the next time we fuck. But this time as husband and wife.’
His words and dark expression deepen my arousal. My breathing erratic as I groan around his cock. His languid gaze slides from the mirror, dark lashes almost kissing his cheeks.
‘Put your fingers inside your pussy,’ he demands. ‘Spread your legs.’
I do as I’m bid. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an expression so avid, his eyes flicking from the mirror where he fills me to between my legs, where I fill myself.
‘Fuck, that’s it. Faster,’ he commands.
I try, but it takes some co-ordination. It’s like rubbing your tummy while simultaneously patting your head. But I’m wet, so wet, the sounds on my slick fingers seeming to do something to him.
‘Circle your clit.’ He moves the hair from the side of my face to better see himself sliding in and out of me. ‘Make yourself come for me.’
Oh, God. Just the sound of his dark command is almost enough. Almost, but not quite. But it doesn’t take long, a second orgasm building on the first.
In the year I’ve loved Flynn, I’ve had more orgasms than I’ve eaten roast beef dinners. Fact. I no longer have problems in that department at all. Not with him and not without, though my ménage à moi is enhanced by his sometime audience.
As I begin to pant around him, he pulls me up from the chair, his hands hooking around my thighs as he carries me to the bed, following my body down to the mattress.
He enters me slowly, his dark blue gaze intent on my own, our joint appr
eciation hitting the air as hungered, helpless sounds. My arse in his hands, he lifts me, setting the pace and depth as I pulse around him, squirm under him. He fucks me deeply, thrusting from tip to base, then feeding me short jabs of his hips.
And I love it. Love it all.
‘I can feel you pulsing around me,’ he grunts, driving his cock into me like my body is something he owns. ‘Tell me how it feels.’
‘I-it feels like I’m yours.’
‘That’s right,’ he rasps, pinning me into place. ‘I own this pussy. I own every inch of you. From your wild curling hair to your abundant heart.’
I grind against him as he whispers his sweet filthy promises, whimpering and calling out his name again and again, the edges of my last orgasm tied to this one.
And when I’m an aching and sated, a sensitive twitching mess, Flynn brings my hands to my head, pinning them there against the bed. His arms shake as he delivers long urgent strokes, his face contorted in ecstasy as he finally comes.
Epilogue – Flynn
‘I reckon her IQ must’ve dipped since she’s been hanging around with you.’
I turn my head to my brother, Rafferty, and scratch the centre of my nose . . . with my middle finger, my eyebrows raised like a taunt.
‘She’s a stunning woman,’ he continues, ignoring the insult, ‘but I don’t know what she’s doing with a drop kick like you. Just look at you.’ Look-at-cha. ‘You’ve got a face like a dropped fucking pie. A woman like her should be with someone who’s got their life together. Someone who takes care of himself.’ As though to make a point, he turns to the window, straightening his tie in his reflection.
‘Mate, if there was ever any chance of you stealing Chastity away, today was not that day.’
‘You reckon?’ he asks with a quirk of his brow. ‘She might not have cold feet yet, but you never know when she might need pair of warm strong arms to fall into.’
‘She seemed pretty hot for me this morning. And pretty happy when I married her an hour ago.’
His gaze snaps to mine and I realise what I’ve said. ‘Fuck, my bad.’ Still, I can’t help but chuckle at his expression. I thought Camilla was the only attending maiden aunt.
