by Cara McKenna
He rolled over to face Laurel, admiring the creamy glow of her bare skin, that pretty, flushed face with its sweet and wasted expression. “Christ, I fuckin’ love you.”
She laughed and gave his sweaty hair a limp, lazy pat. “You always say that right after we have the most depraved sex.”
“That’s when I’m the most grateful.”
He liked things rougher than most women were down with, no matter if half the world had read that Fifty Shades book and decided BDSM was the new black. He was no damaged billionaire and this apartment was no tricked-out playroom. Their props were duct tape and rope and the cold, hard floor under Laurel’s knees, his own two hands. Gags and blindfolds were whatever shirt he might grab, and he’d bound her with an extension cord once. This was BDSM as furnished by Home Depot, and without most of the tiresome honorifics and other formalities he found so cheesy. He didn’t mind “Sir,” but if any woman ever called him “Master” he’d be improvising himself a gag real quick.
He didn’t want to be a woman’s master; he wanted to be her assailant.
During sex, he felt all the things the sick shit he played did, hearing a lover’s fear in her voice, seeing it strain her face. He’d never in a million years do this to a woman who didn’t want it, but it had taken ages to get good with that distinction. To believe that it was okay to want these things, when they were consensual.
Laurel was growing drowsy and he scrunched her messy hair.
“Say it back,” he said.
“I love you.” The final word was swallowed by a broad yawn.
He smiled. He’d waited for her to say it first, and that must’ve happened back around Thanksgiving. She was cautious, reserved in some ways, not the kind of girl you rushed. He was normally the same, though he’d never been with someone who felt this right, this easy. They knocked heads now and again, but by and large all was peaceful…outside of the sex, that was.
He’d been ready to tell Laurel he loved her after maybe six weeks, but he’d known better than to have risked scaring her off. Her parents had been a real shit show, same as his, and he’d come to understand that the tighter you tried to hang on to Laurel, the more she’d edge away from you. Plus her occasional depressive bouts did a number on her confidence.
She didn’t love herself the way Flynn loved her, or how her friends did. Something inside her didn’t trust people who cared for her deeply. It made her feel like a fraud, or undeserving. Pretty standard, as baggage went. Plus all the practice Flynn’s fucked-up family had given him at standing by difficult people made loving her feel like the easiest thing in the world.
“You remember when we first said it?” he asked.
“What? ‘I love you’?”
“Mm hm.”
“I do indeed. It was October thirtieth.”
He blinked. “That early? You been keepin’ a diary I don’t know about?”
“It was the day before Halloween, I’m pretty sure. We were lying right here, and I’d had, like, three beers, and I was going on and on and on about all the costumes I’d made myself as a kid. And I caught myself, and I caught you, how you were just listening, asking me questions, letting me be drunk and sentimental and boring and acting like you were actually interested.”
“Maybe I was.”
She laughed. “No sober person would’ve been. But it just hit me, out of the blue. I think there was some complete non sequitur, like, ‘And when I was eleven I went as Lisa Simpson,’ and then a big dumbfounded pause and, ‘I love you.’”
“‘I love you, Flynn,’” he corrected.
She smiled. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Same as I’ll take your word it was October. We didn’t wait that long, did we?”
“No, not really. Three months?”
“You say that to many guys before me?”
“Two. How many women did you say it to?”
“Just one.”
“You mean it?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I did. Did you?”
“One of them, yeah, I meant it. The other one, I meant it, but I also didn’t really know what I was talking about. I think I was mostly infatuated.”
“Who was he? I’ll kill him. Tomorrow. After breakfast.”
She snorted. “Down, boy. He was my high school boyfriend. Who did you say it to? That woman who taught you all about rough sex and stuff?”
“No, not her.” She’d meant a lot to Flynn, and he had loved her, had felt that, but he’d known it wasn’t that serious to her. She wouldn’t have said it back, and he’d spared the both of them the awkwardness of underscoring how mismatched their investments had been.
“Who?” she asked again.
“My first serious girlfriend. The one I half-traumatized, wanting to fake-rape her all the time.”
“Oh, right.”
“Who was the second guy you said it to?”
“Someone I dated in college.”
“Why’d you break up?”
“I can’t remember, exactly. I just remember he annoyed me by the end, and I think I bummed him out. The second half of college was really hard for me. I’m surprised I made it through, looking back.”
“You’re at least twice as strong as you give yourself credit for.”
“Probably.”
“You’re the first woman I’ve said that to since I was man enough to know what the fuck it really means,” he offered. And since he’d truly known who he was, and what he needed from a lover.
“Aw. Well, you’re the first man I’ve said it to, period. Both the other boyfriends were, like… I dunno. Dudes.”
“Tell me I’m better in bed than either of them.”
“Oh my God, yes. I feel like I never even had sex before I fucked you.”
“I love you.”
She laughed. “It’s true. I mean, not like I’d never been given an orgasm or anything, but fuck, Flynn.”
He grinned, all lit up inside.
“It’s like I thought I knew what a strawberry tasted like because I’d smelled a scratch-n-sniff sticker of one. But you…”
“Never stop talking.”
“Not that fucking you isn’t a little terrifying,” she said, “but you’ve absolutely ruined me for every other man on the planet for all time.”
“My work here is done.”
* * *
Laurel woke with the sun, which was to say, late. The winter light looked lazy, more slinking through the blinds than shining. She wished she could stay in this bed, beside this warm man, all day. But such was not reality.
She rolled over, shoving at Flynn’s arm until he did the same and let her spoon him.
His work had him up around five most mornings, and even with the punishment of fight nights he was awake by six on the weekends. “You slept in,” she said through a yawn.
“Not entirely. Mostly I’ve just been sitting here, watching you sleep.” He said it in a creepy, breathy voice, and wrestled around to take a dramatic whiff of her hair, sending her into giggles. He knew she found that trope laughably disturbing.
She poked his chest. “Gross. Why do people think that’s a sexy thing for a guy to do in books and movies? Watch a woman sleep?”
“Stalkers must do well in fiction.”
“Very. But believe me—I know and trust and love you, but if I ever wake up to find you sitting beside me on my bed, just staring at me…”
“Dumpsville?”
“I dunno. Just… Just be jacking it, please.”
He laughed.
“Have the decency not to pretend like it’s broody and romantic. Perv all-in. If not, yes, Dumpsville. Population: you.”
“That go both ways?”
She considered it. “The thing about reversing the genders on pervy bullshit is that while the woman would still seem creepy as fuck to other women, the dude she was victimizing would probably be stoked, because he could get laid.”
“Feminism’s complicated.”
“Not complicated
—complex. And don’t act like you’re not one. You’re a product of the matriarchy if I’ve ever seen one.” He’d been raised by his charmingly domineering older sister from puberty onward. “Plus if you didn’t know how to treat women with respect and consideration, you’d never get your way in bed.”
“Fair.”
“You, my darling, would be creepy as fuck, if not for your feminism.”
He shushed her, pulled her to him for a kiss Laurel refused to part her lips for. He might not care about her morning breath, but she did. She stroked his rough jaw and cheeks, wondering as always how he’d look with a week’s stubble, the beginnings of a beard. Sadly, he shaved every morning he was working.
“Hang on,” she said, regretfully leaving the covers. She’d not gotten around to putting anything on and could feel goose bumps breaking out all over her body as she scrambled for her tee and pajama bottoms. “Jesus, it must be fifty degrees in here.”
“Thermostat’s set to sixty-two.”
“That’s barbaric. If I ever move in with you, I’m reprogramming it.”
“Small price.”
She glanced his way to catch him grinning. He’d already invited her to move in, when she’d been bitching about her landlord hiking the rent again. It was Laurel who wasn’t quite ready. For one, her apartment was six minutes’ walk from her job. For another, one of her two roommates was her best friend. Plus being here when Flynn wasn’t… There was something lonely about it. Maybe it wouldn’t feel that way if she moved her stuff in and there was a TV and she could listen to her music, but all the same, she wasn’t there yet. Whether she could stand Flynn twenty-four-seven, that wasn’t an issue. It was whether or not he’d be up for her around the clock that worried Laurel. Maybe that was insecurity talking, or maybe pragmatism. Either way, she wasn’t yet ready to find out which.
She brushed her teeth and tamed her hair, bumped the thermostat up to sixty-eight before climbing back under the covers.
“Oh, so warm. Let’s just hibernate until May.”
“When do you need to be at work?” He kissed her neck.
“Ten.”
He eyed the clock on the shelf above their heads. “Let’s see… Twenty-minute shower, ten-minute drive… That leaves nearly an hour for fucking.”
“Hang on, now—factor in putting on makeup, drying my hair…”
“Your hair’ll dry during the fucking.”
“I think I’ll earn better tips if I don’t look like I’ve got a red bird’s nest on my head.”
“Fine. Still leaves plenty of time if we shut up and get down to it.”
“Fine.” Better than fine. She’d been especially horny of late, probably her body finally getting used to the Pill, or just the benefit of being on the far swing of the depression pendulum, maximum distance from the next inevitable blue phase. Might as well make the most of the hormones while they were on her side. “Let’s get filthy, then.”
“Not too sore?”
She shook her head and tousled his short hair. “Nope. I feel sturdy.” Physically and emotionally. She felt that way more and more, since meeting this man. Crazy how dabbling in such dark fantasies seemed to purge some unseen, unnamed weight from her subconscious. Or perhaps that was just the ease that came from feeling safe in a relationship, accepted and supported. And lusted for.
“Hang on—brush your teeth,” she commanded, and gave his bare butt a good smack when he climbed over her to comply. She watched his body as he crossed the room, all that winter-pale skin and improbable muscle. Way more man than she’d ever imagined she wanted, and so much so that if this affair ended, replacing him would be no less than impossible. No chance two men built like that would be fool enough to fall for her in one lifetime. Her karma wasn’t bad but it wasn’t spotless, either.
He emerged from the bathroom in all his naked glory, eyebrow raised pointedly.
“What?”
“No note on the mirror?”
“I’m not that creative this early in the morning.” Or that disinhibited without a drink or two. “Can we just do plain old fucking?”
“Always.” He all but pounced on her, the covers shoved aside and hands seeking skin—hers warm, his cold. She yelped and laughed and squirmed and they kissed until the ice in his touch melted away.
“How do you want me?” he asked, a low and familiar growl in his voice.
“On top.” She couldn’t always get off first thing in the morning, but she’d stand the best chance if she got to watch that body working above her, that gorgeous, mean face staring her down and her right hand free to assist.
He moved his legs between hers. “You need lube?”
“Probably.”
He snatched the bottle off the shelf, and if his fingers were cool, the gel was frigid.
“Ah, fuck.”
“Don’t think about it,” he breathed, easing two thick fingers inside her. “Think about this.”
Indeed. Or think about what those fingers promised but could never approximate. She looked between them, to the half-hard cock between his thighs. She closed her fist around him. If her hand was cold, he didn’t show it. His eyes shut and his head dropped back, and his groan made her feel like the one on top, the one with all the power. He added a third finger, driving inside her to the rhythm of her strokes. In a minute flat she was all but panting for him.
“I’m ready.”
“I’m not,” he murmured, eyes on his hands, plundering her sex.
She squeezed his stiff length. “Liar.”
“Don’t rush me.”
“Tick-tock, Flynn.”
He knocked her hand aside with something approaching a snarl and fisted himself, angled his crown to her lips. He sank deep, not too fast, but not slow enough. A twinge tensed her and she stilled him with a squeeze of his arm.
“Slow. Just to start.”
“Sure.”
He was different when they weren’t role-playing, but in some ways much the same. He was always intense, whether he was issuing orders or holding her down or propped above her in the sunshine, smiling. Just now he was caught somewhere between tender and impatient, his cock easing in slowly even as his eyes shone with need.
“Better?”
“Yeah. I’m good.” She squirted lube onto her fingertips and he sped up. She watched his body in the silvery morning light, marveling that this room had ever seemed cold.
“Fuck, you feel good.” He close his eyes, hips beginning to rush.
“Ooh.” Another cramp jabbed her, the shock of it stealing her breath.
He stopped. “Too rough?”
“Too deep, I think… I’ll get there. Just give me a minute.”
Always the picture of control, he kept his thrusts shallow. Laurel got lost in her own pleasure, in the glorious view, in the sounds of his soft grunts and the smell of his skin and—
“Oh!” A cramp to put the first two to shame.
He slowed. “Okay?”
Her legs seized up, stilling his hips. “Hang on.”
He paused, cock seated deep and pulsing sharply, like a wild creature feigning patience.
“It hurt?”
“I’m crampy. Really crampy. Ow, ow ow ow.” She squeezed her eyes shut as her body twinged around him.
He eased out. “Better?”
She released a breath and nodded. “Yeah, thanks. Jeez, that was new. Felt like you were jabbing me right in the cervix.”
“Sexy.”
“You’re huge, but still, that was weird.”
“Is it because of how rough it got last night?”
“No, probably just some Pill side effect. Like maybe my period’s decided to turn up after all.”
His brow furrowed and he moved to sit beside her. “Turn up? You mean it’s late?” That stern expression froze her solid for a beat, but wait, no. Silly. No need to panic.
“Periods don’t really come late when you’re on the Pill,” she said. “They come or they don’t. My first cycle, I skipped it
entirely. Another time it only lasted a day. That’s pretty common. But I do feel PMS-y.” The horniness was unusual for that time of the month, but she’d also had an achy back and a general feeling of off-ness the past couple days, of spacy distraction.
“I’d have to google it,” she said. “Maybe your period can come late if your body’s still getting used to the hormones…” The more she spoke, the deeper the barbs of doubt pricked.
“You don’t sound too sure.”
“It’s really, really unlikely that I could be…” She didn’t even want to say the word aloud. “Though I guess I could pick up a test after work, just to put our minds at ease.”
“Maybe.”
Weird. She’d never taken a pregnancy test before, never had any reason to.
What if I was? she wanted to ask. Pregnant.
She had less than a speck of a clue what answer she’d hope to hear from him.
A baby was simply not an option at this point in her life. The only thing about it that made sense was that this man should be the father.
“It’s really unlikely.” She said it to soothe herself as much as Flynn. “I haven’t missed a single pill.” She kept them in her purse, paranoid about forgetting them some night when she was crashing at Flynn’s. Took them each evening at the same time she flossed her teeth, using each chore as a cue to keep her from skipping the other.
“Up to you,” he said.
“I’ll see how I feel after work. Speaking of which, let’s get you taken care of. Clock’s ticking.”
Though his cock was still hard, he smiled and shook his head. “Not half as fun if I can’t get you off. You want my mouth?”
“No, my brain’s kinda hijacked, now. Thanks, though. But seriously, we can do you. I don’t mind.”
“You’re sleepin’ over tonight, right? I’ll save it up.”
“Oh good, I’ll be in for the mauling of a lifetime.”
He grinned. “You know it.”
“Right. Let me hop in the shower and we’ll get this show on the road.”
“You want coffee?”
“I’d love coffee, thank you.”
Flynn didn’t drink caffeine but he’d bought a coffeemaker just for her. A steaming mug was waiting when she emerged from the shower, dressed, a towel turbanned around her head. Flynn owned a hairdryer too, and she sometimes wondered who he’d bought that for originally, since he certainly didn’t use it. She liked to tell herself it was for shrink-wrapping the windows come winter or some other such manly, practical purpose, but it was nearly March and the view of the neighboring brick was as crisp as always.
