by Cara McKenna
She pulled away, pushed him until he sat back. “Stay there.”
“Stay?”
She smiled, feeling wicked and electric, so ready for this. “You’ll see.”
Hesitance tempered his expression but she was only too happy to show him how solid she felt in her body and her heart. She moved to the floor, twisted around to push the coffee table farther away, then settled between his legs. The familiar bite of grit and hardwood met her bare knees, a welcome reminder of a hundred filthy memories. Memories of what they’d lost track of these past couple weeks.
She splayed her palms over his legs, stroking from his knees to his hips and back down.
“You don’t need to…” He trailed off as his lids grew heavy, stare glazing. She warmed through to watch it.
“Of course I don’t. I want to.” She raked her nails over his hard thighs, loving the shudder that rolled through the length of his body. She went for his belt, slipping the end free of the post, pausing to rub her palm across the shape of his growing erection. He covered her hand with his, wanting to slow it or to follow its motions. She squeezed gently, earning another shiver and a tensing of that hand.
“Honey.”
She took that as approval, smiling to herself and turning her attention to the button of his fly.
“Don’t,” he said softly.
“Why not?” She murmured it, more seduction than question. I’m not as delicate as you think.
“Not yet.”
“I’ve missed this,” she told him, letting another slow stroke of his straining cock underscore that truth. And if she’d missed this, Flynn had no doubt mourned it.
His voice was thick, unsteady. “You don’t need to,” he said again. He held her hand but she slipped free, seeking his zipper.
“Like I said, I want to.” She hurt for it, physically. Literally. Arousal was a hot, grasping ache inside her, and her salivary glands stung and watered, anticipating the weight of his hands on her, guiding her, holding her hair. His voice, mean and bossy once more, a change so welcome after weeks of patient encouragement. She spread his fly open, greeted by that intoxicating scent. It seemed nearly new after all this time.
“Honey, don’t.”
She cupped him, traced the edge of his erection with her thumb, but then his hand was around her wrist, tight, jerking her away.
“Jesus, Laurel. Knock it off.”
She sat back, feeling slapped. She had no words, but her expression seemed to speak for her—he looked chastised in an instant. He scrubbed his hands over his face and hair, eyes squeezed shut, mouth set.
“Sorry,” he muttered, not sounding especially sorry.
“I’m sorry. I thought you’d be more than up for that, after all this time.”
“Not yet.”
“Sorry,” she said again. “It’s just… I’m ready. You’ve been, like, superhumanly patient, and I wanted to get there again, tonight. I’m ready, really.”
In a breath he was up and walking away, zipping up and buckling his belt as he went.
Frozen there on her knees, Laurel could only watch him stride to the sink and fill a glass with water. The hard floor beneath her, so welcome only moments before, felt humiliating. Her throat was tight, words too thick, lodged deep. She managed to pry free the only one that counted right now.
“Flynn?”
He set the glass down and braced both hands on the counter. When he dropped his head she could see his back expand and contract, his breaths looking slow and forced.
“Baby,” she said, instantly realizing she’d never called him such a thing before. “I need you to talk to me. Or to tell me to go, and we can talk some other time.” Her voice was calm but her heart was pounding. He’d never been like this with her. If he sent her away with no explanation, she’d be a wreck until she heard from him again.
An almighty inhalation swelled his entire frame, then he raised his head. He turned, met her eyes, leaned back against the counter looking older, somehow. After a moment he seemed to wilt, expression going from stony to weary. “Get off the floor, for fuck’s sake.”
She moved to sit on the coffee table. “Did I say something wrong?”
Another gigantic breath and he rubbed at his face again. “No. Yes and no.”
“Tell me.”
He dropped his arms and met her stare. “You said you’re ready.”
She nodded. “I am.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Okay. That’s fine. I didn’t mean to rush you. I just assumed you must be pretty hard up by now.” She cracked a little smile, not earning one in return. “You want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
She felt herself tipping from panic into exasperation, her backbone restacking itself. “Well, tell me what’s wrong or tell me to go.” She brushed the grit from her knees. “It feels like I’m only going to keep saying the wrong thing if you don’t help me out, here. Do you want me to go?”
“Yes,” he said, his tone soft and cold.
Another psychic slap, and she rose on unsteady legs.
“Wait—no. Sit. Fucking sit.”
She did, watching as he made his way across the room. He didn’t sit beside her but instead on the floor, his back against the couch and his arms crossed atop his knees. It made him look small, a feat she’d have thought impossible before this moment.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, addressing his wrists or maybe her shins. “I know I’m being a royal dick. I’m just… I’m feelin’ a load of stuff and I don’t know what the fuck to do with it.”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t want to. You’re just gettin’ over everything. You deserve to be gettin’ over everything. I don’t wanna shit all over that.”
“‘Everything’ meaning the miscarriage?”
“Yeah.”
“God knows how much time you’ve spent listening to me cry and talk about it. You’re allowed to have feelings about it too.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yeah, you really are.”
He shook his head. “I’m not the one who had to go through that. Not all the pain, in my body, and not all the emotional stuff either. And I was never the one who was stuck havin’ to make the decision, beforehand. You’ve been through plenty. Last thing I want is to drag you back into it when you finally seem happy.”
“Well, too bad. It was your experience as much as it was mine. Just because it was my body doesn’t mean you don’t get to have feelings about it.”
A giant, silent sigh seemed to say, That’s your opinion.
She paused, eyeing the counter. The bottle of wine he’d bought her when he’d picked up the pregnancy test was still there beside the toaster, untouched. She crossed the room and dug through the junk drawer for the opener. She took two of Flynn’s hideous Christmas-patterned wine glasses from the cupboard and filled each near to the brim.
His brows rose when she turned, a dose in each hand. She delivered his and took her seat on the table once more.
“I don’t drink,” he said.
“You’re not an alcoholic, though. Just trust me. It might knock some of your feelings loose. Like an emotional laxative for constipated tough guys.” She sipped her own wine, enjoying the tight smirk that quirked his lips.
“Booze turns me into an asshole.”
“You’re already being an asshole. Double down. Let it all out.”
He shook his head, but ultimately put the glass to his lips. A deep swallow screwed his face up in a wince. “Jesus. Why d’you let me pick out wine?”
She took another taste, considering. “This is one of your better selections.”
“Tastes like cherry rubbing alcohol.”
“You’re just out of practice. Now choke it down and spill your guts.”
She realized in that instant that she was Flynn, tonight. He wasn’t necessarily being Laurel, but she was the take-no-bullshit partner, the strong one bullying the lost one into action. It felt nice. She fe
lt…taller.
He suffered through another gulp then set the glass on the floor beside him. He met her gaze. “I dunno what to say.”
“Just tell me what you’re feeling. Tell me why you pushed me away, when I tried to start something.”
“Like I said, I’m not ready.”
“Not ready because…?”
“Because…fuck. Because I’m still fuckin’ sad, okay?”
“About the miscarriage?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” She’d had no clue, in fact. He’d so thoroughly put her feelings first these past couple weeks, she’d come to assume he was doing fine with it all. “I wish I’d known.”
“Why? So you could feel even shittier than you already were?” The exhaustion in his voice left the sarcasm toothless.
“Ever since I found out I was pregnant, it’s felt like… Like you don’t think you get to have any opinions about any of it. Which I never agreed with.”
He took a deep breath, attention on the hands flexing restlessly between his knees. “I know.”
“But you clearly do have opinions, and you obviously need to vent them. So tell me about them. You feel sad about the miscarriage. How come?”
He finally met her eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?”
She supposed that, yes, it was. “You were hoping I’d keep it?”
He didn’t reply immediately, looking hesitant, lost. “Maybe. Maybe I was.”
Laurel moved, settling at his side with her glass. Sometimes it was easier to talk about heavy things when eye contact was off the table.
She told the far wall, “You were always allowed to want that.” A fresh chill settled over her, nothing to do with the cold floor beneath her butt. If I’d decided to end it, would you have resented me? Left me over it, in time? “I wish you’d told me. But I know why you didn’t.”
“Thing is, nothin’ about having a kid right now made any sense. It didn’t make sense for you, job-wise. It didn’t make sense for us, together, not this soon.”
“No.”
“It didn’t even make sense for me,” he said. “I mean, it’s not like I’ve been sittin’ around twiddlin’ my thumbs, wishin’ I was a father. Not at all. I see people around town with strollers lookin’ like they haven’t slept in a year and I think, ‘Thank fuck that’s not me, yet.’ And now that it’s gone, it’s not like I want us to try and get you pregnant all over again.”
“But…?”
He shrugged, the black of his sweater rising and slumping in her periphery. “My head was with you, with whatever you decided. But some other part of me…I dunno. It charged me up, imagining it. Or just knowin’ about it, knowin’ that was going on inside your body. I won’t lie, it felt really fucking profound.”
“I wish I’d known.”
“It might’ve changed what you decided. And I didn’t want that, not when it was just some feeling.”
“Feelings are important. More important than logic, sometimes. And it kind of scares me that I didn’t know how you felt. Like, if I’d decided to end it, what would you have thought of me? It’s my body but it’s your life as much as mine that would’ve been turned upside-down.”
“It was always your decision. The stakes were ten times higher for you.”
At a loss, she took a sip of wine and Flynn did the same.
“You know what I think bothers me the most?” he asked at length, setting his glass between his feet.
“What?”
“It’s how mismatched this feels. Like, how can I be so sure about us—ready to marry you, ready to raise a kid, with or without you—and you have no fucking idea what you want?”
She thought about that long and hard, emotions bubbling up to leave her face hot and no doubt red. “Because one of us knows themselves, and the other’s a fucking mess.” Her voice broke on the swear, and in a blink tears were stinging. She willed them away, not wanting to cry. Not wanting to seem weak, to give this man any reason to pull his punches when it had taken so much pushing to get him to be honest in the first place. Still, fear was rising inside her, gathering dark and dense as a storm cloud. Where’s this going?
He didn’t reply right away.
She’d never felt this cut off from him before, and it couldn’t be a coincidence that they hadn’t had sex in two weeks. Was that how it worked? Take the fucking away and they just fell to pieces? Was sex that powerful, or was what connected them simply that tenuous, when you got right down to it?
“Look at us,” he said quietly. “You’re ready to move on, and good for you. But me, I’m stuck feeling all this grief and shit, like the miscarriage started this morning. How can we be so fucking far apart?”
How indeed, when he was close enough for her to feel the heat coming off his body?
“I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve had the luxury of focusing on how I feel this entire time, and you’re only now just letting yourself think about it. Or because part of me was relieved by what happened, and you clearly weren’t.”
“Maybe.”
“I hope you know how much I appreciate you being there for me, through all this.”
“You told me every single day.”
“Good. It’s meant a lot. I don’t know how I would’ve survived it all, without you.” A couple days into the ordeal she’d told Anne what she was going through, and her friend had been great—eager to console and distract—but it had been Flynn’s strong and steady presence that had seen her to the light at the far end of the tunnel. “I only wish I’d known you were hurting this much, so I could’ve been there for you. We could’ve hurt together.”
“Maybe,” he said again.
“Maybe we’re not so far apart, after all.” She sought his gaze, nervous, desperate for some taste of connection, for proof their bond was still intact. “I feel like I let you down.”
He looked to the glass resting between his ankles, shook his head. “You didn’t know. I didn’t want you to.”
“Well, tell me what you need now.”
He raised his chin, attention somewhere in the middle distance. “Fuck if I know.”
“Time, probably. But anything else you think of, tell me.” If only his needs were as obvious as back rubs and ibuprofen.
“Do you want me to go?” she asked.
His lips twitched.
“It’s okay if you do. If you’re grieving, sometimes that’s easiest to do alone.”
He picked up his glass from between his feet, draining it then setting it on the table. He turned to face her and she did the same, surprised but relieved when he reached out to cup her neck. He urged her close and kissed her deeply, tasting as he never had in all the time she’d known him. Feeling as he never had either, his lust—if it could be called lust—tinged with something brittle and needy.
She couldn’t guess where he wanted this to end up, but she was prepared to find out, to go with him wherever he needed to be.
He grabbed at her hips and she took the cue, straddling his lap. Her skirt rode up, bare legs hugging his clothed ones. Hungry, coarse hands rubbed her thighs, thumbs tracing the hems of her panties at her hips then slipping beneath them.
His kiss matched the touch, feeling more like the Flynn she knew—masterful, if not entirely present. He tugged her close, her soft sex pressing along the seam of his fly and the hard flesh it hid. She nearly asked if he was ready, then caught herself. The time for assurances had passed. Perhaps action was best. Perhaps getting lost in the physical could help them find their way back to each other.
“You feel good,” she whispered against his lips. And he did. Rough and eager, and above all, controlled. The hands guiding her hips felt strong, showing her what he wanted. She gave it, rubbing their bodies together, her breasts brushing his chest, mouths losing grace until they broke apart completely. She pressed her lips to the spot where his jaw met his ear, let him hear how ragged her exhalations had grown.
“You want me?” he demanded, voice
rumbling through both of their bodies and lighting her on fire.
“So bad.”
“What’ve you missed most?” His tone was a touch cold, a touch callous, but she welcomed it all the same.
“You, being bossy.”
He ground her hard against him. “What else?”
“Your cock.”
He didn’t reply except to suck a long, guttural breath and bury his face against her throat.
Come back to me. She wanted all of him, but she’d take his sexual side only, if that was what was on offer. She’d take whatever iteration of her lover this was, let this sex be his solace or distraction, or her punishment.
Whatever he needed. Whoever he needed to be.
10
“What were you after, before?” Flynn asked, hands still guiding her hips, mouth at her throat. “Before I stopped you.”
“Everything.”
“What were you gonna do, once you got me out?”
Laurel swallowed. “Suck your cock.”
A curt moan answered her and his hands gripped tighter, nearly too much. A breath before she could ask him to be gentler, he let her go. “On your knees.”
I know that voice. She made her way to the cold floor once more. That voice belonged to a man she’d met last summer, a stranger named Flynn who’d invited her to this very apartment and showed her all the frightening things he liked in bed. A man who’d professed not to spoon and not to call women after he’d messed around with them. In time he’d proven himself a liar on both counts, but the man with her tonight… This could’ve been their first time together, for how familiar he felt just now.
He sat on the couch. Laurel knew better than to stroke his thighs or go for his fly as she had earlier—not without say-so. This Flynn was in charge, and she’d do only what he asked. What he commanded.
“Show me what you were gonna do, girl.”
She dipped her chin in a tiny nod. She reached for his belt, unthreading it slowly, her body buzzing, hands nearly shaking. She felt as nervous as she had their first night alone together, but just as excited. Wet, too. Ready for whatever he demanded of her.
She spread the thick leather of his belt and opened the button of his fly, then the zipper. Merino wool teased her knuckles, the sweater she’d chosen for a man she’d known so well, worn now by this thrilling and unnerving stranger. It was so soft, the body beneath it merciless and hard. She let the feelings move through her like a song hummed out of tune. Any fear she felt was welcome, a dark new shadow in a forest she tread in fearlessly.
