Chapter 24
When I wake up, there’s no light shining through the curtains. Just a thin strip illuminating a slice of floorboards, shining through my cracked door.
I roll on my back and close my eyes again, attempting to fall back asleep.
I left the hall light on when I went to bed since Flynn wasn’t back from drinks with his friends.
I ate a late dinner alone—orzo with premade pesto—trying not to picture the athletic, intriguing women who likely frequent sports bars to watch Yankees games.
Five minutes later, I still haven’t fallen asleep. I climb out of bed and pad toward the door, deciding I’ll grab a glass of water.
Flynn’s bedroom door is wide open, the hall light bright enough that I can see the bed is neatly made.
I don’t know a ton about baseball, but I do know the games don’t last until the middle of the night.
Nausea settles in my stomach, making water sound unappealing.
I continue toward the kitchen anyway, freezing when I reach the end of the hallway.
Flynn is asleep on the couch. Shadows play across his face from the television, which is on but muted.
Finch is curled up on his chest, also sleeping.
Relief and other even more confusing feelings flow through me as I stare at the cozy scene. I wish I had grabbed my phone so I could take a photo.
I … like having Flynn here. It was too quiet and empty earlier. His absence felt as foreign as his presence had when he first arrived.
I tiptoe the rest of the way to the kitchen, grabbing a glass out of the cabinet and filling it with water.
Finch wakes when I retrace my steps, letting out a low hiss before she stands, arches her back, and jumps off Flynn. I was already taking her hatred personally. Seeing her show him affection has me extra miffed.
“I’m the only reason you ever met him,” I whisper as Finch paces past me down the hallway.
“Rory?”
I spin back to face the couch, cheeks flaming. “Hey. Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up. Just grabbing some water.” I hold the glass up as evidence, like I need an excuse to be in my own kitchen.
“It’s fine.” Flynn sits up, yawning, then stretching. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep out here.”
I walk closer rather than return to my room. “Did you have fun with the guys?”
“Yeah, it was nice. Yankees won.” He yawns. “How was your day?”
“It was good.” I take a seat on the coffee table, setting my glass on one of the coasters. “The prosecutor dropped the charges in the robbery case.”
His eyes light up. “Congrats. That’s awesome.”
I smile. “Yeah. The client was pretty pleased. He actually, uh … he asked me out on a date after.” I rub my big toe against the fluffy rug.
Flynn was about to run a hand through his hair. His arm drops. “What did you say?”
“That there was a policy against dating former clients. And … that I wasn’t single.”
His gaze sweeps lower, from my face to my silky pajamas. It’s the same set I was wearing when he surprised me at Scarlett and Crew’s. I wonder if he recognizes them.
“What’d you have for dinner?”
“Pasta. With the pesto you made. There are leftovers in the fridge, if you’re hungry. Or if you want to take some for lunch tomorrow.”
He nods, checking his watch. “Fuck, it’s late.”
But he doesn’t stand.
“What are you watching?” I glance at the screen. Ads are playing.
“Dunno.” He runs a hand through his hair. “It was a football replay when I fell asleep.”
“Your mom texted me earlier.” Philippa asked for my number before we left the Parkses’ house last weekend. “She asked about dinner, Labor Day weekend. I have Lili’s bachelorette party, but if you’d rather it just be the three of you …”
“Definitely not,” Flynn says swiftly.
“So, I’ll suggest the weekend after?”
He exhales. “Sure. I forgot about the bachelorette party. You guys are going to Montreal, right?”
I nod.
“Should I propose before then so you don’t have to make up any other policies?”
I smile. “Lili and Wren will be there. I’m sure they’ll be the ones attracting most of the attention.”
Flynn holds my gaze, appearing dead serious as he says, “I’m not.”
My blood feels carbonated again.
“You look hot.” He was hard in the bathroom.
I wouldn’t say Flynn has ever hit on me. What he has done is make me feel sexy and desirable—what these pajamas, purchased at the start of the summer after my boyfriend publicly announced he preferred someone else, were supposed to accomplish.
I reach for the remote, turning off the television. “I’d like to wait to get engaged until after Lili’s wedding. I don’t want to distract from her big day. I know it’s a while to wait, and you want your trust fund as soon as—”
“It’s fine,” he interrupts. “I figured you’d want to wait until then.”
“You did?”
He nods. “Yeah. It’s classic, considerate you.”
“Don’t you miss sex?” I blurt.
Flynn is silent. My cheeks feel like they’re on fire.
“Is that an invitation to set off the smoke alarm the next time you’re in the shower?” he asks. “Because I can see your nipples through that top, but you got full frontal.”
I’m sitting down, yet I feel a little lightheaded. I’ve always taken some pride in my ability to hold my own against Flynn. But this is a different game, and he’s the more experienced player.
“I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“You looked on purpose.”
I don’t deny it this time. “Yeah, I did.”
We stare at each other.
I break eye contact first, glancing down at my silky tank top. “Can you really see …”
“Yep. Why do you think I wouldn’t let you talk to the cops? You would have been arrested for indecent exposure.”
Impossibly, my face burns hotter. “I-I had no idea. These pajamas are new.”
“I like them. Think about them a lot actually.” He reaches past me, thumb grazing my knee, grabbing the water glass I set down and taking a sip.
I squeeze my thighs tight together, trying to ease the throbbing there. And then think, Why? I’ve wondered what sex with Flynn would be like before. This awareness isn’t new; it’s just become impossible to ignore. I’m single. He’s single. Everyone thinks we’re together.
He watches me, tongue swiping to collect a water droplet on his lower lip before he sets the glass back down.
Take a risk.
“We could …”
Flynn rests his elbows on his knees. “We could what, Florence?”
I love and hate that he’s making me spell it out. He knows exactly what I’m trying to suggest. Yet he’s allowing me full control of where this conversation goes.
“We could have sex. While we’re doing the fake-dating thing. As long as …” I force myself to hold his gaze. “Would it, uh, bother you that it takes me a while to come?”
I can’t believe I just said that. I might as well have announced, I’m bad in bed. Want to fuck me anyway? But I already mentioned that tendency to him, and it’s not like he won’t notice.
“The only thing that would fucking bother me was if you tried to fake it. Sex isn’t for the guy to get off solo. If he came, you should have too.”
I’ve never been more attracted to someone. To him. Not just his face or his body, but his assured confidence. It doesn’t strike me as cocky. It makes me feel invincible, simply being in his orbit. Like we’re on the same team. Like we’re partners.
I grasp the hem of my tank top, lifting it inch by inch until the silky fabric blocks my view, then falls to the floor.
He looks. I want him to look, but it doesn’t make my being topless feel any less vulnerable.
Flynn reaches out, sliding his hands up my thighs. When they reach my hips, he tugs, pulling me onto the couch with him.
My knees land on either side of his legs, sinking into the soft cushion so I wind up straddling him.
I can feel his cock, hot and thick and hard, directly between my thighs, rubbing exactly where I want him.
His hands leave my hips once I’m on his lap.
I can’t pull in a full breath as his palms pass over my ribs, moving closer to my breasts.
I’ve never been more aware of my own body, of my hammering pulse and rapid inhales as I audibly react to his touch. My inner muscles clench around nothing, wanting him inside me. My breasts feel heavy and full, the brush of air against my pebbled nipples practically intolerable.
He cups them, and I moan.
“Such pretty tits,” Flynn says, then sucks my left nipple in his mouth.
I gasp as his tongue circles the point. His teeth scrape sensitized skin.
My hands slide into his hair, needing something to hold on to.
Also attempting to ensure the erotic torture continues.
He chuckles, the vibration fueling my impatience.
I squirm on his lap, grinding against his erection.
Desperate for more friction there. Everywhere.
His mouth moves to my other breast. Slowly, his tongue leaves a wet trail across the valley between my cleavage, like there’s no sense of urgency at all. If the evidence of his arousal wasn’t under me, I’d think he was entirely unaffected.
I’ve never been the impatient one. I’ve always encouraged foreplay, hoping it would make me come faster and avoid the letdown of leaving dissatisfied.
Is this Flynn proving a point, or is he always this attentive?
I banish the question immediately because the thought of Flynn doing this with other women bothers me a lot more than it ever has before.
I reach between our bodies, toward his waistband, so I can stroke him. Ridiculously eager about the prospect of seeing his penis again. At touching it. He’s bigger than any other guy I’ve been with. Skill matters more than size, in my experience, but I’m unconcerned Flynn lacks the former.
One hand circles both of my wrists, pinning them behind my back. “Not yet.”
“Why not?” I whine.
Flynn smirks. “Not very polite, Florence.”
I’m too overwhelmed to correct his use of my first name.
I roll my hips into his. “I need more.”
“I know.” He nips at my collarbone. “You’ll get what I give you.” His tongue trails a lazy, wet line down my chest. “What’s your favorite position?”
“Uh …” My brain is blank. Not only because his mouth is close to my boobs again, but because I have no clue of the answer. “Under?”