Chapter 31
The door opens while I’m seated cross-legged on the rug, attempting to lure Finch closer with a salmon treat.
I glance from Flynn to the clock on the wall, confirming it’s not suddenly later than I realized.
His Beers and Balls nights—which I can’t believe I know the name of, let alone adopted—normally last longer.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” His tone is somber as he sets his keys in the dish by the door and slips off his sneakers.
Finch stands, arching her back in a stretch, before delicately walking over to Flynn and rubbing against his ankle.
I drop the treat, relocating to the more comfortable couch. “I give up.”
“She knows playing hard to get will get more treats out of you,” Flynn tells me, walking over and sinking down on the cushion beside me.
Beneath his usual cologne, I smell cigarette smoke.
“More treats? She won’t even eat the treats I …”
Finch struts back to the rug, swallows the bite of fish, then continues padding toward the hallway—probably to go nap on Flynn’s bed—pausing briefly to sniff at the big box leaning against the wall by the bookcase.
“What’s that?” Flynn asks, nodding toward it.
“A climbing condo.”
“A what?”
“It’s basically a cat playground. It has four levels Finch can scale, a scratching post, and a hiding spot at the top.
I was trying to bond with her before I started assembling it.
” I reach for the open can of seltzer on the coffee table, swallowing a sip before saying, “Were the Yankees losing or something? You usually stay out later.”
“No, they’re winning.” He laces his fingers behind his head. “Just called it an early night.”
“Was Kit there?”
Flynn nods.
“Did he make any announcements?”
I suspected Collins was pregnant again after Lili’s bachelorette party, but Kit confirmed the news over the weekend, sending our entire extended family a photo of Dylan wearing a Big Brother shirt.
I figured Kit would tell his friends tonight.
I wasn’t sure what the boundary line was when you were fake dating the best friend of one of your family members—if I could or should have told Flynn when I found out.
“About the second kid? Yeah, he told the guys.” He sounds distracted, here but not physically present.
I’ve never seen him so detached or distant. Flynn is normally the definition of live in the moment.
Told the guys registers.
“You already knew?”
He nods again.
“For how long?”
“About a month?” Flynn thinks. “Actually, more like two.”
“So, basically, you found out when he did.”
“I guess.” He smiles, his strange mood seeming to fracture a little. “Kit can be kind of an oversharer. And I think this pregnancy being planned is freaking him out more, not less. He was so shocked last time that he couldn’t panic as much.”
“That makes sense.”
“You want kids, right?”
Shock sparks and spreads in response to the unexpected question. “Uh, I think so. Not now. But one day … yeah.”
“After the wedding?”
“That’s normally the order of things.”
One corner of his mouth lifts, creasing his cheek. “Not if you ask Kit and Collins. But you’re more traditional.”
He doesn’t say it as a question, but I treat it as one.
“I am.”
“You had a good example of it.”
“Having good parents isn’t a requirement to be a good parent, Flynn. You’ve met my grandfather. You seriously think Arthur was showing up to Crew’s tennis tournaments or my dad’s debate competitions? But my dad did those things for Wren and me.”
Flynn grins suddenly. “God, I forgot you did debate team at Dalton. You were such a nerd.”
“Shut up.” I shove his bicep, then quickly pull my hand back.
His smile fades slowly as he stares at the coffee table. “My dad had a good dad. And my uncle … he and Perry are real close. I think it’s me. That I mess everything up.”
“You don’t.”
Flynn scoffs, crossing his arms and sinking deeper into the couch. “Please. You know I do. When you were looking for Wren at Kit’s party, you said, and I quote, ‘That’d be useful knowledge, if you were ever reliable.’ That’d be one of Julian’s better lines, if he’d come up with it.”
I feel a little sick with the realization that he’s comparing me to his father. “Flynn, I didn’t—I was worried about Wren and—”
And I get flustered around you.
If I’d thanked Flynn for pointing me in the right direction, like I would’ve with anyone else, he wouldn’t have responded with, “You’re welcome.”
He would have asked if I was chaperoning the party or made some other teasing remark. So, I’d learned to antagonize first. I thought I could say anything to him, and it would run off like rain hitting a roof.
“You were right. I wasn’t reliable then. Only occasionally am now. And that’s because I actually need a paycheck, so maybe my dad was right all along.”
“He wasn’t. He isn’t. Everyone makes mistakes. That doesn’t disqualify you from anything. You’ve changed—you just said so. Your dad just needs time to see that. He’s trying to get more treats out of you, so to speak.”
Flynn half smiles.
“Once we get engaged and he gives you your trust fund … I think that will help. Money complicates everything, trust me.”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
We’re both silent for a minute.
“You want help assembling the cat castle?”
“Condo. And, yes, but I don’t really feel like moving.”
“How about chess, then?” He picks up the box on the coffee table.
“Says the guy who called me a nerd a minute ago.”
“Oh, I get it. You don’t know how to play.”
“Of course I know how to play.”
“You’re worried you’ll lose, then.”
“I call white,” I say, sitting up straighter as he slides the lid off the box, revealing the pieces beneath.
“Perfect. I wanted black.”
As I watch him set up the board, it occurs to me that’s a fitting metaphor for our … whatever this is.
Unexpectedly compatible.
“Do you know how to play strip chess?”
“Same rules, except clothes come off?”
He grins. “A-plus.”
I eye his shirt, tie, belt, and pants. He’s also wearing socks and, presumably, boxers. Whereas I’m in sweatpants and a T-shirt.
“You’re wearing more clothes than I am.”
“Am I?” The corners of his eyes crinkle. “How convenient.” He yanks his tie looser, then begins unbuttoning his shirt. Holds my gaze as he goes down the row, until a center strip of his chest is on display. “Want to play per capture or per check?”
I swallow hard, battling the urge to stare at the thin line of hair disappearing into his slacks. I’ve seen him naked dozens of times. His hotness should be white noise by now.
“Per check.”
Flynn nods, pulling the tie over his head and tossing it on the coffee table. “You start.”
I move a pawn from the d2 square to d4.
“Queen’s Gambit?” He takes the pawn. “Let’s do it.”
Eight moves later, he announces, “Check.”
I study the board, playing out a few possible strategies. He’s winning.
My sweatpants are the logical choice to lose first, so I lift my shirt over my head and toss it on top of his tie.
Flynn’s eyes go straight to my boobs. He’s seen me shirtless plenty of times, so that’s not terrible for my ego.
But one of my favorite things about Flynn is that he never makes me guess or assume.
He’s as blunt about his appreciation of my body as he is about everything else.
It’s sexy in the moment, and it’s also excellent for my self-confidence, always.
“If you were trying to make me not give a shit about playing chess, you’ve succeeded,” he says, gaze still fixed.
My breasts feel heavy and full. Tingling and sensitive, as my nipples harden to firm points.
Flynn groans as he registers the changes to my body too. Without glancing down, he lifts the board and moves it to the coffee table.
“That’s an automatic forfeit,” I inform him. “I win.”
“You were about to lose.” He crawls over me, crushing the pillows that are normally carefully arranged. “Which is why you took your shirt off.” His mouth lands on the side of my neck, planting an open-mouthed kiss on top of what I never realized was a sensitive spot.
I wrap my arms around his back, tilting my face back so he has better access.
“They’re just boobs, Flynn.”
“They’re your boobs, Florence.” He takes the left one into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the areola before blowing on the swollen tip. “Feel how hard I am?”
“Yes,” I gasp.
He’s so male. His scent, his weight, his voice, and most of all, the heavy erection rubbing right between my legs.
And no matter how many times I try to justify my reactions as hormones and pheromones and the psychological component of everyone thinking I’m dating this man, there’s some aspect of it that’s just …
Flynn. He makes me feel like the most desirable woman in the world.
And he does it during the moments I’m most myself.
Confessing I faked orgasms. Admitted I studied how to give a blow job. Playing chess.
I’ve had sex with other guys. Good sex—or what rated as good at the time.
But I’ve never experienced this before. Nothing—not self-consciousness or anxiety or responsibilities—matters.
Those typical considerations are all there, but they’re cloaked by a veil that allows me to temporarily ignore them.
Yet, somehow, I’m also aware of every detail.
Each individual heartbeat. Each freckle on Flynn’s nose.
My breasts rasp against the stiff cotton of his shirt, the friction minimal yet overwhelming.
“More,” I beg.
“Patience is a virtue.”
“Flynn,” I growl.
“Florence.” He mimics my tone.
I slide my hands higher, into the short strands at the base of his skull and up into the section of his hair that’s slightly longer. Scrape my fingernails against his scalp, which I’ve learned he loves.
He grunts, his hand squeezing my hip before it slides into the loose band of my sweats. “I can’t believe I get to fuck you.”
The pressure in my pelvis increases, the desperate urge to be filled by his hardness nearly unbearable. I wish that were the only part of my body affected. It’s not. My heart stutters in my chest before resuming a rapid rhythm to match my fast breathing.
“I’m not exactly feeling unlucky right now,” I admit, biting my bottom lip as his fingers stroke a line along the crotch of my soaked underwear.
Flynn is much better at this than I am. At teasing and flirting and touching. But he never makes me feel inferior, so I try harder for him than I have for anyone else.
“That feels really good.” My voice sounds nothing like normal. Husky and affected.
“You feel soaked. Did flashing me your tits get you this wet?”
“I …”
I can’t finish that sentence. Can’t even remember what I was going to say. Something about the strip part of the game being his idea. But he’s pulled my underwear to the side, and the skin-on-skin contact is too delicious to form words around.
I’m coming in seconds, Flynn’s filthy commentary—I’m so wet, so tight, his cock is so jealous of his hand right now—serving as the soundtrack to euphoria.
I wonder if he’d let me record him. I bet my solo sessions would be a lot quicker if I could listen to him.
He’d be amazing at phone sex. And maybe I’d be better at phone sex. Bolder.
Flynn withdraws his hand and sits up once the spasms stop.
I don’t move. I’ve learned this is another pleasant part of orgasms that don’t fade after a few seconds. I’m boneless, sprawled and splayed like a starfish with absolutely no desire to shift anywhere.
Until his erection bobs free from his pants, and I recall what feels even better than his fingers. I reach down, hooking the waistband of my sweats and my underwear and shimmying them down my thighs together. Kick them away to the floor, then relax back against the soft cushions.
Flynn is gripping the head of his cock, rotating his wrist, eyes hungry and heated as they skim across my exposed skin.
I lift my left knee, hooking my calf over the back of the couch. He had a good view before; now he can see everything.
“You fit better here.”
I still can’t take all of him in my mouth. And his broad palm isn’t wide enough to surround all the inches either.
A smile slowly spreads across Flynn’s face. “I fit perfectly in there.”
I don’t disagree. I’ve grown used to—come to crave, really—the sensation of being stuffed too full. Of spreading and stretching to take him.
He grips my left leg, pulling it off the back of the couch and using it to roll me onto my right side. Then settles under my raised thigh, straddling my right leg so my left leg lands on his thigh. His cock is right there, rubbing enticingly where I’m overly sensitive. Still. Again.
“This okay?”
I nod rapidly. Flynn isn’t just skilled at sex; he’s creative. He makes it fun, same as he does everything else.
I lift my head so I can watch as he thrusts into me, my entire body vibrating with anticipation as he slides deeper. It’s so good. Still. Again. Why is it so good? So different from anyone else?
“Look at me, or I’ll stop.”
My eyes meet his, kindling a different sort of intimacy.
“You’re taking me so well.”
His praise sparks more pleasure. Lights the firework that will inevitably detonate. I have full confidence it will be a when, not an if, I come again.
It’s perfect.
Of course it’s perfect, a voice whispers.
It’s all pretend.