Chapter 2 Flynn
Flynn
I wake up to the soft, steady sound of her breathing against my neck and the weight of her thigh thrown over mine as if she owns me.
She does.
The fire burned low sometime in the night, but the cabin is still warm because her body is pressed flush to my side, one arm tucked under my ribs, her tits soft against my chest. My morning wood is already raging, trapped between us, and the thin cotton of her panties is the only thing keeping me from sliding home right this second.
I don’t move. I stare at the ceiling and let myself feel it: my wife in my bed, in my arms, after twelve goddamn years of pretending I didn’t miss her every single day.
Sure, I didn’t know we were actually married, but I still missed the woman I met that one crazy night.
I haven’t even been with another woman in the time we’ve been apart.
She stirs. Makes this tiny, sleepy sound that punches me straight in the chest. Her leg shifts higher, brushing the length of my cock, and I bite back a groan.
Her eyes flutter open. Big, dark, still hazy with sleep. When she realizes where she is, she freezes.
“Morning, Vixen,” I rasp.
Color floods her cheeks. “Morning.” Her voice is husky, embarrassed, and so fucking cute I almost smile.
Almost.
Instead, I roll us so she’s on her back and I’m braced above her, forearms caging her in. The quilt falls to her waist, exposing the thin T-shirt she slept in, the one that’s ridden up just enough to show the curve of her hip and the edge of black lace panties.
She swallows hard. “Flynn…”
“Item two,” I say, low. “Tie me up like a present.”
Her pupils blow wide.
I reach the nightstand where I left the ribbon that had been tied around the fireball bottle. I dangle it in front of her face.
Her nipples are hard little points under the cotton, and she’s trembling so hard the mattress vibrates.
I wait.
She lifts her arms above her head without a word and lays her wrists together on the pillow.
Jesus Christ.
I loop the ribbon around her wrists once, twice, then tie it to the iron headboard. Not tight enough to hurt, just tight enough that she can’t get free unless I let her. The red looks obscene against her pale skin.
She tests the knot once. Her face melts into something raw and needy.
I sit back on my heels and look at her, spread out beneath me, chest rising fast, thighs pressed together like she can hide how wet she already is.
“Still with me?” I ask.
She nods, biting her lip so hard I’m scared she’ll leave marks.
I lean down and kiss, until she’s arching up, trying to get friction, wrists jerking against the ribbon.
Then I pull back, and she whimpers.
I strip the quilt all the way off, drag her panties down her legs, and toss them aside. She’s bare, glistening, thighs trembling.
I spread her open with my thumbs and look.
“Flynn,” she whispers, half plea, half warning.
I blow a cool breath across her clit and watch her hips buck. Then I settle between her legs and feast.
When I slide two fingers inside her, she clenches so hard I nearly come myself. I curl them, stroke that spot that makes her see stars, and keep my mouth on her until she shatters. Her back bowing off the bed, wrists straining against the ribbon, a broken cry ripping out of her throat.
I don’t stop. I keep licking her through it, softer now, drawing it out until she’s shaking and begging.
Only then do I crawl up her body, untie the ribbon, and kiss the faint red marks on her wrists.
She wraps her freed arms around my neck and kisses me like she’ll die if she doesn’t.
Eventually, I roll to the side and pull her into me, her back to my front, my arm locked around her waist like I’m afraid she’ll vanish.
She traces the ink on my forearm with one lazy finger.
“So,” she says, voice still hoarse, “that was item two.”
I press a kiss to the mark I left on her neck. “Two down.”
She laughs softly. “You’re insane.”
“Probably.”
She goes quiet for a minute. “Tell me something real, Flynn.”
I tighten my arm around her. “I never forgot you. I’ve thought about you every day since we met.”
Her breath catches.
“Your turn,” I murmur.
She’s been quiet for so long, I think she won’t answer. Then she says, “I kept the napkin. The original one. It’s in a book in my apartment. I used to take it out and read it when I was lonely.”
My heart feels too big for my chest.
We lie there until the fire needs another log and our stomachs start growling.
I make coffee and pancakes while she steals one of my flannel shirts and walks around barefoot, hair a wild mess, looking like she belongs here.
We eat at the table, and we talk. Really talk.
I tell her about my time in the military. About the friends I carried lost and the nightmares that still wake me up. She listens without flinching, fingers laced with mine across the table.
She tells me about growing up with her great-aunt after her parents died, about the corporate job that’s been slowly killing her soul, about how the inheritance money is supposed to be freedom but somehow feels like another cage.
“I thought if I came here and got your signature,” she says quietly, “I could finally close the door on the wildest thing I ever did.”
I squeeze her hand. “And now?”
She looks around the cabin (at the fire, at the single bed, at me), and her eyes are soft and scared and hopeful all at once.
“Now I’m not sure I want any doors closed,” she whispers.
I stand up, round the table, and pull her into my lap right there on the kitchen chair. She straddles me, arms around my neck, and we hold each other while the snow keeps falling outside.
Afternoon slides into evening. Every time our shoulders brush, or our fingers touch, the air crackles. By the time the sun drops behind the peaks, the cabin is warm and smells like her.
I bank the fire high, then crook a finger at her.
“Item three,” I say. “Blindfolded and pleasured with ice.”
She raises a brow. “Already?”
“There are only four more days till Christmas.”
I grab the black bandana from my drawer and a cup from the kitchen. I quickly open the door and scoop it full of fresh snow from the porch. Then I set it aside.
Her eyes go dark.
I tie the bandana around her head, gently but firmly, knotting it at the back. The world goes black for her, and every one of her breaths shakes.
“Trust me?” I ask again.
“Always,” she breathes.
I strip her slowly. When she’s naked and trembling in the firelight, I tip the tin cup. The first icy drop lands on her collarbone.
She gasps, arches.
I follow it with my mouth, sucking gently, scraping my beard along the path until she’s writhing.
Drop after drop down the slope of her breast, circling her nipple until it’s a tight, aching peak. I close my mouth over it and suck hard. She cries out, hands flying to my hair.
I catch her wrists, pin them to her sides. “No touching. Just feel.”
Another drop, this time lower, over her ribs, her belly, and the crease where thigh meets hip. I lick every trail clean, slow and thorough, until she’s begging in broken whispers.
When I finally drip the melted snow right onto her clit, she screams, her hips bucking off the couch. I pin her thighs wide and lick her clean, tongue flicking, circling, relentless.
She comes so hard her whole body locks up, thighs shaking around my ears, my name a sob. She’s boneless, trembling, thighs slick, chest heaving.
I strip fast, shirt and sweatpants gone in two rough jerks. My cock is already aching, leaking, so hard it hurts. The firelight paints her skin gold and rose, every curve glowing, every mark I left on her shining like badges.
I crawl over her, brace on one forearm beside her head, and use my free hand to drag the head of my cock through her soaked folds. She jolts, a broken sound catching in her throat.
“Still with me, Vixen?” I rasp.
She nods frantically, hips tilting up, chasing friction. “Please, Flynn… need you inside me.”
I notch myself at her entrance and push in, one long, slow glide that steals both our breath.
She’s impossibly hot, impossibly tight, clenching around me like she’s trying to pull me deeper, keep me forever.
I bottom out and have to stop, forehead pressed to hers, teeth gritted so hard my jaw aches.
“Fuck,” I groan. “You feel like heaven.”
The blindfold hides her eyes, but her mouth is open, lips swollen, little gasps puffing against my cheek with every tiny shift of my hips.
I start to move, slow, deep, deliberate strokes that drag over every sensitive spot inside her.
The wet sound of us is obscene, perfect, mixing with the crackle of the fire and the wind screaming outside.
Every time I pull almost all the way out, she whimpers.
Every time I sink back into the hilt, she sighs my name.
I hook one of her knees over my elbow, opening her wider, changing the angle until she cries out. “There?” I growl.
“Yes, yes, right there, don’t stop—”
I don’t. I fuck her relentlessly, grinding against her clit on every downstroke. Her whole body starts to shake again, thighs quivering, breath hitching. I can feel her fluttering around me, that tell-tale pulse that means she’s close.
I slide my hand between us, thumb finding her swollen clit, rubbing tight circles exactly how she likes. She arches so hard that only her shoulders and heels touch the mattress.
“Come for me, baby,” I order against her mouth. “Let me feel my wife come all over my cock.”
The word wife undoes her.
She comes with a shattered cry, pussy clamping down so hard my vision whites out. I slam home one last time and let go, spilling deep inside her in thick, pulsing waves, groaning her name like a prayer. The pleasure is so intense, my arms nearly give out. I barely catch myself before I crush her.
We stay locked together, breathing ragged, sweat cooling on our skin. I reach up and finally tug the blindfold free. Her eyes are glassy, wet, utterly wrecked, and so full of something that looks dangerously like love, it steals whatever air I have left.
When I finally pull out, she makes a soft, protesting sound and tries to keep me inside with her legs. I chuckle, low and wrecked, and collapse beside her, dragging her into my chest.
Her fingers find the dog tags I still wear, tracing the raised letters of my name like she’s reading braille.
“Three down,” she whispers, voice hoarse.
I press my lips to her temple. “Nine to go.”
She curls tighter against me, one leg sliding between mine, palm flat over my heart.