The Pact Page 20

  I don’t know whether to be grateful or freaked out. I glance from my phone to Flynn’s face to my phone again. I can imagine Duncan’s head is spinning over the news that I’m married, but I’m not exactly mad about that.

  I’m just… I don’t know? Shocked? Confused? But also, oddly happy.

  The Flynn I met in Vegas was quiet, a bit surly even, but the Flynn who’s standing in front of me now, the one who just played texting-knight-in-shining-armor feels different. He’s still Flynn, but he’s more fun-loving, more open, freer with his words. He’s just…more.

  And all that more is really starting to get to your heart…

  “Dais, what good is having a husband if you can’t use him to run off douchebags?” His question is rhetorical and highlighted by an amused rasp in his voice.

  I look back up to meet his steady gaze and open my mouth to respond, but I quickly shut it when I realize I don’t know what to respond.

  His point is undeniable. The odds of Duncan texting me again are probably below zero now, and I’m not upset about that reality. The first time I met him, I thought he was just the office flirt, but the more I’ve gotten to know him, the more red flags have popped up. Truth be told, any man who feels a woman owes him something deserves a swift kick in the dick.

  “Promise me this,” Flynn adds. “If you end up back in LA, don’t let that fuck make you feel like you have to oblige him with your time.”

  His words sent a shock wave into my chest, and all I can do is nod.

  If I end up back in LA? Not when I end up back in LA? As in, maybe, I could end up in New York? With him?

  Don’t get your hopes up, Daisy. That’s not at all what he meant. He meant you’ll be free to be wherever you want to be in the country because you won’t have to answer to the government. Or him. Or anyone. You’ll be alone. Again.

  “How about that delicious cake!” I blurt, probably a little too loudly for our close proximity but the exact right volume to drown out my crazy thoughts.

  Flynn smirks, and with a flick of his wrist, he turns the mixer back on. It doesn’t take long before all the ingredients have been added and the batter is the kind of smooth, silky consistency that contestants on The Great British Bake Off would go gaga over.

  “Do we get to taste it?” I question, nodding down toward the bowl. “Pretty sure all good bakers test the batter before they commit to putting their cake in the oven.”

  “Oh yeah,” he answers.

  Dipping one long index finger into the bowl, Flynn lifts his batter-covered digit toward me and gently swipes it against my neck. The coolness of the batter makes me squeal out in surprise, but he’s undeterred. Lips to my skin, he sucks and licks at my neck until the batter is gone, and tingles proceed to shoot down my spine and straight between my thighs.

  “Mmm, it’s good,” he whispers against my neck. “But I need to check one more thing.”

  His big hands around my hips, he lifts me up and onto the kitchen counter and spreads my legs so wide that my skirt bunches up my thighs. One more finger into the batter, he swipes it across the skin of my inner thigh, just inches away from where the hem of my black panties begins.

  “Yep,” he says quietly and glances up at me with mischievousness lifting one side of his mouth. “I definitely need one more taste. Just to be sure.”

  “O-of course,” I mutter. “It’s always good to be sure about something like cake or cupcakes or brownies or anything with batter, really…”

  What are you even talking about right now?

  “Glad you agree,” Flynn says, and his warm breath brushes against my inner thigh. It’s a confusing sensation, the cold of the batter and the warmth of his mouth, but oh my stars, does it feel good.

  And it turns downright euphoric when he actually puts his lips to my skin and sucks at the sensitive flesh. His mouth lingers there, sucking and kissing, even occasionally drifting up and brushing against the hem of my panties.

  It’s heaven and hell. Delicious and painful. And the throb that’s taken up residence between my thighs grows so intense I shift my hips a little to try to ease the pressure.

  But it’s useless. I’m fucking turned on. Insanely turned on, actually. I want Flynn to keep kissing me, touching me, licking me, but I want him to do it everywhere. All at the same time.

  “It’s good,” he says and lifts his mouth off my skin. “But I know it’s no match for your sweet-as-fuck pussy.”

  Oh boy.

  His hands slide up my thighs, over the material of my bunched-up skirt and the fabric of my silk blouse. His fingers linger over my nipples, and I have to swallow the urge to moan.

  Eventually, both of his hands are gently holding my face, and our gazes are locked as we search each other’s eyes.

  “What are you going to do to me, Flynn?” I ask, hopeful that all this cake-batter tasting is actually foreplay that leads to something a little more hands-on…me.

  “First, I’m going to kiss you,” he says, and then, after a few soft brushes of his mouth against mine, he does.

  His kiss is sweet like cake yet spicy like sex. It’s gentle but demanding, and I want it to go on forever. But it doesn’t. The instant he pulls away, my lips turn down at the corners. Flynn notices, but the heat in his eyes tells me that he has plans.

  “And then, Daisy, I’m going to take you to bed,” he tells me and runs his hands through my hair. “I’m going to remove your clothes, and I’m going to kiss every fucking inch of you. Especially that birthmark that sits on your lower back, just above the curve of your ass.”

  The fact that he knows about that birthmark hits me square in the chest.

  “I’m going to kiss your breasts and lick your nipples,” he continues. “And I’ll probably stay there for a while. An hour, maybe two, because I’m obsessed with memorizing how every part of you works.”

  His hands move from my hair and slide down my arms until his hand gently grazes the apex of my thighs. “Once I’m done with your breasts, I’m going to do the same thing to your pussy. Lick it, taste it, eat it. And I’m not going to stop until you’re begging for my cock.

  “And by the time I spread your legs and slide inside you, I’m camping out there for the rest of the night. Until I can’t hold back from filling you with my come. Can I do that, Daisy?” he asks and brushes his lips across mine. “Can I take you to bed?”

  I don’t have to think about my answer.

  “Yes.” I wrap my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck. “Please.”

  With his lips to mine again, he kisses me slowly, lazily even, and the unbaked cake batter is a forgotten memory as Flynn carries me out of the kitchen and into the bedroom. And once my back hits the mattress, he removes my clothing.

  Each piece that leaves my skin is a teasing reminder of his words that are now replaying in my mind on a loop. And every cell in my body is anticipating what’s to come.

  I am at his mercy, completely naked and undeniably wanton for everything he has to give. His blue eyes blaze as he stares down at me, and I watch in rapt fascination as he removes his clothes. My eyes don’t miss the way his muscles flex with each precise movement or the fact that his cock is already hard, already ready to be inside me.

  “You’re so beautiful, Daisy,” Flynn whispers as he climbs on the bed until his body hovers over mine.

  So are you.

  And then, always a man of his word, Flynn does all the things he said he’d do.

  First, my mouth. My neck and shoulders. The curve of my back.

  Then every inch of my skin.

  And by the time he slides inside me, I am so overwhelmed with need I can’t see straight. All I can do is show him with desperate, greedy hands against his skin that I want more. That I want everything he has to give.

  It’s sweet and slow but passionate and deep. It’s everything I want and everything I didn’t know I needed.

  And it’s dangerously addictive.

  So addictive that you don’t want
this to end.

  Saturday, May 11th

  Daisy

  I wake up to Flynn’s side of the bed empty, the sounds of the shower running in the bathroom, and every muscle in my body reminding me of the dirty, wicked, ah-may-zing things Flynn did to me mere hours ago.

  I swear, I’m never going to hear the song “All Night Long” the same again.

  Thoughts of last night flood my mind.

  Flynn kissing my neck and shoulders and my breasts. His tongue lapping and sucking at my nipples. His face between my legs. His big, strong body hovering over mine as he slid inside me. All the things he whispered into my ear.

  The way his blue eyes caught fire every time moans would spill from my lips.

  The way he was gentle but deliciously rough at the same time.

  Damn, the man is a stallion with a wicked mouth and a big penis. Are you sure you don’t want him to be your real husband?

  I roll my eyes at myself and shift my focus to waking up.

  Hands over my head and toes pointed away from my body, I stretch out my arms and legs beneath the comforter. My muscles are sore and a bit achy, but it’s the good kind of discomfort. The one that serves as a delicious reminder of last night.

  Once I’m out of bed, I grab my favorite fluffy robe from the closet and stop dead in my tracks when I catch my reflection in the mirror.

  Are those hickeys on my boobs? And my freaking thighs?

  Fingers to my skin, I tap at the bruised flesh and deduce that they are, in fact, hickeys. But why I smile over that truth is something I don’t understand. Normally, I’d be a bit ticked off if a man marked me like this, but being marked by Flynn with a bunch of hickeys? I don’t know what I am, but it’s not mad.

  Because you l-o-v-e love it, you little floozy.

  Okay, fine. So what if I like the idea of Flynn marking me? Pretty sure any woman would love a man like him giving their body that much attention.

  A little niggle of discomfort sets up residence in my chest, and I write it off as another sign of my sex hangover. I’m probably a little dehydrated. Maybe even low on blood sugar, too.

  Uh-huh. Sure, that’s all it is…

  Instead of marinating in my brain’s early morning absurdity, I tie my robe around my naked body and pad into the kitchen. Once I start a pot of coffee—caffeine first, then water and food—I locate my phone where I left it on the counter, moments before Flynn’s and my cake baking turned to insanely hot sex.

  Though, before I start to check for missed notifications, I don’t miss the fact that Flynn has already managed to clean up our mess from last night. Come to find out, the more time I spend living with him, the more I realize that Flynn Winslow is a man who cleans up after himself.

  He’s like a unicorn of men. But minus the horn and sparkles.

  Oh, but he has a horn. And it’s hella big and sits smack-dab between his legs.

  I don’t know what it is about Flynn, but I swear on everything, my mind has never been this much of a horny harlot until he showed up.

  Phone in my hand, I swipe my finger across the screen and start rolling through any texts, calls, or emails I’ve missed.

  An email from Damien that is actually work-related and can be dealt with on Monday.

  A passive-aggressive email from Tara regarding the property in SoHo that I staged two days ago. She rambles on for about five paragraphs, but the gist of her words revolves around second-guessing everything I did with the place.

  Unfortunately for her, I already sent Damien and Thomas a few preview photos, and they both approved of my design aesthetic.

  Suck on that, Tara.

  Once I send Tara a friendly but equally passive-aggressive response updating her on the cold, hard facts, I check my text messages and find one from Gwen that came in a few hours ago. Dang. She must be up early.

  Gwen: Darling, I miss you. How is New York treating you?

  Me: I miss you too. And New York is good. Just staying very busy with work.

  And, you know, living with my husband that you don’t know about.

  Ugh. I cringe and run a hand down my face. Gwen is the one person I don’t lie to. Ever. And yet, here I am, lying to her.

  Gwen: Well, I hope you’re not working so much that you aren’t enjoying this glorious Saturday. What’s that famous saying? All work and no play makes you a dull girl?

  A laugh bubbles up from my lungs as I type out a response.

  Me: It’s actually “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” And that quote is from The Shining. It’s the part where Jack Nicholson officially goes off the deep end. Right before he tries to kill his family.

  Gwen: So, not a good quote for a happy Saturday?

  Me: Nope. LOL.

  Gwen: Bad quotes aside, do you have big weekend plans? Something fun, hopefully?

  Before I can even respond, Incoming FaceTime Call Gwen pops up on the screen of my phone.

  Oh boy. Nerves tickle my throat, and my finger hovers over the accept button, unsure of what to do. It’s one thing to lie to her through text message, but it’s a whole other ball game trying to do it while we’re face-to-face.

  Eventually, though, guilt wins out, and I hit accept by the third ring.

  “Darling! It’s so good to see you!” she exclaims, and a big grin consumes her face. Her excitement is infectious, and for a moment, I forget about everything but just being happy to see her. Sometimes I forget how lonely my life was before Gwen.

  “I missed you. How are Vancouver and the girls and David?”

  “Vancouver is the same. The girls are great. And David is starting to get on my nerves, so…” She shrugs but doesn’t say anything else.

  “So…?”

  “It means I don’t know how much longer I’m going to keep him around. You know I don’t like to strain my attention span.”

  I snort. “Poor David.”

  “No,” she disagrees with a little smile and a shake of her finger, always a proponent for women having the right to put themselves first like men usually do. “Not poor David. He’s become a stage five clinger—to the point that I had to tell him he could not, in fact, attend ladies’ night with me last night even though the rule is already right there in the name—so you should actually be saying Poor Gwen.”

  How she even knows the term stage five clinger is beyond me, but it’s one of the many reasons why I love her.

  “Anyway,” she hums, but her eyes squint a little when she notes the ambiance—Flynn’s apartment—behind me. “Where are you?”

  “Uh…at my apartment in New York.”

  “Oh, so this is the New York place.” Her eyes brighten with intrigue as she tries to see through the camera. “Very nice.”

  “Uh…thanks. I—” I start to answer just as Flynn walks into the kitchen, fresh out of the shower, with a towel wrapped around his waist, and heads toward the coffeepot. I know this because I can see him on the screen of my phone.

  Oh shit. Quickly, I spin in the opposite direction, so my camera faces the kitchen cabinets instead of the hot man in the towel.

  “You hungry, babe?” Flynn asks as he pours himself a cup of coffee, completely oblivious that his towel-covered ass just made an appearance in my FaceTime. “Probably going to run up the street and get some bagels.” Frankly, I’m pretty sure he’s clueless to the fact that I’m on the phone altogether. I’ll take things that happen when you’re known for rambling to yourself all the time for a hundred, Alex.

  He glances over his shoulder to meet my eyes just as Gwen’s brow furrows. I wave my hand behind the camera like I’m guiding in the next fighter jet to land on a naval carrier, but it’s too late. The towel-covered penis and rich, unmistakably manly voice of my fake New York husband have already made their debut. “Daisy?” Gwen questions, and her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “Is there a man in your apartment?”

  Flynn’s eyes are wider than I’ve ever seen them, the curiosity of exactly what kind of bungle I’ve gotten us into
now evidently overwhelming enough that he can’t suppress the emotion, and I suck my bottom lip into my mouth, completely unsure of what to say or how to handle this situation. I mean, Gwen knows about my recent move, but she knows absolutely nothing about Flynn or the fact that I’m a married woman.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “Daisy?” Gwen urges, and when I see the concerned look in her eyes, something inside me just snaps. I know I could play it off as a one-night stand or a short affair with a random New York man and Gwen would understand, but it just doesn’t feel…right.

  It’s time for the truth—or, at least, the closest version of it I’m willing to tell before my citizenship is settled.

  “Technically, I’m at his place. Our place. Well, our place temporarily.”

  Gwen just stares back at me through the camera. Clearly, I’ve confused her so much, she doesn’t even know what questions to ask.

  “I guess now it’s time to tell you that I have some news,” I state, and nervous laughter bubbles up from my lungs.

  “I’ll say.”

  “So… uh…as you know…I’m…uh…living in New York now.”

  “Yes. We’ve established that.” Her brow furrows in a way I know is more accusatory than confused. “You told me about the move when I got back from the cruise—I remember the conversation specifically. What I don’t remember is any mention of a man, any man, and certainly not one that you’re living with in New York.”

  “Well, it’s a crazy story…” I pause, trying to explain without Gwen focusing on the fact that I’m a big fat liar.

  “I’m waiting on pins and needles here, darling.”

  “So…that was Flynn…and Flynn is…” I pause again and swallow against the Sahara Desert that has migrated into my throat. “Flynn is…my husband.”

  Outright shock makes her jaw drop like one of those clowns at a mini golf course. “I’m sorry…did you just say husband? As in, till death do us part, grow old and die, one man for the rest of your life husband?”

  “She definitely said husband.”

  Those words aren’t mine, and they definitely aren’t Gwen’s. Eyes wide, I look up from the screen of my phone to find Flynn looking at me with a laid-back smile, as if it’s no big deal that we’ve just dropped a nuclear bomb of truth in the kitchen.