The Pact Page 6

  Flynn doesn’t respond, only shifting slightly in his seat and changing the shape of his shadow on the wall.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb your…quiet time or whatever. I just had to have another drink. P-a-r-c-h-e-d, that’s me.”

  This has to be the weirdest, most awkward wedding night that has ever occurred.

  My eyes close of their own accord, embarrassed for all sorts of reasons. Though, mostly due to the fact that I’m stuck inside the body of a lunatic.

  “My mind…it keeps running and running like it’s Usain Bolt or something,” I ramble, because, well, why not? It’s not like Flynn hasn’t caught on to the reality of my manic mental state. I mean, I was like this before he married me. You know, when I hopped onto his bike without even knowing his first name. “Big night, huh?” I question, even though I know the odds of him answering are slim to none. “Lots of shifting life parts or whatever.” I stick a fist in the air and do some kind of weird cheer thing, and that’s when he moves. Up and out of his chair, he comes toward me, stalking almost, his walk is such a prowl.

  My back hits the counter as I try to work my way through the concrete, but it’s no use. Between one breath and the next, his front is six inches from mine, and I can’t seem to keep any air in my lungs.

  “You’re worked up,” he says, his big hands tenderly running a path up my arms and knocking my equilibrium right off planet Earth and catapulting it straight to flipping Mars.

  All I can do is nod.

  “Too worked up.”

  I nod again.

  “You know what I think you need?”

  “A tranquilizer dart to the neck?”

  He smirks, shakes his head, and his hands go to my hips. My mouth gapes, and before I know it, I’m two feet to the left and my bare ass is on the cold stone of his counter and a rush of pent-up frustration floods between my legs.

  Hell’s bells, why am I so turned on right now?

  “You can’t seem to calm down, and in order to sleep—which I haven’t been able to do in two fucking nights thanks to babysitting my drunken brigade of brothers—I need you to.” His voice rumbles and rasps in the most delicious way, like it’s my own personal ASMR soundtrack, only suited to what triggers my desires. “So, I’m thinking the only way to make that happen is to fuck the anxiety right out of you.”

  Time halts and my ears bleed—and my soul? Well, I’m pretty sure it just up and leaves my body.

  Holy shiiit. Is this happening right now?

  Please, please, please say this is happening right now.

  Flynn

  “Do you think I’m right, Daisy?” I ask her. “Do you think you need me to fuck the anxiety right out of you?”

  She nods, and the way her green eyes blaze makes my cock grow hard beneath my zipper.

  Fuck me.

  Daisy gasps as I cover the flesh of her bare ass with my hands and pull her closer to the edge of the counter. With pressure on the insides of her knees, I spread her legs apart to the point at which I know she’s on the brink of pain and grab a handful of those sexy goddamn curls to pull her head back and expose her throat.

  “Do you want this? Yes or no.”

  “Yes.”

  A long, purring moan rolls out of her mouth, and her eyes flash with both surprise and arousal.

  I seal my lips to the skin of her neck and suck, the sweet perfume of her body making the tip of my nose tingle. It’s been several months since I’ve had sex, but it’s not been from lack of opportunity.

  Truthfully, I’ve been bored—unexcited—and if there’s one thing about me that’s absolute, it’s that I don’t ever do anything with the intention of going through the motions. Sex without pleasure, words without meaning, friendship without life enrichment—it’s all frivolous. I don’t need pointless fucking, and I don’t need pointless people. Period.

  That said, I don’t have to be in love either—quite the contrary. All I need is the thrill of a partner who’s willing to push the limits with me. Someone who’s interested in doing more than lying back and spreading their legs. Someone who’s open to being pleased and eager to please me in return.

  And if there’s anything I’ve surmised about Daisy Diaz in the last four hours, it’s that she’s extremely eager to please.

  Her knees rise up, skimming my sides and tucking into the flesh just above the bones of my hips. Her core gyrates toward me, and her tension increases. Her body bows with each breath, suggesting she’s all too eager to get my cock inside her dainty little cunt.

  I push her knees wide again and sink down to the floor, and the direct view I get of her bare pussy is enough to make my cock jump inside my jeans. She smells sweet, and I can tell without even touching her that she’s making my counter wet.

  “I’m going to tongue you so deep, I’ll remember the taste of you every time I eat in this kitchen.”

  Her fingernails dig into the muscles of my shoulders through the thin material of my T-shirt, and my cock swells some more. If she got off on that, this is going to be good.

  “Lie back,” I instruct, reaching up with a flat hand to press on the center of her chest. She acquiesces immediately, and the new position makes it that much easier to get her legs as wide as they’ll go and anchor her heels into the cool concrete counter.

  Her breathing is heavy, her whole body shaking, but for the first time since I met her this afternoon, she’s quiet. And it’s not because she’s scared—I can tell by the glisten on my finger as I run it around the rim of her pussy—she’s excited.

  I skim my finger over her clit, eliciting a moan and a jerk of her hips, and then suck the juice off the surface of her pussy. She tastes like a cherry popsicle on a hot summer day. Fuck.

  Easing her open, I push one finger inside, and the squeeze of her around me is enough to make me sink my teeth into the flesh of my bottom lip. It’s a stretch, so I go gently, but adding a second finger to the first is as sweet as I imagine.

  “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself and your tight little cunt into, Daisy. But I’m sure as hell about to show you.”

  “Oh my God,” she breathes, her legs shaking so hard you’d think Vegas was experiencing an earthquake. I run my hands up the length of her thighs firmly, settling them in their place again.

  My dick throbs in my pants, and I know I can’t wait any longer to taste her again without breaking in half from the anticipation. With steady hands, I hold open the spread of her legs and put my mouth to her pussy. It spasms against my lips, inciting a pointed flick of my tongue at the entrance before dipping it inside to really drink her in. She’s soft and supple and every bit of the woman I imagined she’d be when I first wrote her off.

  She’s immaculate—tidy—and used to a certain amount of restraint. Her back bows, and she scratches her hands at the top of my head, desperate to find purchase in the dark locks of my hair, though. And I know it’s because the way I’m eating her—the messy, voracious strokes of my tongue—is better than anything she’s ever felt before.

  I suck and stroke and lap at her patiently until I’ve drunk every drop of come her pretty little pussy has to offer and make it give me more. It spasms and quakes with her orgasm, and the sound of her howl echoes off the walls of my kitchen like a boomerang. She’s as slick as silk, and my cock is going to love the feel of her around me.

  Standing softly, I unbuckle my belt and undo the button of my pants. She’s motionless, the only indication that she’s still with me, the heave of her returning breath.

  I realize that then I don’t have a condom. Ironically, I should’ve had the foresight to have one in my pocket to keep a drunken Ty out of trouble this weekend, but apparently I dropped the fucking ball.

  My cock is pulsing, damn near purple from arousal, and Daisy is right here, with her thighs spread and her pussy wet with need.

  Fuck.

  “I don’t have a condom.”

  “It’s fine,” she breathes out in a raspy, needy voice, but
her eyes are still half closed. “I’m on the shot. I’m clean. And I haven’t had sex in, like, eleventy-billion years.”

  Her commentary almost makes me laugh, but again, I’m so fucking hard right now, I could hammer nails.

  A rational guy like me doesn’t have unprotected sex, but tonight, I don’t fucking know. I can’t stop looking at her, staring at how gorgeous and downright tempting she looks with her legs spread wide for me.

  And you sure as shit can’t find the will to stop whatever is happening here.

  “I’m clean too,” I tell her, and like a fucking masochistic psycho, I slide a finger inside her to remind myself of how damn good she feels.

  “Then we’re all set.” A tiny moan escapes her lips, and she wiggles her hips closer to my hand. “It’s allllll good. All set to consummate,” she rambles, and it’s only then that she gathers enough strength to lift her head from the counter, her glazed-over eyes landing squarely on my girth. “Uh…wow…” She licks her lips. “Uh…you’re…”

  “Big,” I finish for her. It’s not a brag or a flex or some stupid ego type of bullshit. It’s just a fact. To be honest, I’ve found it scares more women than it excites.

  “How… Is that… Is it going to fit?”

  “Oh yeah. I made sure your sweet little cunt would be ready for me.”

  And just imagine how she’s going to feel wrapped around your cock…

  Fuck.

  I don’t miss the way she swallows hard, the bob of her throat visible even in the moonlit kitchen.

  “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

  Her head stutters, but she ultimately nods. By the fifth or sixth bout up and down, it’s much more resolute. “Yes. I-I want you, Flynn. I need to know what you feel like.”

  Fuck it. I can’t hold back. I have to be inside her, too.

  Her words hit like a buzz, sending my mind into a tailspin of naughty—really fucking dirty thoughts. If she wants to know what I feel like, I’m going to make sure her pussy walls remember every goddamn stroke like I’ve written them in braille.

  Sunday, April 7th

  Daisy

  I pull open the bedroom door—Flynn’s bedroom door—to the hallway, my clothes back in place thanks to a stealth mission at the crack of dawn and Flynn’s folded T-shirt in my arms, and head for the kitchen. I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at the door, working up the nerve to come outside and face everything I did last night in the light of day, but it’s bordering on way too long.

  His bed. The walls. The black chair in the corner in front of the closet. They all know things. Things I’m not even sure I knew about myself before Flynn opened up an erotic portal to a place I’ve never been before.

  Sweet land of the living, the man is…well-informed about the female body. He knew all the spots, all the buttons to push. I swear, if I weren’t sure it would make me sound entirely crazy, I’d consider asking him if he went 50/50 with God on all the details of the clitoris.

  Deep breaths in and out, over and over again, I straighten my spine and force myself to walk toward the kitchen with my head held high. I’m a strong, independent woman. So what if I had insanely hot—condomless—sex last night with my husband who isn’t really my husband but a conduit in helping me get a green card. It’s no big deal.

  No big deal? Ha. That’s cute.

  Surprisingly, the room is completely quiet as I step inside, and Flynn is nowhere to be seen. The counter pulls my attention immediately, and a tiny crimson tidal wave starts its ascent up the skin of my throat.

  That counter…knows the details of my labia.

  Shocked by my own thoughts, I squeak, cover my mouth, and power walk across the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and taking a peek in the fridge. I’m happy to find some orange juice—the vitamin C is definitely needed today—that’s within its expiration timeline and pour it into the waiting vessel.

  “Finding everything okay?” Flynn asks, making my heart shoot through a self-inflicted hole in the ceiling. Cripes. Maybe I’m more on edge than I thought.

  But, gah, what am I supposed to be like? I got married last night. Not in practice, of course, but in documentation, and hell, the mind-bending sex probably added at least a little fine print at the bottom.

  At least, for me, it did. As per usual, I don’t have a flipping clue what he’s thinking.

  Casual and calm as ever, he walks past me to what’s becoming known as the cabinet and gets himself a glass, filling it once again from the tap.

  Does he ever drink anything other than water?

  He’s showered, damp hair curling softly around the backs of his ears, and he’s dressed in a slightly different version of the same outfit from earlier last night. Black jeans this time, with a light blue T-shirt that makes his eyes seem otherworldly.

  God, he looks good.

  And I can’t seem to stop myself from taking in the view. The insanely hot view, mind you, and before I know it, I’m taking a mental inventory. I don’t want to forget even a sliver of what’s in front of me when I’m back home in LA, with only my hands and a vibrator to satisfy myself.

  Wide, muscular shoulders? Check.

  Prominent biceps? Check.

  Slim but firm stomach showing through the material of his shirt? Check.

  And a delectable hint of a perfectly equipped bulge whispers secret promises of what I know lies beneath those jeans of his? Check. Check. Check.

  The beauty that is his body is just standing there, proffered to me like the most delectable meal on a silver platter. If I had to compare his physique to anything, I’d say his body is reminiscent of those hot Olympic swimmers who make it very apparent they spend hours upon hours in the pool.

  Before I know it, I’m blurting out a question. “Have you ever…swam competitively?”

  “No…” Flynn glances up from his phone, which I didn’t realize he was holding in front of himself, and cocks his head to the side. “Why?”

  Because your body looks like someone sculpted it out of fucking stone, and I’m wondering if what I did last night was the best thing for me.

  I realize that Flynn’s and my marriage arrangement isn’t fueled by love at first sight and butterflies. If anything, we’ve entered into a business contract without any hint of emotion. Besides, well, him feeling bad enough for my situation to take pity on me and offer up his pseudocommitment.

  But he’s my husband. Temporarily, sure, but still my husband. And you should definitely fuck your husband before you get a divorce.

  Right? Yes.

  I did the right thing last night.

  A memory of Flynn’s hips between my thighs, his hands to the counter behind me as he thrust inside me so powerfully my teeth chattered, plays like a film behind my eyes, and I have no choice but to close them and gather myself. Oh, yeah, you SO did the right thing.

  “Uh…no-no reason,” I manage to mumble, gathering myself enough to place his T-shirt on the counter next to him with a small smile before walking around to the other side to sit down on one of his stools.

  It’s only seconds before my mind runs away again, back to last night and the bad and sexy things that happened to make this a slightly less sterile environment.

  I picture my head falling back and my heart rate skyrocketing and Flynn’s warm breath as he grunts softly into the skin of my throat. Good gracious, he’s hot. Like, forgive me, Father, for I have really, really sinned kind of hot.

  Dirty, crude, uninhibited…I will never forget the sound of him whispering in my ear and telling me to fuck him like I wanted to be fucked.

  His hips slowed, his chest slick with the effort he’d put into leaving an impression inside me, and I’d wrapped my arms around his shoulders and ordered him to carry me to bed.

  And carry me to bed, he did. His bed, in fact, with careful, measured steps while his cock was still pressed to the hilt inside me.

  I swallow, my hand drifting down to just above my pubic bone, where there’s been the
most delicious ache rolling through me since I woke up alone in his bed this morning.

  Geez, Daisy, get yourself together here. There’ll be plenty of time to remember all the details of your night together when you get back to LA—alone and horny and desperate to make yourself come.

  Flynn is quiet and focused, his eyes back on his phone as he scrolls through something, and my eyes flick from the strong, chiseled lines of his face to the clock on the microwave display behind him.

  Shit. “It’s already nine?”

  Flynn’s eyes flit up to mine, considering me for a moment, and then he nods. “Yes.”

  I jump up from the stool and hustle toward the front door where I know I dropped my purse upon arrival last night.

  Flynn’s footsteps are soft, but not so much so that I don’t hear the pattern of them following me down the hall at a slightly slower pace. With the length of his legs, however, I’m sure he’s keeping up with me.

  I grab my phone from my purse, saying a small prayer that it still has some battery juice, and scroll over to the Uber app to call myself a car.

  “Have somewhere to be?” Flynn asks then, making my head whip up from my phone and my lips roll into my mouth.

  “Oh yeah. I’m sorry, but I was supposed to be at another work function about half an hour ago.”

  He raises his shoulders nonchalantly. “Of course. Do you want me to take you back to the Wynn? I have to go anyway.”

  It’s a nice offer, one I’m not sure I’d be able to resist if I didn’t have a reason, to be honest. “Thanks, but no. It’s a brunch at an old client’s house—not at the hotel. I don’t know much about Vegas geography, but I’m pretty sure it’s in completely the opposite direction.”

  I search his eyes for disappointment and could almost swear that I see a flash of it, but the amount of trust I have in myself right now, in my current state of emotional turmoil, is minuscule at best. Frankly, I’m probably just projecting.

  I lick my lips, tightening my grip on my phone to get up the courage I need before suggesting, “I-I would like to get your phone number, if that’s okay. And give you mine? I’m pretty sure I’m going to need to send you some immigration paperwork at some point, and this is probably the easiest way to get in touch with me.” I laugh at myself, self-deprecation all too ripe with the evidence of my current situation. “Clearly, I can’t be trusted with the mail.”