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.