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.