He draws the zipper down and I suck in another breath as he slides his hand under my panties. He dips his head, trailing kisses down my neck as he parts my folds, gathering the wetness at my core before seeking the hardened bundle of nerves at the top. His strokes are slow but sure, like he’s taking his time exploring every inch of me, discovering where to touch, how much pressure to use to leave me gasping. He hits a spot that sends pleasure spiraling through me and I arch into him, squeezing my fingers behind his neck.
I feel him smile against my skin. “Oh, you liked that, did you?”
“Again,” I say.
Flynn nips at my neck, a sharp sting that only makes me hotter. “So demanding. I don’t know whether I should reward you if you’re going to be greedy.” His fingers stop their ministrations and I lift my hips, chasing his touch.
“Please, Flynn.”
He hums. “Good girl for begging. If you can hold off until I say so, I’ll let you come. No lifting those hips though or I’ll carry you to bed and leave you wet and needy. Understood?”
“Yes,” I breathe, forcing my hips back down because at this point I’m an addict for his touch.
He finds my clit again and rolls tight circles over it. Pleasure rises inside of me with each passing touch until I’m clinging to him, my nails digging into the backs of my hand as I hold back from the cliff I’m barreling towards.
“I need to come,” I pant.
Flynn shakes his head. “Not yet.”
I squeeze my legs together, stars bursting behind my eyes. “Please, Flynn,” I beg.
Flynn groans at my words, his eyes turning hooded as his gaze locks on my parted lips. “Now,” he says. “Come for me, Little Lilac.
I fall apart on his fingers, my clit pulsing under his touch as my arousal soaks my panties. I collapse back onto the door, the night air cool against the sweat on my skin. It takes me a while to catch my breath, but when I do the reality of what just happened threatens to steal my bliss.
Flynn presses a kiss to my forehead. “No thinking, Lilac. Not tonight.”
Apparently, his order is enough to stop the oncoming storm because I let myself sink into his arms as he picks me up and unlocks my front door. Flynn carries me through the hall into my bedroom and for the second time this week, I’m tucked into bed by a serial killer.
Stalkers and Blankets: A biography by Hazel Halloway.
Eventually, I drift off to sleep, telling myself tonight was a one-time thing. That, in the morning, I can go back to ignoring Flynn and pretend nothing ever happened.
And maybe I’m getting better at this whole lying thing, because I almost believe it.
10
A SOCIOPATH’S RULES FOR LIVING
Flynn
The silence issudden as I stop under a tree in the parking lot and cut off my bike engine.
Graveyards are always like that, no one ever seems to visit at the same time. It’s just you, the quiet, and a load of dead people buried under the ground.
I used to like cutting through the cemetery on my way home from school. I’d sit against one of the headstones with my sketchpad or camera and watch the people as they came to visit their loved ones.
I got obsessive and admittedly a little morbid about it, drawing people in their grief. Like if only I could capture every detail, then I could figure out how to feel that emotion for myself.
I didn’t cry when Hope died but I felt it. The pressure in my head built worse than it had ever been before and it didn’t go away until I choked the life out of the first man in that video.
Are you going to visit me or what, Flynny?
“Yeah, yeah.” I kick the stand down and climb off my bike. The roses I bought are squished a little from being in the top box, but I take them anyway.
Hope’s grave is in the far corner of the churchyard, under a willow tree. I haven’t visited since I got arrested but Lachlan must have been coming by because the grass around the modest headstone is neatly trimmed.
I crouch down and lay the flowers against the mottled gray stone.
