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She does as she’s told, sinking her chest into the mattress and straddling her knees until her ass and pussy are all I can see. She’s so fucking perfect, I can’t help but run my tongue over everything in sight.
This Daisy—my Daisy—tastes better than any fucking flower smells.
Thank fuck she’s ready for me. I position and seat myself to the hilt in one aggressive stroke, making her cry out into the pillow beneath her head. Deeper and deeper, I push myself back into her on every downstroke, almost as though I can permanently attach myself if I try hard enough.
She meets my hips with her own, rearing back into me with fervor and zero inhibition, and I feel a twinge somewhere inside.
No woman has ever given herself over to me like she does—has submitted to the faith that I’m going to take care of her every need like Daisy is willing to do.
It turns me on and sets off all my alarms at the same time. Because the more I have of Daisy, the more I’m starting to wonder how I’m going to fill up all the empty space inside myself without her.
Monday, May 6th, New York
Daisy
I finish fluffing my curls, give myself one last look in the mirror, and then shut off the bathroom light to head for the kitchen. Flynn is still in there rooting around, getting ready for work. I can hear him, and the thought of seeing him after the things we did last night is both exciting and terrifying.
Ever since my seduction scene last Tuesday, Flynn’s been working my body in ways I never knew were possible. Backways, sideways, pretzelways—I’ve officially been in every position known to man. And every time, just when I think we’ve done everything there is to do, it just gets hotter.
Last night, he ate me from behind with a vibrating plug in my ass. My ass! The door I always thought would swing only one way. The thing is, I don’t even know how he convinced me—because he didn’t have to. I just wanted it. Everything Flynn does feels good. Everything Flynn does takes me to a place of freedom from thought I didn’t know existed. And he does it in a way that I don’t even question it.
But the more nights I spend not questioning the things he’s doing with my body, the more days I spend very much questioning just what in the hell it is we’re doing here.
In a couple months, this whole charade is going to be over, and what? I’m just supposed to be ruined for all other men for the rest of my life?
I don’t know. I don’t know what Flynn’s thinking or what his plans are when our time is up, and I don’t know what he even does when he goes to work every day, and the absolute fuckton of mysteries are starting to wear on me.
Hell, I’m still wondering about that whole fortune-teller thing Winnie revealed at lunch a few weeks ago. Although I’m pretty sure the only reason I haven’t asked him has more to do with fear and that I’ll find out he’s supposed to marry some six-foot blond, Swedish supermodel named Greta than anything else.
So far, I know he goes to the gym with his brother a few nights a week and that he gets private work calls well outside of his nine-to-five. And according to his sister Winnie, I’m not the only one in the dark. As far as I can tell, everyone in Flynn’s life is.
You also know that he’s into kinky sex, which has taught you that you’re into kinky sex.
It’s true that I might be an emotional freak in the streets, but Flynn is a freak between the sheets. I didn’t even know that sex could feel that good until him. And sure, some of that has to do with that well-endowed penis he’s packing, but a lot of it has to do with the way he knows how to take control, the way he knows how to work my body, and the intuitive way he always knows just how far to push my limits without making me feel unsafe.
I grab an apple from the drawer in the fridge and some peanut butter from the cabinet and put it on a plate so I can cut it up, all the while Flynn scrolls through his phone and puts his coffee cup to his lips silently.
I’m not sure what breaks inside me while I watch him, his perfectly chiseled jaw and his dark, damp hair curling around his forehead, but when it does, I can’t stop myself.
“Where do you work?” I ask without preamble, dropping my knife on the counter and leaning into it while I wait for him to look up to me.
Bright-blue eyes find mine and search, and then he sets his coffee cup on the counter. “At 1350 Sixth Avenue, Manhattan. On the twelfth floor.”
