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“You like my dirty mouth, huh?” I ask.
He rolls the condom down his cock and then leans forward, hands braced on either side of my head as he finds my entrance. I’m tender and a little sore but I don’t want to stop. I want to lose myself in him again and again.
“I fucking love it, Blondie.”
I roll my hips up and encourage him forward, getting rewarded with a low, rumbling moan in my ear. Flynn’s hung. And unlike some hung guys, he doesn’t rely on his size. He knowsexactlywhat to do—what spots to hit and how to set a good, hard pace. One hand slides up my thigh, lifting my leg up so he can push deeper.
“I love your dirty mouth, your dirty mind, your dirty outfits. That catsuit, myGod.” His mouth covers mine as he drives into me over and over. “It’s like you were made to torture me.”
I laugh and press my head back into the pillow, the sound turning into a soft moan as he hits a good spot inside me. It’s like Flynn knows my body, knows every part of me. He knows how to turn me on, how to make me smile, how to push my buttons.
Hedoesn’tknow you. He knows Blondie.
My alter ego. The spiced-up, rebellious, armour-wearing version of me.
You’re going to get hurt.
“I like you, Blondie.” The words are whispered against my ear. “All of you.”
“I like you too, Mr. Suit.”
He rolls and pulls me on top of him, and I feel powerful and beautiful and free. My head is screaming at me to back away, but I can’t. I’m addicted to how he makes me feel. Addicted to the red shade of his hair, addicted to the feel of his hands on my skin, addicted to his half smile and blue eyes and stiff upper lip.
I like him a lot.
It’s a rebound, nothing more.
But as he looks up at me, like I matter to him—like this isn’t just casual fucking—I’m not so sure I know what this is after all.
The next morning I reach for my phone and turn it on. It immediately lights up with a dozen notifications, texts and voicemail messages. All from Presley.
With a heavy sigh, I get out of bed and reach for Flynn’s shirt. My catsuit was...uhh...damaged in its enthusiastic removal last night, so I have nothing to wear and for some reason I don’t want to sneak back to my own apartment yet. So I shrug on the shirt and take my phone out into the living area to call my sister back.
She answers on the first ring. “Oh, my God, I was so worried that something had happened to you! You walked out and then you wouldn’t respond to my messages and my imagination started spinning and—”
She hiccups and I cringe. “I needed some space to think.”
Yeah, “thinking” was exactly what you were doing.
“I’m glad you’re okay.” She sighs. “About last night—”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’snotfine.” Presley sounds like our mother when she gets like this. “We’re fighting.”
“Are we?” Yeah, I’m being a stubborn bitch. Sue me, I’m hurt.
“Don’t be like this, Drew. I want to make sure everything is okay.” Her voice wobbles and I feel worse. “You’re the only person I really care about having at this wedding.”
I snort. “How does Mike feel about that?”
“Asidefrom him. Obviously.” She huffs. “But the rest of them could turn up or not, and I honestly couldn’t give a shit.”
I smirk. “Anne Presley Richardson, I am appalled at your language.”
“Says you, potty mouth.”
It’s weird, but I can hear her smile. Yes, hear. Being twins isn’t quite the “psychic connection” that some people claim, but thereissomething special connecting us. Something deeper. I feel her emotions keenly.
