Epilogue - Chastity

‘Well, looky who I’ve found here . . .’

I jump at the sound of Flynn’s voice. I hadn’t realised he was still in the house.

‘You’re not supposed to see the bride before the wedding.’

‘I’m pretty sure you’re also not supposed to sleep in the same bed as the prospective groom the night before. Or have sex with him. Unless you’re the stripper, of course.’

I shoot him a glare. ‘Strippers aren’t sex workers.’

‘And that was a joke that fell flat on its arse.’

‘That’s okay, I’m used to your poor sense of humour,’ I reply, turning back to face the mirror to tame my hair. ‘And no one has their bachelor party the night before the big day, anyway.’

We’re getting married in a couple of hours and though I’ve said those words out loud at least a dozen times this morning, it still doesn’t seem real.

‘Christ.’ Behind me, Flynn shivers, no doubt recalling his own buck’s night. It took him two days to recover from what he described as feeling a bit dusty, when wrecked was clearly a more suitable word.

‘I’ve a confession to make.’

I don’t turn, rather lift my eyes to his reflection again. Dark pants and a crisp white shirt, the jacket to match hangs on a wooden hanger on the back of the door. Which is unusual in itself—the man is a bit of a slob. But that’s only obvious when contrasted against my type A personality, apparently.

Yes, we’re still keeping up the verbal foreplay.

It’s safe to say that things haven’t really changed between us in a lot of ways. In the year we’ve lived together, I’ve lost count of the number of times Flynn has driven me to the edge of despair just to drag me back again by kissing the grouch out of me. The grouch he’s often responsible for in the first place. We still bicker and argue but that just means we get to make up more. You could say we’re experts at that bit. Just like we’re experts at loving each other, too.

‘Do you want to hear it?’ he asks.

‘Your confession? Go on then, but make sure it’s worth hearing.’ I put down my comb, grateful for the distraction. ‘You’re eating into my beautification time.’

His mouth hitches in one corner and he shakes his head. ‘You can’t improve on perfection, babe.’

Something bright and warm and perfect blooms in my chest but I don’t have long to ponder it as, in several large strides, he’s in front of me, grabbing my chair by the arms. Like it weighs nothing—like I weight nothing—he lifts it, turning me to face him.

I might squeal and giggle a little, my heart pounding as he drops to his knees.

‘Forgive me, Chastity,’ he begins, his tone a fake kind of sombre. ‘For I have sinned.’

I place my hand on his head in a gentle benediction. He’s recently had a haircut, the short dark hairs on the back of his head a soft bristle against my palm.

‘You weren’t a choir boy, or else you’d know confession isn’t done with your head in your confessors’ lap.’ At least, not last time I went to church.

‘Depends on the church of your choosing, duchess.’ His tone takes on that husky bedroom quality of his as he trails his hands up the backs of my legs, from ankle to knee. ‘Because you are the altar at which I worship.’

With a deft flick, he moves the sides of my robe open, our collective breaths hitting the air in a rush as he pushes his hands between my thighs, spreading me wider.

‘You’re fucking perfect,’ he whispers. His eyes roam my skin, setting my every nerve ending alight.

‘Flynn . . . ’ I’d meant it as a warning, not a encouragement as he lowers his head, slipping his thumb between my slick lips to expose my clit.

‘So pink and perfect.’

I’m aware of everything and nothing all at once. The knot in my belly under his splayed hand. The tremble in my thighs as he lifts my leg over the arm of the chair, spreading me impossibly wide. The devil in his expression as he raises his gaze to mine, his tongue flicking out to deliciously caress my heated flesh. His first touch is electric, my back bowing as I thrust against him.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ I cry out, tightening my hand in his hair as though to contain the pressure—the sensation.

One flick, one lick of my full length, Flynn begins spreading open mouthed kisses along my wet flesh as he begins making out with my pussy.

‘Last time I get to eat you out as your boyfriend,’ he rasps, the words echoing through my insides. ‘Better make it good.’

‘So good,’ I whimper. ‘So fucking good.’

‘There she is. There’s my dirty girl.’

I feel so swollen and desperate and kind of dissolute. We’re supposed to be getting married in a couple of hours and I suddenly don’t feel very bride like—not at all. And he’s right. I am a dirty girl—his dirty girl, as I tighten my grip in his hair and begin rocking into his mouth, taking my pleasure from him.

I ache, my pussy pulsing emptily, every inch of me hungry for his touch. And as though he could discern my wishes just from my moans, his lips cover my clit as he thrusts two fingers deep inside me. Sucking and thrusting. Licking and finger fucking. His actions undo me, picking apart my soul, stitch by stitch, only to put me together again in a rush.

‘Come on, Chastity,’ he’d whispers. ‘Come for me. Come on my tongue.’

Everything inside me draws tight, my spine an impossible arch as I throw my head back against the chair. I want to watch, want to see the slide of his fingers and his tongue. See the pleasure on his face as he groans against my pussy.

But it’s all too much—my arms grasp the back of my chair as though to prevent my fall. But I do fall. I give into him. Give into the needs of my body.

‘God. Oh, God. I’m—I’m—’

Unable to process the waves of pleasure pulsing through me—the rush and sensation of a heat so thick and overwhelming, I feel I’m sure to burst. And when I come to, dizzy and panting, Flynn stands above me, loosening his pants.

This man owns me, body and soul. Just as I own him.

His fingers slide from my throat down, the backs of his knuckles ghosting the hardness of my nipples.

‘How did I get to be so lucky?’ His next breath is sharp as I lean forward, wrapping my hand around the base of his cock.

‘Looks like you’re about to get very lucky,’ I reply, sliding my tongue the length of him. I kiss his tip, swirl my tongue around his silken head.

His eyes squeeze shut as though taking a moment to graps control, and when he opens them again, he releases a masculine groan as he slides his hand to the back of my head.

Pleasure shimmers through me, joy, power, and a sort of ownership. Flynn isn’t what I’d call a man of few words. Quite the opposite. That I can make him lose the power of speech is some achievement, I feel.

He shifts his hand through my hair, snagging his fingers on a knotted curl. My complaint is non-verbal though it makes his body bow, his hips jutting forward as an encore, feeding me as much of his length as I can take.

‘Chastity  . . . Fuck, look at us. Look at you.’ His hand still in my hair, he twists my gaze to meet his in my dressing table mirror. ‘You look so beautiful with my cock in your mouth.’

My breasts bounce a little and my cheeks are hollowed as I continue to work him with my tongue and my lips.

‘I’m going to fuck you,’ he rasps. ‘I want you to feel me everywhere. And when you’re standing in front of me in your pristine dress, I’m gonna know what’s going on under it. I’ll know how aching and wet you’ll be, just waiting for the next time we fuck. But this time as husband and wife.’

His words and dark expression deepen my arousal. My breathing erratic as I groan around his cock. His languid gaze slides from the mirror, dark lashes almost kissing his cheeks.

‘Put your fingers inside your pussy,’ he demands. ‘Spread your legs.’

I do as I’m bid. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an expression so avid, his eyes flicking from the mirror where he fills me to between my legs, where I fill myself.

‘Fuck, that’s it. Faster,’ he commands.

I try, but it takes some co-ordination. It’s like rubbing your tummy while simultaneously patting your head. But I’m wet, so wet, the sounds on my slick fingers seeming to do something to him.

‘Circle your clit.’ He moves the hair from the side of my face to better see himself sliding in and out of me. ‘Make yourself come for me.’

Oh, God. Just the sound of his dark command is almost enough. Almost, but not quite. But it doesn’t take long, a second orgasm building on the first.

In the year I’ve loved Flynn, I’ve had more orgasms than I’ve eaten roast beef dinners. Fact. I no longer have problems in that department at all. Not with him and not without, though my ménage à moi is enhanced by his sometime audience.

As I begin to pant around him, he pulls me up from the chair, his hands hooking around my thighs as he carries me to the bed, following my body down to the mattress.

He enters me slowly, his dark blue gaze intent on my own, our joint appreciation hitting the air as hungered, helpless sounds. My arse in his hands, he lifts me, setting the pace and depth as I pulse around him, squirm under him. He fucks me deeply, thrusting from tip to base, then feeding me short jabs of his hips.

And I love it. Love it all.

‘I can feel you pulsing around me,’ he grunts, driving his cock into me like my body is something he owns. ‘Tell me how it feels.’

‘I-it feels like I’m yours.’

‘That’s right,’ he rasps, pinning me into place. ‘I own this pussy. I own every inch of you. From your wild curling hair to your abundant heart.’

I grind against him as he whispers his sweet filthy promises, whimpering and calling out his name again and again, the edges of my last orgasm tied to this one.

And when I’m an aching and sated, a sensitive twitching mess, Flynn brings my hands to my head, pinning them there against the bed. His arms shake as he delivers long urgent strokes, his face contorted in ecstasy as he finally comes.