Chapter 9

Flynn

I send her a text. I get no answer, my expression twisting when I note it’s been almost immediately read. She might be busy, I reason, so I chuck my phone down on the couch cushion, telling myself I’ll leave it a while. I flick on the TV, a little fucked off.

Two one-night stands months apart is hardly the foundation of an addiction, but maybe I should be examining this. Is my eagerness a warning? Bad enough that I’ve been thinking about her since the wedding. What’s that about? We fucked, and while I was sleeping, she fucked off. That should’ve been that. End of. Her prerogative to leave, and certainly no skin off my nose. Only, it wasn’t like that. Not then and not since. In St Lucia, at the wedding, I was frustrated that she wasn’t there the next morning, but I shrugged it off. Ate my brekkie under an endless blue sky that reminded me of home, then boarded a plane back to London, my second home. And then . . . I might’ve thought about her a little. Usually with my cock in my hand. But I haven’t obsessed. No way.

But yesterday—what the fuck was I thinking? I sure as shit wasn’t thinking with my big head. Yesterday was all little head thinking. I didn’t consider the consequences of planning some half-cocked seduction, only that the ingenuity or the cuteness factor might get me laid again. If I’d thought about it properly, I might’ve realised I was running the risk of feeling like this again. Used. Not good enough. Because despite saying all was hunky-dory waking in an empty hotel room, I was still left with a sense I’d been dumped like a used cock sock—a used condom.

It gives the adage “treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen” a whole new meaning. I mean, I’ve never had that mindset with women personally, but I can tell you it feels pretty shithouse being on the receiving end. The reverse psychology has totally worked on me because I feel like I need to see her again real soon. And what the fuck! I didn’t even get a full night out of it this time before she had me pulling up my jeans, saying her brother might walk in. She couldn’t get rid of me quick enough. So why am I so eager to get into her knickers again?

With a huff, I chuck my head back against the sofa, ignoring the itch in my fingers to pick up the phone. Until, what do you know, it rings.

‘How do you have my number?’

No hello, no I’m just returning your call. No après sex coyness or seduction. All the same, I’m still smiling.

‘Magic.’

‘No, really,’ Chastity huffs.

‘I should’ve been called Mike,’ I say with a happy sigh. ‘Magic Flynn just doesn’t have the same ring to it.’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Her words run together a little too easily, which makes me think she might’ve been drinking. ‘Something tells me you’ve got moves Mike couldn’t compete with.’

‘Was that a compliment?’ Alert the press!

‘It might be,’ she says, all teasing tone. She’s definitely been drinking. The only compliments she’s ever paid me were in the throes of sex.

‘Duchess, I’ve got moves you wouldn’t believe.’

‘I’m always suspicious when a man needs to blow his own horn . . .’

‘Have you met me?’ I say, pointing at my bare chest like she can see. ‘I don’t need to blow myself.’

‘You probably could if you tried.’ Her words are an equal weight of titillation and taunt. This woman. I find myself laughing, a deep burst of laughter springing from the depths of my chest.

‘Two compliments in one minute? Watch yourself, you’ll get a nosebleed.’

‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ she says crisply, her tone all business. Chastity is the kind of woman who can cut you down from the knees with a look or a sharp word. I wonder if I’m turning into a bit of a masochist? It’s hard to reconcile her with the girl telling me she’s imagining me with my lips around my own dick.

Note to self: Find out her favourite tipple for next time we’re in touching distance. Tipsy chicks are fun.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ I respond. ‘I’ll answer your question if you answer mine.’

‘Are you going to ask me what I’m wearing? What colour lingerie I have on?’ Before I have a chance to protest or correct her, she carries on. ‘Pink. And lacy.’

I close my eyes and tip back my head, my mind going exactly to there. Pale pink . . . no, dusky. Same as her nipples.

‘Right, my turn.’

‘Sorry, duchess. While that was good to hear and imagine, it wasn’t what I wanted to ask.’

A frustrated noise rattles down the line before she adds, ‘Oh, go on, then.’

‘On a scale of smashed to just tipsy enough to legally consent to me coming around and fucking you senseless, exactly how drunk are you?’

‘The latter.’

‘Right, I’m putting my boots on.’

‘You’re funny, But that’s not happening. Again, I mean.’

‘That’s cute.’

‘I mean it, Flynn. We can’t keep doing this.’

‘What, you mean we can’t fuck once every six months?’ I say, trying to get a rise out of her. A man’s got to get his kicks somewhere.

‘No,’ she answers softly, not taking the bait.

‘Then I guess you’re never gonna know if I can blow myself.’

I find my smile widening at the sound of her snort-giggle and not at the thought of blowing myself. I’m not being interested in the taste of my own dick, unless it’s a part of some kind of girl-to-Flynn transference. Plus, I’m pretty fit but not a fuckin’ yogi.

‘You can’t stop a girl’s imagination, Flynn.’

My reply? Just a groan. A carnal groan. God bless this petite blonde purveyor of porn.

‘My turn,’ she demands, all business again. ‘How’d you get my number?’

‘Chastity, I’ve been inside you twice. Don’t tell me you feel violated by me being able to call you once in a while.’

She sighs. ‘No, that’s not exactly it. I’m just trying to work out who the snake is. The Judas in our mutual social circle.’

‘We have a mutual social circle?’ That’s news to me.

‘It’s more like an oval—imagine a Venn diagram.’ I’d rather imagine her tits in or out of pink lace. I’m not fussy. Sadly, I sense she’s on a roll, and as such, probably not receptive to my preferred topic currently. ‘That little overlap between my circle and yours is pretty small, but someone inhabiting that tiny space is trying to make you and me a thing.’

‘By giving me your phone number?’

‘Exactly!’

‘I don’t know how to break it to you,’ I reply, rubbing a knuckle against the corner of my eye, ‘but no one’s trying to fix us up.’ Though Keir seems to think some kind of relationship between us is inevitable. A man can’t live by one-nighters alone. I’ve done pretty good so far—two for two with Chastity—so it shows what he knows.

‘Then how did you get my number? No one has my number,’ she repeats in a slightly panicked tone. What the fuck!

‘That can’t be true,’ I half say, half laugh. ‘How else would people contact you? Is there some kind of bat signal I’m supposed to use? A big light I have to install on the roof with a secret sign?’

‘Flynn’, she says gravelly. ‘You remember what I do for a living?’

‘It’s not the kind of thing you forget.’

‘My business is exactly the reason few people have my number. I have a business number too, but I pay an answering service to screen those calls. Do you get what I’m saying?’

‘That you get all kinds of fucked-up calls.’ All levity disappears, my molars suddenly clenched tight as her words settle in my gut like a lead weight.

‘Well, that’s the least of it,’ she answers softly.

Fuck. ‘What else?’

‘This is not a conversation I want to have on a Sunday afternoon. A Sunday afternoon following a delicious brunch and some good company.’

‘Don’t forget the decent flow of cocktails?’

‘Yes, that, too.’

‘Some other time then?’ I press, suddenly needing to know exactly what it is she means as all kinds of bullshit runs through my head. Dirty phone calls? A stalker? Threats?

‘Maybe, if you tell me which of them gave you my number. My money’s on Keir, by the way. Paisley’s just not that good of an actress.’

‘It wasn’t one of our friends, but you’re not gonna like it all the same. And just so you know, I like brunch, too.’

‘Jealous much?’

‘I’m always jealous of people who get to spend time with you.’ Shit. Talk about over-reaching.

‘Flynn . . .’ The way she says my name? It’s like disappointment, but it’s a ruse because I can hear the smile in her voice, too. ‘You’re not supposed to say things like that,’ she says softly.

I sigh as though anticipating a brush-off, but my sigh is also a ruse because what I say next is nowhere near beaten down or overcome. Quite the opposite.

‘I took your phone,’ I admit.

‘When?’

‘When you waddled your way to the bathroom. You know, after we’d fucked.’

Boy, did we fuck. I’d picked her running leggings from the floor, chucking them on the kitchen bench. Turns out, her phone was in a concealed pocket and the way it hit the worktop didn’t sound too healthy. So I unravelled the fabric and pulled out her phone, just to check that it wasn’t busted.

‘Waddled? Are you suggesting I’m duck-like in some sense?’

‘Don’t you want to know how I got into your phone?’

‘Right now, I’m more concerned what you mean about me waddling.’

‘Remember, you’d been well and truly ducked at that point.’

‘You’re such an odd man,’ she says so softly, I wonder if she’s talking to herself. ‘Was it my gait? My wobbling bottom? What?’

I groan like I’m in pain. ‘Chastity, you can’t tell me about your lacy pink undies, then remind me about your fantastic arse. Not unless you really want me to put my boots on and come around there to make you waddle again.’

‘Oh . . . so you were the cause of my waddle.’ Her answer is sort of scornful, like I’m talking myself up or something. For the record, I don’t need to. And she knows it. We both do.

With the meat of my palm, I palm my meat. ‘You were wet.’ Unexpectedly, my voice sounds rough as I recall the kitchen. Her bare arse on the bench and my forehead propped on her shoulder, I’d felt content to stay there forever, cocooned in the warmth of her body. Plus, I happened to be staring down at her tits. But she’d stirred beneath me, so I’d stepped back, sad for the loss of her immediately. Her pussy was pink. Wet. Glistening. Fucking perfect. But I didn’t have long to appreciate the view as she’d hopped down from the worktop. ‘I expect you were waddling because you were trying to stop cum from running down your legs.’

It’s wrong, but I want to do her bare. Paint her in my cum. Watch the stuff seep out of her and run down her legs.

‘Oh, well. I-I’m glad we’ve had a little chat. That we’ve cleared up some things. It was nice chatting with you,’ she says quickly and through gritted teeth, if I’m not mistaken. ‘So . . . goodbye!’

I’m left with a hard-on, a smile, and a phone beeping emptily in my hand.