Willing Victim (11 page)

Flynn made a happy noise and his arms tightened. They lay quietly for ten minutes, until their collective breathing was even, sweaty bodies cooled. Flynn pulled away, got to his feet, wandered across the apartment to switch on the lights. Laurel sat up and watched him putter, tossing clothes from his gym bag into a hamper. He disappeared into the bathroom briefly and the sound of the shower left Laurel sad, made her wish his smell wasn’t being washed away. He came out with a towel wrapped around his waist, hair dripping. She studied his body, those familiar injuries like angry, transient tattoos.

She rolled herself off the bed, went to bathroom to tidy herself and retrieve some first-aid accessories. Flynn glanced at the items as she emerged and he took a seat obediently on the coffee table.

“God, you’re such a mess.” She sat at the edge of the chair and soaked a wad of toilet paper with peroxide, tilting his head up to swab his latest cuts. She smeared Bactine over the deep ones, studied his eyes under the guise of scrutinizing his injuries. He moaned as she daubed at a scrape on his throat, not a sound of pain.

He pressed his neck into her touch, spoke through a heavy sigh. “I like when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“You know…” His words faded to a mumble. “Fuss over me.”

“Take care of you?”

He nodded, just the briefest dip of his chin. Laurel wasn’t sure what to do with this information. It was tough to write things off with Flynn as he so rarely made sentimental proclamations, and the ones he did couldn’t be blamed on alcohol. She finished swabbing the scrape, blotted his skin until none of the tiny lines offered any fresh blood.

“You’re a strange man, Michael Flynn.”

“Can I call you Nurse White? That’s such a good porno name.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “I bet there isn’t much porn out there that does it for you, huh?”

“Why d’you say that?” He raised his eyebrows, skeptical.

“Because the normal stuff’s probably too boring, and the things that you
are
into…well, I just imagine it would be icky, watching other people pretending to do rape stuff and all that. I mean, I feel grossed out just trying to imagine Googling the keywords for that.”

“You’re a smart girl,” he said, nodding.

“Plus I don’t think you own a computer. Or a TV.”

“There’s a laptop around here someplace,” he said, sounding suddenly sleepy and distracted. “I haul it to the coffee shop if I need to do something online.”

“You know,” Laurel began, then trailed off.

“What do I know?”

“I was just thinking, when I first met you, you seemed really…obvious. And you’re not. Not just how you are in bed,” she said, rambling. “On the outside you’re like über-macho, Mr. Toolbelt-and-Boxing Gloves with your bossy accent and your attitude and your…tallness.”

“My tallness?”

“And your body and everything. But you’re really something else on the inside. Sorry,” she said. “That sounded way more squishy than I meant it to. Should I insult you, to take the edge off all that squishiness?”

“Nah. I’ll just take it out on you next time.”

She smiled to herself. “I’m sure you will.” She eased a bandage over his worst cut, pressed it carefully into place. “Done fussing.”

He nodded. Laurel carried the things back to the bathroom, took a quick shower and reemerged naked. Flynn was stretched out on the bed in his shorts. He sat up as she flipped the bathroom light and fan off. As always, his gaze lacked subtlety and as always, she liked it.

“Can I steal another shirt to sleep in?”

He managed to stare even more pointedly. “Fuck no.” But he rose after a moment and tossed her a tee from his dresser, looking disappointed as it swallowed her torso.

“Thanks.”

“Hit the lights and get over here.”

Laurel turned the overhead lights off, came back to the bed, wiped the dust from her feet and lay back on the rumpled covers. Flynn rolled to his side, coming close. He wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her damp hair, his breath flaring in hot, slow intervals.

“You said you don’t do spooning,” she said.

He made a shushing noise.

“Are you the only one allowed to break the rules you make?” she asked.

“I dunno. Try sometime and find out.”

They lay in silence for a long time. As Laurel grew drowsy she felt Flynn’s body calm then turn restless. His sticky arms shifted around her.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Christ, your skin smells so fucking good.”

Before Laurel could offer a sleepy reply she was turned onto her back and Flynn was braced above her. Her body roused a few seconds ahead of her brain. “Hello.”

“Like vanilla custard.”

“So you say.”

He leaned in and kissed her, light and slow, a drag of his warm lips against hers. “You too sore?” he asked.

“Nope. Have at it.”

He smirked. “You need lube?”

“Find out for yourself.”

The smile deepened and he slid a hand between their bodies, two fingers dipping inside her pussy. “Oh fuck.”

His warm body left her as he found a condom and kicked his underwear away. Laurel peeled her shirt off and watched him stroke himself stiff, knowing the mere fact he hadn’t ordered her to do it marked this occasion as different. By the time he rolled the condom on, his breathing was labored, heavy and impatient. She propped her legs open as he knelt between them, palms flat on the mattress beside her ribs. His hips angled his cock at her pussy, sinking him in, slow.

“Goddamn,” Laurel muttered. “I love your cock.”

He lowered to his elbows and pushed his face against her neck, muffling his words. “I love your cunt. You’re so fucking warm. I can’t get enough of this.”

She whispered above his ear. “Do you want me to struggle?”

“No. I just want to fuck you.”

She ran her hands up and down his body, admiring his back muscles, his ass, the week-old rope-burn scar still raised along his shoulders, his soft, short hair. Eventually her palms settled on his hips. She memorized how he felt. She brought her legs up, wanting to wrap herself around him, possess him as he was possessing her. He took his time, pumping her deep, savoring, giving his stiff cock whatever it demanded. Each breath huffed out as a shallow grunt against her collarbone. In time his thrusts shifted, turned frantic, the change in this domineering man fascinating her. She clawed her fingers against his skin and released a shudder from the power she felt, feeling and hearing him turn so helpless.

“Michael.”

Flynn shot up, propped himself on his arms and froze.

“Oh God, sorry,” she said. “That was supposed to be a sweet-nothing, not a safe word.”

She felt his tight thigh and arm muscles release. “You scared me.”

“Sorry. Is it okay if I call you that? Can I change my word?”

“To what?”

She thought a second. “Parakeet?”

“Fine.” He leaned in close again, bringing his slick chest back to hers, breathing into her shoulder. “I’m not used to being called that though.”

“What, parakeet?”

He snorted. “No, genius—Michael. Doesn’t really feel like my name.”

“You’d rather I called you Flynn?”

He pushed back up on to his arms. “Yeah.”

“Okay. I will. But let’s keep the new safe word. In case I slip up again.”

His body pumped once more. The desperate quality from before hardened, transformed at least partly into Flynn’s usual, aggressive sexual style. He felt good, but she missed that little taste of what she suspected was a rare glimpse into some softer side of Flynn. Of Michael, maybe. But she made a mental note to not get her hopes up about seeing too much of this man’s gentler alter ego.

Above her, Flynn moaned. He hammered her deep, thighs slapping hers with each thrust. “Take my fucking cock.”

She grasped his hips, tugging in time with his body to urge him on.

“God, I wish I could fuck you bare. Come right inside you.” He slammed into her then suddenly stopped, pulling out and moving back on the mattress.

“Is everything okay?”

He was already lowering himself, moving his face between her legs. “I need to taste you.”

She gasped as his tongue lapped her clit, hot and wet and hungry. He hooked his arms under her thighs and clamped his hands to the creases below her hipbones. Laurel had gotten plenty of head in her time, but never like this. Flynn
fucked
her with his mouth—tongue driving deep, lips suckling, the stubble of his jaw scraping her tender skin to fan the flames. He set a rhythm of firm licks from her lips to her clit, punctuating each with a grunted, “Yeah.”

“God, Flynn.”

“You taste so fucking amazing.” He brought his head up and Laurel could see the violent rise and fall of his chest. “Sit on my face,” he said.

She sat up and they swapped places, Flynn lying back with his head just below the pillows. She swung a leg over and wedged her calves under his arms, settling her pussy against his mouth and grasping the edge of a shelf for balance. She fussed with the position until he yanked down on her hips, pulling her closer. “Oh God.”

His voice was thick and desperate. “Fuck my mouth.” He made his tongue stiff, spearing her, nose grazing her clit, and Laurel rocked her hips and let the sensations and textures of him drive her insane. One hand left her and she felt the motions behind her back, knowing he’d started jerking. She let go of the shelf and leaned back, craned her neck, wishing she could see more. A flash of pumping fist and swollen cock, the condom stripped away—then her balance faltered and she aimed her face forward again and grabbed the shelf.

Flynn broke away to suggest something that unnerved her a little. “Turn around.”

She obeyed, still unsure which of them was in charge but happy to hand over the keys. She got in position and tried to ignore how vulnerable she felt, spread open with her ass in his face. But as she braced herself on her palms, facing his feet, the view made it entirely worth it. Flynn’s mouth went back to work, followed by his hand.

“Yes,” she murmured. “Gimme a good show, Flynn.” It wouldn’t be hard to stroke or suck him herself, but Laurel wanted to make him do the work, to be served and indulged by this bossy man. She watched his tight fist pulling on his thick cock, luxuriated in his flicking tongue and sucking lips on her cunt. Her brain projected a screen over the visual and she imagined him coming. Each time she conjured the image of him shooting, bathing his stomach in all that hot cream, she edged closer to climax. When the pre-come glistened at his tip she reached out to rub it into his head, teasing his slit with her thumb, loving the moan he rewarded her with.

“I can’t wait to watch you come, Flynn.”

His grip seemed to tighten, the pulls slowing for Laurel’s enjoyment, turning more explicit. She cupped his tight balls in her palm, squeezing, fondling, rubbing the smooth skin just behind them. His body jerked beneath her, suddenly sending her tumbling into her release. Her thighs fluttered around his face as the pleasure pulsed through her clit and pussy, clenching her hand around the bedspread and his sac. He bucked again at the touch of her climax. His fist cranked into overdrive, fucking his cock fast and rough, getting him there just behind her. His chest and stomach clenched as if he were trying to do a sit-up beneath her, then the first spurt shot come against his damp skin, followed by two more spasms, a deep groan, then peace. He swore softly.

Laurel crawled off him and flopped onto the mattress. Flynn grabbed the towel and cleaned himself up, then his body wrapped around hers again, warm and sticky.

“Man,” she mumbled. “That visual should keep me going ’til the next time I come over.”

“Pervert.”

“Oh right. Me, the pervert.” She reached back to pat his damp hair. “You keep telling yourself that.”

They fell silent, sleep coming down hard on Laurel like a narcotic curtain. Clothes, covers and no-cuddling rules abandoned, she fell asleep to the rhythmic sound of Flynn’s breaths against her hair.

* * * * *

Laurel woke first the next morning, lazy light from the tall windows coaxing her eyes open. She peeled her body from Flynn’s, still in the same positions as when they’d fallen asleep. He groaned as she stood from the bed.

“What time is it?”

She squinted at the microwave. “Nine-thirty-two.”

“Oh fuck.” He sat up, confirmed the time and swung his legs to the floor. “This is real obnoxious, but we have to get going.”

Laurel hid a pang of hurt. She’d been looking forward to a lazy couple of hours before she had to get home and dress for work and face reality. “Seriously? It’s Sunday.”

“I know. I gotta drive my sister to frigging church.” He yanked his underwear and jeans up his legs. “I can drop you at home, if that works for you.”

“Oh. Sure.” She dressed and threw on some mascara and concealer, frowned in the bathroom mirror at her hair, parted weirdly from being slept on damp.

Flynn looked ready to go when she emerged.

“Sorry about the rush,” he said. “I don’t usually sleep so late, but you must have fucked the sense out of me.”

The compliment pushed away some of her disappointment. “No problem. I have to work in a while, so I should probably get going anyhow.”

She assembled her purse and Flynn locked up behind them. They took the elevator down three flights and she followed him to apartment 202. Flynn knocked and female voices flared behind the door.

“They’re never fucking ready on time.” He thumped a couple extra times. “Jesus can’t wait all day, ladies.”

Laurel raised an eyebrow at him. “What was your stance on impatient people again?”

“Punctuality trumps patience.”

“And where exactly does hypocrisy fit in?”

Flynn’s smirking retort was cut off as the door opened and a harried-looking woman appeared before them. She was tall and pale like Flynn but with unconvincing auburn hair and at least an extra decade’s wear and tear.

“You have to pound my door so fucking hard, Mike?”

“It’s nearly ten of. Heather, this is Laurel, Laurel, this is my sister, Heather.”

Heather put out a hand and gave Laurel’s a firm shake with a faint bite of acrylic nail. “Nice to meet you. Kim’s just putting her face on.” Heather left the door open and disappeared inside, replaced by a faint whiff of stale cigarettes.