Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 63758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
“Our dad teaches guitar and plays in a local band–the Nighthawks. They do 80’s rock covers.”
“So you take after him.”
“That’s what they say.” There’s something hollow about the way Flynn says it. With anyone else, I wouldn’t pry. Hell, with anyone else, I wouldn’t attempt small talk. But we have a connection. He’s seen me cry and didn’t act like I was broken.
“Is it a bad thing?”
Again, I’m certain there’s a ripple of discomfort in Flynn. A little flinch, perhaps. But he shakes his head. “No, he’s cool.”
“I would like to see his band, too.”
This earns me a wide grin. “You would?”
Oh wow. Did I say that out loud? “Well–” I start to backpedal, panicking at committing myself to any outing, but Flynn says, “That would be fun. They don’t play that often anymore, but I’ll find out when their next gig is.”
I draw in a breath, again bracing against the panic that doesn’t come. All I sense is…excitement. A future date with Flynn. Getting to know him better.
But when we get to the lake, the crowd thickens. My steps falter, and I crowd closer to Flynn. He takes my mocha from my hand and turns around. “Hop on my back again.”
I want to refuse. I want to go on like there's nothing wrong with me. Like I can make it through this. But he's offering me a branch, and I’m about to drown, so it take it. The mochas spill and slosh over his wrists when I jump on him. “Oh no!” I start to slide back down, embarrassed.
“No, no, no, no. We are fine.” He hands one mocha back and uses his free hand to hold one of my knees. “Let's do this, Peaches.”
I shriek and giggle when he takes off running again. I hold my coffee cup out to the side, so it won't spill on his head. He carries me to a park bench and holds me over the seat, releasing my leg. I stand on the bench and accept the hand he offers to jump down.
My stomach clenches when I see all the people, but Flynn sits and catches my waist. He tugs me forward, facing him, gently urging me onto his lap, straddling his waist.
It feels both natural and crazy at once.
“Look at me,” he says, taking the mocha from my hand and setting it on the bench beside us. “It’s just you and me out here,” he says. “This is our world. No one else’s.”
I know what he's saying isn't true, and yet I cling to it as I lock onto his warm brown gaze.
He holds the eye contact, daring me to look away. “Kiss me.”
I do. I lean forward and cover his lips with mine. He hasn’t shaven today, so his face is scruffy. I like the contrast of rough stubble framing his soft, supple lips.
He grips my ass through my soft leggings, kneading it roughly, surprising me by working a finger between the seam of my ass cheeks.
For as much as I hate physical contact, as much as every nightmare is about intrusion, and my body not being under my own command, nothing about the way Flynn touches me is a trigger.
Not only does it not trigger me, but it stokes my fire. I squirm over his lap as my body comes to life, that pulsing between my legs growing more insistent. I grind down, seeking friction against my most sensitive parts.
When I feel the answering bulge in his jeans, I feel more triumphant than frightened. I was right in asking Flynn to be the guy who helps me get over my captivity. My doubts clear. I do want to have sex with him. I'm not afraid. With him, I could find sexual healing. I wish we could go back to the apartment right now, but Adrian is there.
I am so into the kiss I don't notice the people around me or the cold. Nothing takes my focus away from my own physical pleasure. The tangle of my tongue with Flynn's, the pressure of my clit over the seam of his jeans.
Nothing distracts me until I hear a woman's Russian-accented voice say with delighted interest, “Oh my God, is that Flynn? Looks like he met someone at the show again last night.”
4
Flynn
I want to kill Sasha and Maxim for the interruption. They are another couple from the Kremlin–roommates of Story and Oleg. They often come to our gigs, but I didn't see them last night. Maxim is high up in the bratva–I’m guessing second-in-command. Sasha is an actress. They’re dressed in jogging clothes and are breathing heavily, obviously out here for a run.
Nadia scrambles off my lap and onto her feet. I don’t follow because I need a moment to shield my boner.
“Nadia!” Sasha gasps when she realizes the girl I was groping on my lap wasn't some random hookup from the show. “I didn’t recognize you with your new hairstyle. It looks great!”