Brutal Game (Flynn and Laurel #2)(9)
She considered it. “The thing about reversing the genders on pervy bullshit is that while the woman would still seem creepy as f*ck to other women, the dude she was victimizing would probably be stoked, because he could get laid.”
“Feminism’s complicated.”
“Not complicated—complex. And don’t act like you’re not one. You’re a product of the matriarchy if I’ve ever seen one.” He’d been raised by his charmingly domineering older sister from puberty onward. “Plus if you didn’t know how to treat women with respect and consideration, you’d never get your way in bed.”
“Fair.”
“You, my darling, would be creepy as f*ck, if not for your feminism.”
He shushed her, pulled her to him for a kiss Laurel refused to part her lips for. He might not care about her morning breath, but she did. She stroked his rough jaw and cheeks, wondering as always how he’d look with a week’s stubble, the beginnings of a beard. Sadly, he shaved every morning he was working.
“Hang on,” she said, regretfully leaving the covers. She’d not gotten around to putting anything on and could feel goose bumps breaking out all over her body as she scrambled for her tee and pajama bottoms. “Jesus, it must be fifty degrees in here.”
“Thermostat’s set to sixty-two.”
“That’s barbaric. If I ever move in with you, I’m reprogramming it.”
“Small price.”
She glanced his way to catch him grinning. He’d already invited her to move in, when she’d been bitching about her landlord hiking the rent again. It was Laurel who wasn’t quite ready. For one, her apartment was six minutes’ walk from her job. For another, one of her two roommates was her best friend. Plus being here when Flynn wasn’t… There was something lonely about it. Maybe it wouldn’t feel that way if she moved her stuff in and there was a TV and she could listen to her music, but all the same, she wasn’t there yet. Whether she could stand Flynn twenty-four-seven, that wasn’t an issue. It was whether or not he’d be up for her around the clock that worried Laurel. Maybe that was insecurity talking, or maybe pragmatism. Either way, she wasn’t yet ready to find out which.
She brushed her teeth and tamed her hair, bumped the thermostat up to sixty-eight before climbing back under the covers.
“Oh, so warm. Let’s just hibernate until May.”
“When do you need to be at work?” He kissed her neck.
“Ten.”
He eyed the clock on the shelf above their heads. “Let’s see… Twenty-minute shower, ten-minute drive… That leaves nearly an hour for f*cking.”
“Hang on, now—factor in putting on makeup, drying my hair…”
“Your hair’ll dry during the f*cking.”
“I think I’ll earn better tips if I don’t look like I’ve got a red bird’s nest on my head.”
“Fine. Still leaves plenty of time if we shut up and get down to it.”
“Fine.” Better than fine. She’d been especially horny of late, probably her body finally getting used to the Pill, or just the benefit of being on the far swing of the depression pendulum, maximum distance from the next inevitable blue phase. Might as well make the most of the hormones while they were on her side. “Let’s get filthy, then.”
“Not too sore?”
She shook her head and tousled his short hair. “Nope. I feel sturdy.” Physically and emotionally. She felt that way more and more, since meeting this man. Crazy how dabbling in such dark fantasies seemed to purge some unseen, unnamed weight from her subconscious. Or perhaps that was just the ease that came from feeling safe in a relationship, accepted and supported. And lusted for.
“Hang on—brush your teeth,” she commanded, and gave his bare butt a good smack when he climbed over her to comply. She watched his body as he crossed the room, all that winter-pale skin and improbable muscle. Way more man than she’d ever imagined she wanted, and so much so that if this affair ended, replacing him would be no less than impossible. No chance two men built like that would be fool enough to fall for her in one lifetime. Her karma wasn’t bad but it wasn’t spotless, either.
He emerged from the bathroom in all his naked glory, eyebrow raised pointedly.
“What?”
“No note on the mirror?”
“I’m not that creative this early in the morning.” Or that disinhibited without a drink or two. “Can we just do plain old f*cking?”
“Always.” He all but pounced on her, the covers shoved aside and hands seeking skin—hers warm, his cold. She yelped and laughed and squirmed and they kissed until the ice in his touch melted away.
“How do you want me?” he asked, a low and familiar growl in his voice.
“On top.” She couldn’t always get off first thing in the morning, but she’d stand the best chance if she got to watch that body working above her, that gorgeous, mean face staring her down and her right hand free to assist.
He moved his legs between hers. “You need lube?”
“Probably.”
He snatched the bottle off the shelf, and if his fingers were cool, the gel was frigid.
“Ah, f*ck.”
“Don’t think about it,” he breathed, easing two thick fingers inside her. “Think about this.”