The Pact (Winslow Brothers #2)(77)

“You wanted my attention, that much was clear,” he whispers into my ear, and the warmth of his breath urges a shiver to roll up my spine. “So I’m going to tell you again—because it seems like you didn’t really hear me the first time…if you want sex, Daisy, all you have to do is ask.”

Oh, holy hell.

“What kind of attention does my girl need right now?” he asks and brushes his lips up the side of my neck. “Did she just want to feel my cock inside her? Or does she want more than that?”

“More,” I whisper back. “Lots more.”

He sets down the newspaper and places his big hands on my legs. With a squeeze, he spreads them until they’re as wide as they can go, completely astride his lap, and grazes his fingers from my knees to my inner thighs.

“You want me to fuck you?”

I swallow. “Yes, please.”

In an instant, the newspaper flies into the air and Flynn’s coffee cup hits the hardwood floor in a crash. My back is on the kitchen table, and my nightgown is up and over my breasts, leaving my body bared for his covetous gaze.

He stares down at me, his blue eyes heated, and his big hands adjust my thighs until they’re perfectly wrapped around his waist.

“Anytime you want my cock, Daisy,” he repeats as he slides himself back inside me, “all you have to do is tell me.”

I moan. Flynn doesn’t repeat himself, ever. The fact that he’s doing it now is such a turn-on, I can hardly keep my eyes from rolling back in my head.

“You don’t need to work to get my attention,” he whispers and grabs both of my breasts in his hands. “Because, baby, you always have my attention.”

His words make me clench around him, but they also spur a pounding rhythm to vibrate my chest and hiccup the breaths falling from my lips.

This man, I swear, he’s too perfect for my own good. He’s everything. And I’m having a hard time seeing a future where I won’t want his attention.

But the immigration interview is scheduled, planned, and set in stone, and I know in the cold, dark, scary part of my heart what comes when it’s finished.

No Flynn. No sex. No forever. None of the attention I can’t see myself walking away from. Which means you’ve got thirteen days to figure out how to rewrite your vision of the future.





Friday, May 24th

Daisy

I finish stacking the vintage books I purchased at a secondhand shop in Greenwich Village and step back to check my work.

Yeah, that’s perfect, I think to myself as I note the way the worn-in spines and hues of dark blues and greens and maroons really bring out the dark wood of the shelves inside the bonus room that is being staged as an in-home office and library.

In a week’s time, this expensive SoHo loft will hit the market, and I’m confident EllisGrey’s client will receive multiple bids on this beauty.

Empty cardboard boxes stacked, I head back into the open and airy living area to find Tara scuttering around on her heels like a woman on the warpath.

I roll my eyes to myself. I swear, staging days with her are something straight out of a horror movie. She snaps at everyone and everything, and the joy that usually comes from bringing a design vision to life is severely compromised by her overall sour attitude.

I mean, does she even like this job? Sometimes I really wonder.

My phone vibrates in the back pocket of my black dress pants, and I pull it out to find a text.

Flynn: I just received a delivery. At my office. Any idea what that’s about?

I smile. Why, yes, I definitely do.

Me: If it contains two very beautiful but still STRONG and MANLY vases that provide a little color for the shelves behind your desk and an abstract painting to hang on the wall by the door, then yes, I might know something about that delivery…

Honestly, after seeing Flynn’s office for the first time a few weeks ago, I couldn’t stop myself from adding a little design aesthetic to it. I’m hoping my emphasis on the men-friendly buzzwords helps it go over a little more easily.

Flynn: You know what would be a better pop of color in my office?

Me: A gorgeous throw rug for underneath your desk?

Flynn: Your bare pussy. On my desk.

Me: Flynn Winslow. Are you sexting me???? In the middle of a workday????

Scandalized or not, when it comes to sex with Flynn, an opportunist I am. I quickly throw another message into the mix. Also, Yoda I’m not, but there are only so many days left to feel Flynn inside me, even if it’s just a visual via phone sex.

Me: If you ARE sexting me, then put your money where your mouth is and send me a dick pic.

I mean, there’s nothing wrong with trying, right? What’s the worst he could say? No?

And having a picture of Flynn’s gorgeous penis on my phone for the rest of time isn’t exactly a negative.

Ha. You’d save it to a damn USB stick just to have a backup.

Flynn: I’ll do you one better.

Me: Oh, really? I’m all ears.

Flynn: I’m leaving my office right now. A good girl who wants to get fucked can meet me at home in about 20 minutes.

I look at his text and across the room to where Tara is now bitching at one of the burly movers tasked with delivering and setting up the staging furniture for this loft.

I shouldn’t…should I?

Back to Tara, I note the way her face scrunches up with disdain when the man doesn’t give her an answer she likes.