Come As You Are(58)

He scoops me up, carries me to the futon, and lays me down.

We reenact one of his fantasies. He spreads my legs, and in seconds, he has me so wild that he grips my hands, holding them tightly to keep me still.

Or stiller, I should say. Because I’m a live wire, writhing and thrusting as he licks me again and again.

When I near the cliff a second time, I murmur huskily, my throat dry, “Let me touch you, please.”

He lets go of my fingers, and I grab his head, holding on to him. Like that, I come again, his face between my legs, my hands wrapped in his hair.

A minute later, or maybe more, I open my eyes to find a gloriously naked and gorgeous Flynn standing at my side, stroking his cock. God, he’s stunning.

Reaching out, I trace the grooves of his abs, the cut of his arms, and I feel his hot, hard length in my hands. He shudders when I touch him, thrusting against my palm.

“You’re mine,” I whisper.

“I’m yours,” he murmurs. “And you’re mine.”

I sit up. I’m still in a daze, but I pull off my dress, and I’m completely naked. “Flynn, can we go bare? I’m clean, and I’m on birth control.”

“Fuck, yes. I’m clean.”

That’s all we need to know. He flips me to my knees, and I want to weep with happiness.

I hate missionary.

I love being taken.

He knows what I need, and he’s going to give it to me. He’s put me on my hands and knees, spreading my cheeks, rubbing the head of his cock against me.

I ache.

Exquisitely.

Deeply.

My body craves him like a filthy drug.

I am desperate for my fix, and he gives it to me, shoving deep inside with a carnal groan.

I cry out. “God, it’s so good.”

“It’s better than the first time.”

“I know,” I whisper.

And it’s not the position, though I love how he grabs my ass as he moves in me.

It’s not the depth either. But I adore how he’s reaching the ends of me, how I can feel him everywhere.

It’s not even how he pushes on my back, making me lower my chest to the futon. Or how he loops my hair around his fist, though all of that sends me into the stratosphere.

It’s how he loves me, even when he fucks me.

It’s better because we’re Angel and Duke, city explorers, wordsmith and mathematician, poetry reciter and poetry receiver, and most of all, we are us.

Loving and fucking, fucking and loving.

There’s no more role-playing tonight. We have no need to pretend because we both want the real thing.

As he goes deep another time, swiveling his hips and stroking me, I’m there again at the edge, coming like it’s all my body ever wants to do, like I’ve been trained to do this, like I can’t stop.

He grips me harder, groaning and turning wild. Saying my name. The way it sounds from his lips, like a benediction, like a rock song, like a primal scream of pleasure, is the highest high.

He collapses on me.

His arms slink around me, and he smothers my face in kisses, and I don’t know who wins the “I love you” game, but we both play it all night long, saying it, telling the other.

As I curl up in his arms, I know I’ve never felt this way with anyone else. I’ve never felt this safe, this content, this wildly, blissfully happy. I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, but I’ll be able to get through it with him by my side.

When morning comes we shower, learning how fun it is to get clean with my hands against the wall and his on my breasts as he makes me come again.

Then we dress, and I get ready to see Mr. Galloway. I walk Flynn to the door of the building and wave as he heads down the street.

He waves back, the morning sun haloing his handsome face.

I can’t resist.

“Wait!” I call out, racing down the steps and after him.

I run to him, and I throw myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist, like a koala. He laughs and pulls me closer.

“I love you, Flynn Parker.”

“I love you, Sabrina Granger.”

“I want to kiss you again.”

“Kiss me again.”

We kiss, and we kiss, and eventually, I let him leave.

As I return to my building, an engine rumbles loudly by the curb. I turn in its direction, spotting an idling red sports car.

As I walk past it, the passenger door opens.

A woman emerges. Red flaming hair. Big sunglasses. Snapping bubblegum. Cowboy boots.

Maureen is here.





30





Sabrina



“Baby!”

I still cringe when she calls me that. When she acts as if she has the right to call me anything other than my name.

Drawing a deep breath, I let it fill me, let it fuel me with calm, with grace. That is the only way I can handle her. “Hello, Maureen.”

She holds her arms out wide, scads of silver and gold bracelets jangling up her wrists. Her jeans are painted onto her legs, and her blouse is unbuttoned low enough to reveal the tops of her breasts. “Give your momma a hug.”

My skin crawls. I don’t want to hug her. I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want to see her. But I also don’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how I feel. I choose blankness with her. That’s how I’ve tried to behave since she left—cool and calm, showing no emotions.