by Max Monroe
A life that doesn’t include me.
Flynn
I flip two steaks on the skillet and turn to grab some seasoning, but when I spot movement out of the corner of my eye, I turn to find Daisy setting her purse and keys on the counter. Normally, she announces her arrival in some adorable way like “Honey, I’m home!” or “Flynn, I’m starving! Feed me!”
But tonight, she came in like a fucking ninja.
“Hey, babe,” I greet, but it’s like she doesn’t even hear me.
Daisy’s face is devoid of her normally bubbly expression, and her eyes are distant, as if she’s too busy inside her own head to even notice her surroundings.
“Babe,” I repeat, and she looks up to meet my eyes.
“Hi,” she responds, but her voice is quiet, timid even.
“You okay?”
She nods, but that’s all she gives me. No rambling explanation or adorable hand movements punctuating her words. Just…a nod.
“How did your appointment go?” I ask, and when she furrows her brow in confusion, I expand. “Your physical…?”
“Oh,” she acknowledges, and her mouth forms a little “O.” “It was fine.”
I might not be the type of man who has a track record of long-term relationships with women, but I have a sister and a mother and an aunt who have shown me that “It’s fine” never means that.
Fine means the opposite.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yep.” She nods again. “Just tired, I guess. It’s been a long day.”
“Would a steak help make the day not feel so long?” I grin and nod toward the skillet.
“I’d love to say yes to that, but…” She pauses, cringes, and explains, “I’m not hungry, and I still need to finish up some staging plans for a property by tomorrow.”
Daisy not hungry? Not talkative? And choosing work over her favorite Friday night Netflix binges that she always forces me to join in on?
I can’t shake the sense that she’s shutting me out. Like, she has shit on her mind that she doesn’t want to talk to me about. It’s the opposite of what I’m used to with her. Sure, sometimes it takes her a bit to open up to me, a sort of rambling in circles before she reaches her end destination, but she always gets there in the end.
Though, tonight, she appears steadfast in not saying much. Not saying anything, really.
And that’s not sitting well with you.
But before I can decide if I should ask more questions and try to figure out what has her in such an off mood, Daisy is out of the kitchen.
Damn, it appears she just wants some space. From you.
I turn back to the skillet and flip over the steaks, but the idea of eating right now isn’t holding the appeal it did ten minutes ago.
Stove off—and steaks most likely ruined—I set down my spatula and head into the living room where Daisy is sitting on the sofa with her laptop in her lap. Her fingers move across the keys in quick succession, and I decide right then and there she needs something to help take the edge off.
Whatever is causing that edge, I don’t know, and I’m hopeful she’ll eventually get around to telling me, but if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s to help my woman relax.
To make her feel good.
I grab the edge of the coffee table and slide it away from the couch. Daisy’s feet fall to the floor, and she looks up from her laptop screen in confusion.
“Don’t mind me, babe. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”
She scrunches up her nose, but her eyes widen as she watches me get to my knees in front of her.
“Flynn…?”
“Like I said, don’t mind me. You keep working,” I tell her and place both of my hands on her thighs and spread them farther apart. I’m thrilled that she’s wearing a skirt and all it takes is my fingers sliding her panties to the side to reveal her gorgeous pussy. “In fact, ignore me completely.”
I dive right in, face between her legs, I latch my lips around her clit and gently suck.
Daisy’s hips jolt forward. “Flynn!” she exclaims, but for the first time since she got home, she also giggles. “You’re insane!”
After one long stroke of my tongue against her, I smack my lips in approval. “Yes, baby, I am insane for this sweet-as-fuck pussy of yours.”
And then, I get back to work. Sucking and licking and eating at her. Sliding my tongue inside her and feeling the way her walls clench around me.
I give her no mercy. I don’t hold back. And I enjoy every fucking second of her on my tongue.
She moans, and her laptop falls to the cushion beside her. And eventually, her fingers find their way into my hair, urging me to keep going.
“Good girl,” I whisper against her. “I want you to feel good. I want you to come hard on my tongue. Will you do that for me, Daisy? Will you let me make you come?”
“Y-yes. God, yes.”
Once her breaths become tiny pants of air and her legs begin to shake, I know that, in a matter of seconds, Daisy will fall off the cliff and straight into the pleasure abyss where all she can do is feel good. Where whatever had her so quiet and reserved when she got home this evening will no longer be weighing her down.
She doesn’t disappoint. She never disappoints.
Her moans turn raspy, sexy-as-hell, and just as she hits her peak, I look up to watch the way her full lips part, her cheeks flush, and her breasts heave up and down.
Fuck yes. That’s my wife.
Saturday, May 18th
Daisy
Eyes bleary and brain begging for coffee, I shuffle out of the bedroom and down the hallway.
After I came home last night, all stressed out and anxious and locked inside my own head, I was prepared to burrow myself into work that could’ve waited until Monday and just…I don’t know…ignore—more like, avoid—everything.
But the night took an unexpected turn.
A “Flynn’s head between my legs” kind of turn, and next thing I knew, we were naked, in bed, and I was giving my best impression of a rodeo queen while he was gripping my ass and whispering dirty things into my ear.
Sometimes, it feels like Flynn just intuitively knows when I need a distraction.
Because he does. Which begs the question, what are you going to do without him?
As I step into the kitchen, the soft sounds of classical music playing from the Bluetooth speakers fill my ears, and I find Flynn sitting at the table with a newspaper in his hands. And not the digital newspaper most people read from their phones, but the actual newspaper with real paper and ink.
I don’t know why, but there’s something so sexy about a man reading the newspaper. Especially when it’s Flynn and he’s wearing only a pair of boxer briefs.
Boxer briefs that give quite the show of the kind of heat he’s packing…
“You doing okay over there, babe?”
I blink past the fantasy fog and realize I’m just standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring at him quite…crudely. Well, hell. Apparently, I’m a pervert.
Flynn quirks a questioning brow, and I bumble my way through an awkward nod, mumbling, “Mm-hmm,” as I head over to the coffeemaker.
“Coffee, huh? Seemed like you were headed in my direction.”
I glance over my shoulder and find him smiling at me in a way that makes me wonder if he has any clue how attractive he is.
Seriously. Why’s he gotta be so damn good-looking?
Hand to my hip, I turn around and face him with a cheeky grin. “Maybe I was. But now I’m thinking you should come over here.”
Flynn doesn’t hesitate to set down his newspaper, get out of his chair, and stride straight toward me. I’m in his arms between one beat of my heart and the next, and his lips move against mine, slowly provoking an ache to stir between my thighs.
He deepens the kiss and slides his hands into my hair, and I’m allll about the direction this is heading, but Flynn slows the movements of his lips until he ends our embra
ce with a soft press of his mouth to mine. “Morning, babe.”
A few seconds later, he’s back at the table with his newspaper in his hands and his eyes scanning the pages.
Um…excuse me? Hello? Please, sir, I’d like some more.
I stare at him, as if my eyes alone have the power to get his attention, but he doesn’t look up from his paper. Mind you, a paper that isn’t feeling as sexy as it did before. If anything, it’s now the world’s greatest literary cockblock, and it’s ruining my selfish need for more attention from Flynn.
Slightly annoyed and now far hornier than one woman should be upon just waking up and without her proper caffeine fix, I pour myself a cup of coffee and mentally prepare myself to lure the oblivious man at the kitchen table through other means.
Okay…think, Daisy. What’s sexy? What’s something that no man can resist?
Knowing full well that I’m currently wearing only a simple silk nightgown with nothing underneath, when I go to get my favorite French vanilla creamer from the fridge, I take my sweet, sweet time and make a show of bending over to reach the container from the middle shelf.
I’m talking, someone call the Academy and let them know there’s a new actress in town, any second Meryl Streep will be calling me for tips, kind of show.
When I feel the sensation of my nightgown sliding up my thighs, I know, I fucking know, that my milkshake that brings all the boys to the yard is on full display for Flynn.
Are you sure that’s what milkshake means in that song?
Frankly, no, I don’t know that, but whatever. Just work with me here.
I pretend to rummage around in the fridge—my ass and hoo-hah still hanging out in the wind—and then I steal a quick glance over my shoulder to check my target.
Is Flynn’s gaze resting joyously upon my ass? Nope. That would be a negative, ghost rider.
Not even kidding, the sexy bastard is still looking at his paper. I’m flashing goodies like it’s Mardi Gras and he’s got the beads, but he’s just reading the newspaper like it’s any ol’ Saturday morning that doesn’t include his wife practically spread-eagled in front of the fridge.
What is in that paper? The key to eternal life?
I’m starting to feel like a bit of a brat for being so annoyed that Flynn isn’t giving me attention, but damn it, that’s what I want. Throw a red dress on me and call me Veruca Salt because I want Flynn’s eyes on me and his hands on me and his big, perfect, beautiful cock inside me, and I want it all right now.
On a quiet sigh, I shut the fridge door and actually use the creamer for something other than an excuse for me to bend over and entice Flynn to show me his penis. But once I get my coffee all made and take a few sips, I decide to give it another shot.
Ain’t no rest for the wicked-ly horny, amirite?
Up on the counter with a little hop, I sit in the type of—hopefully—seductive position that has my body facing Flynn.
“Reading anything interesting over there?” I question as I make a point to spread my thighs as far as they can go.
“Just the usual shit.”
Four words. No eye contact. That’s it.
Okay, yeah, I’ve had about enough of this nonsense…
I hop off the counter and stride right over to the man who is apparently oblivious to all the “I’m horny for you” signs I’m sending his way. And it doesn’t take long for me to edge myself onto his lap, making damn sure I’m between him and that dumb newspaper that’s stealing all my thunder.
Flynn doesn’t react, though. Instead, he flips to the next page, something involving the business section, and even adjusts his hands so we can both read the paper together.
“Anything in particular you want to read, babe?”
Your penis. I’d like to read your penis.
“Nope.” I purse my lips.
“Here, can you hold this for a sec?” he asks and puts the newspaper into my hands.
“Sure.” I discreetly roll my eyes. “Love to.”
“Fantastic.”
I almost roll my eyes again, but when his big hands grip my ass and lift me off his lap for a brief second, I’m surprised to feel the warmth and hardness of his cock slowly sliding between my legs.
Oh myyyyyyy.
My nipples tighten. My pussy clenches. And over what feels like the longest seconds of my life, Flynn eases himself inside me until his cock is completely filling me up.
I’m talking, inch by motherfucking inch, he pushes his cock inside me. It all feels so good, so intense, that tears fill my eyes and I have to bite down on my bottom lip to stop myself from shouting out over the soft music that’s still playing from the speakers.
But Flynn doesn’t say anything. He just fills me up and then gently takes the newspaper back out of my hands and goes back to reading. Hell, he even flips through three pages with me just sitting there, on his lap, with his cock inside me.
What is happening right now?
Whatever it is, it just might be the hottest, most confusing thing you’ve ever experienced.
I shift my hips, and the sensation that builds inside me causes a little moan to escape from my throat. This is…intense. And insane. And feels So. Damn. Good.
“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.