by Donna Alam
In Like Flynn
A Standalone Romance Novel
By Donna Alam
Copyright © 2018 Donna Alam
Published By: Donna Alam
Contents
In Like Flynn
Copyright and Disclaimer
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue - Chastity
Epilogue – Flynn
Sneak Peek
Sneak Peek
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Copyright and Disclaimer
The moral right of this author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the express permission of the author
This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
© Donna Alam 2018
Cover Design: Kellie Dennis: Book Cover By Design
Image: Sandy Lang Photography
Model: Adam Phillips
Editing: Editing 4 Indies
Chapter 1
CHASTITY
I’m in bed.
With my rabbit.
And I don’t mean the fluffy, toothy kind.
Quite honestly, I could be in bed with Liam Hemsworth, and it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference because, queen of erotica or not, my orgasm is ruined, and it has been for months. The whole thing makes a mockery out of what I do for a living.
Because my name is Chastity, and I run an ethical porn company.
It totally is a thing.
I prefer the title cinematographer. I just happen to film people having sex. I also pay them to do so—pay them very well because my market isn’t the Porn Bub demographic. Fast Girl Media produces porn and erotica for women and couples, and my images and recordings are tasteful and sensual and very high end. According to Camilla, my eldery aunt, my work very much gets the job done. Though why I’m recalling my ancient relative’s enthusiasm for my subscription-based website, I don’t quite know. Because that’s not going to help me right now, is it? It really is no wonder I haven’t orgasmed in six months. Who thinks of their seventy-three-year-old aunt and her hairy chin when trying to get a moment? A moment . . . for a pornographer, that expression is probably a little too coy.
Because my name is Chastity, and I haven’t orgasmed in six months.
As much as I’d like to blame Camilla for my problem, I’d only be kidding myself. I am solely to blame for losing my orgasm following a recent weak moment when I slept with the cockiest, most infuriating man on the planet.
Flynn bloody Phillips.
We’d spent a glorious night screwing each other’s brains out following the wedding of my best friend. He’d bent me in shapes I’d thought were impossible, while whispering things that still make the tips of my ears burn. And though I’m not sure how it happened, that night, he also seems to have stolen my ability to orgasm from me.
Bloody man. I’d both lusted and loathed him at first sight. Loathed because he’s a loud-mouthed bastard who’s far too full of himself—he knows exactly how good looking he is and seems to think a compliment and a cheeky grin will get him out of anything. And into anyone. But it’s hard not to lust after him when he looks like a younger Henry Cavill. At least until he opens his mouth. Because when he does actually speak, a cocky jerk seems to fall out. He’s so full of himself. So damned arrogant. And hell if that doesn’t do something for me! Especially with his accent. What is it about an Aussie drawl that makes the elastic of a girl’s underwear loose? I once heard him describe his accent as “true blue”. I don’t know about that, but he certainly turns the air blue in the bedroom. Yes, my poor burning ears. It’s strange how I can still hear him whispering . . .
Come on, Chastity. Come for me. Come all over my face.
It’s unfortunate that I both have a thing for Henry Cavill—The Tudors anyone? That man rocked a codpiece back in the day—and a love of confident men. But there’s confidence and then there’s arrogance, and they just aren’t the same thing, so I’m at a loss to understand why Flynn’s inflated self-worth both turns me on while annoying the shit out of me! It’s baffling.
He looks like he could be in the movies, and I mean that in the mainstream way. Though with his looks and anatomy, he’d make a killing in my kind of movies, too. Broad shoulders and powerful arms, and the kind of abs that almost make you want to reach into the laundry basket to get a dirty shirt or two out. Just to rub. That’s my kind of washboard. Plus, the man is hung so he could definitely do porn. And then there’s his magical tongue . . .
But it doesn’t matter how gorgeous he is, or how talented his tongue happens to be because what it boils down to is that I want my orgasm back!
How is it that I’ve been able to let my fingers do the walking quite satisfactorily since I’d discovered what fun a clitoris could be at boarding school, and now I can’t even get myself to come? Ménage à moi used to be one of my favourite pastimes—a party for one where fun was always had! But now? Now I’m broken.
God knows I’ve tried—I’ve tried every trick in the book! Over the past few months, I’ve even acquired a drawer full of toys—a dildo, a rabbit, a wand, vibrators that bend in various ways, and something that looks like a vibrating pink rock that, though is very pleasant, has yet to seal the deal. I’ve tried lotions and potions and lube that promised tingles but delivered little more than an itch, and even bought a strange looking two-ended thing described as “the Swiss army knife of sex toys” that did nothing but rattle my teeth a bit.
In short, I’ve been cursed since I spent the night with Flynn Philips and have been subject to more sexual frustration than any twenty-nine-year-old woman, never mind purveyor of tasteful porn, ought to know.
I push out a frustrated sigh, another attempt at reaching climax over for another night. Pulling back the covers, I swing my legs out of my bed and throw tonight’s battery boyfriend into the open drawer. I’m so disgusted with it I’m not even going to bother giving it a quick wipe. I might just throw it away. Or maybe give it another go after a cup of calming chamomile tea.
Pulling the robe from the end of my bed, I slide it on, conscious that I probably shouldn’t walk around naked these days. Not unless I want to give Max a heart attack. Max, my little brother, is currently staying with me after finishing his degree. Last year. At twenty-three, he appears to be experiencing a quarter life crisis and has no idea what to do with his life. Except badger his sister for a job with my company. Dipping his dick, as he so eloquently put it. Like that’s ever going to happen. Our family may be dysfunctional, but we’re not sick.
God, I hope he’s not serious, I think as I wal
k into the kitchen to be greeted by the sight of him eating cereal while wearing nothing more than a pair of designer jeans.
‘What are you doing up?’ I flip on the light wondering why he’s sitting in the dark.
‘I was out with friends,’ he replies, to which I roll my lips inwards. Best to keep quiet. I don’t like to nag. Okay, I try not to nag. Too much. But honestly, it’s like having an overgrown teenager in the house. He’s not likely to find a job if he doesn’t wake up before noon!
Max glances out at the darkened garden, maybe watching the rain slicking the roof of the house opposite, maybe the dance of it as it hits the surface of the garden pond.
‘God, I hate this place,’ he grumbles. The spoon clanks against the side of the bowl as he pushes it away, propping his chin on his fist.
Again, I don’t answer; it’s not required. He wouldn’t listen. I wish he’d just pull himself together and find something—something!—to do. He doesn’t have to leave, just get out from under my feet. Our parents split when we were young, and as we were already at boarding school, I suppose we’ve never really felt like we had a family home. We never lived with our parents. Just spent alternate holidays with them.
‘Do you ever feel like running away?’
His question pulls me from my musing. It isn’t the first time he’s asked, but I try to keep the notion of how ridiculous I find the question to myself.
‘I like my life. I like my job, and I like my house. Why would I want to leave?’
‘Because like isn’t enough. Because love and passion is—’
‘Constructs of society. What’s wrong with just being okay? Why do we all have to strive for magnificence? Why can’t we just settle for good enough?’
Max snorts derisively. ‘That’s a crock, and you know it. You only settle for mediocre outside of your art.’
His words sting, but he’s right. My job might be extraordinary, but my life is pretty dull. And that’s how I like it. My work is my art. There’s a beauty in erotica because that’s what I sell—seduction, sensuality, and romance. Not sex. Not really. I studied fine art at university and became enamoured with the human form. I drew, painted, and critiqued the body. Became a little obsessed, I suppose. I sort of fell into pornography, but not like the guilty husband who insists he was looking for a new nanny yet somehow stumbled onto a spanking site.
I saw a gap in the market and began selling stylised erotic stills. All very innocent; the art in the dip of a spine, the beauty in the contouring of a firm bicep. And then a client asked for a tasteful penis pic—yes, there are such things. As far as I’m concerned, there’s beauty in everything. I’ll admit, I was a little shocked, and more so when I discovered how much she was willing to pay. She even supplied the posing penis by way of her husband’s hard on.
I suppose my business concept just spiralled from there. Now I spend my days filming beautiful people enjoying their own bodies and the bodies of others. But it’s not all art house fucking. I do spend a lot of time editing, and nannying the website, promotion, and all kinds of horrid admin. Thankfully, I still have my best friend, Paisley, to help some days. Since marrying, she’s taken on a few new freelance makeup artist gigs, though she still makes time to come and help on set. I thought being newly married might complicate matters—men can be such territorial creatures—but I’m happy to report that is not the case with her husband, Keir.
I fill the kettle, flick the switch, then turn back to Max, leaning back against the kitchen countertop.
He really is turning into a carbon copy of our father, at least physically. He has the same chestnut hair and brooding expression. Byron-esque, my mother once said. Though I don’t think either my father or Max lean towards Byron’s partiality for bum sex, not that I would care if they did. I sigh quietly. I’ve made no secret of my business, and in turn, my family have made no secret of their abhorrence and disgust. My aunt Camilla might be a fan, but I think she’s the only one. The only one who admits it, at least.
I’m sure my mother would prefer Max to sleep on Genghis Khan’s sofa rather than stay with me. She probably thinks I’ll corrupt him—have him starring in one of my skin flicks. If only they knew how it’s the opposite—how he harasses me, trying to persuade me to let him “have a go”.
He doesn’t understand. He’s just an oversexed, overgrown boys. I don’t think he believes that being an adult actor is hard work. Hard to remain focused over long days. Hard to fake enthusiasm some days. Hard to stay hard!
But I don’t often talk of my work. And our family is dealing with my career choice as they do with all things: by pretending it’s not an actual thing. Brush it all under the antique carpet and make-believe that everything is fine. Stiff upper lips, not penises. Lie back and think of England. Tradition and heritage over smut.
‘Something will turn up,’ I tell Max, tearing myself away from my thoughts again.
‘Well, in the meantime, I’m going away.’
‘Again?’ He must have more frequent flier points than the Kardashians combined. ‘I mean, so soon?’ I amend, taking in his glare.
‘Yeah, Josh’s parents have a place in Goa. We’re going to hang out and meditate.’
Self-medicate, more like. ‘Look, Max, you’ll find the thing that sparks your interest—something you can see yourself doing. A thing you’ll love.’
‘Not like you did,’ he answers morosely, still looking out at the dark, wet night. ‘You’ve found a passion.’
Lost it more like. Who can’t bloody orgasm? If I can’t find it soon, I’ll probably end up having a stress-related heart attack. And who will be to blame then? Flynn bloody Phillips, that’s who.
I reach for the cannister of tea to avoid Max reading my expression. I’m told I wear my emotions on my face, and no one wants to question my thoughts right now. Because Flynn Phillips has stolen my orgasm, and I need to come up with a plan to make him give it back.
Chapter 2
FLYNN
‘Barbecue. Tomorrow.’
‘Fuck off. I’m not working Saturday.’ My retort is immediate though Keir, my boss, doesn’t bite. ‘Working for you is like indentured servitude. And actually,’ I add, another angle occurring to me. ‘I think that invitation might be a little racist.’
‘What was racist?’ Keir asks, not really paying me any attention as he sifts through a pile of papers cluttering his desk, searching for the plans I have in my hand. It’s late Friday evening after a hellish day, but I love my job. Almost as much as I love winding up my boss. ‘The bit where I invited you to spend an evening with pleasant company, providing you food and drink, or when I asked you where the paperwork for Simmons had gone?’
‘The barbecue,’ I respond. ‘Just because I’m Australian, don’t think you can pigeonhole me. It’s culturally insensitive.’
‘I dunno about pigeonholed, but I wish you’d shut your hole,’ Keir murmurs. ‘Where the fuck have those fucking plans gone?’
Keir McClain might be a killer businessman, but he’d be lost without me. ‘These plans?’ I say, chucking them down in front of him. ‘You left them on my desk this morning.’
‘I’ve been looking for them for an hour,’ he growls. ‘You’d better not have been fucking with me.’
‘I was prioritizing your workday.’
‘Manipulating it, more like.’
‘It’s called managing, you arsehole.’ My words come out on a chuckle. ‘Come on, admit it. You couldn’t arrange a shag in a brothel without my help.’ Not because he’s forgetful or unfocussed. Quite the opposite. He just has too many plates spinning to tend to them all. Not without me behind him, spinning those plates just as hard. I say again: I love my job.
‘Fuck, I’m done,’ he says, standing suddenly straight at the same moment his phone buzzes with a text. I know it’ll be Paisley, his wife. The pair seem to have some sort of telepathy or intuition going on. ‘You’re done, too,’ he says without looking at me but rather still looking down at his phone. Look
ing at it. Smirking at it. Sliding it into his pocket with a satisfied air.
That, in front of me, is a man on a promise—a promise of a good shag. And you can call that intuition if you like, too.
‘Tomorrow,’ he says, shutting his computer down. ‘Just be a good lad and turn up at three. Bring a decent bottle of wine that I’ll pretend you haven’t already charged to my credit card.’
‘The company credit card.’ One of the perks of the job. I don’t use it often—I don’t need to—and I only usually do so to wind Keir up. And occasionally to send a “thanks for last night’s fuck” flowers. And when I do that, I always make sure flowers are also sent to Keir’s house. His house is overrun with women. Paisley, his wife, Sorcha, his daughter, and Agnes, Sorcha’s stand-in granny. I love all three of them. I don’t think it’s conceitedness to think the sentiment is returned.
‘Is it a bring a date kind of thing?’
‘You can,’ he replies, grabbing his suit jacket. ‘But Chastity will be there.’
My heart does one of those cartoon thumps. Ba-dum! Though, unlike a cartoon, it’s not exactly my heart that springs forth through my clothing. My heart isn’t straining from my chest, but my dick might be feeling a bit lively.
Chastity . . . fuck me. Now there’s a handful. And a little bit more. I’ve never had a thing for posh girls before—in fact, I’ve actively avoided them—and though she pretends to hate my guts, she sure was fun to fuck.
Sun, sea, the Seychelles, and Chastity. That was a killer combination right there. I’d met her before Keir and Paisley’s wedding. At her house, in fact. Let’s just say sparks didn’t so much fly as ignite into a bush fire. She was so hot—the dangerous kind. She somehow got the idea I was a journalist and after juicy gossip from her friend, so she threatened to impale me in the nastiest of ways. Grabbing an umbrella from an antique-looking umbrella stand, she suggested she’d shove it up my arse. Then she insulted my balls. It was the liveliest bit of foreplay I’d ever taken part in. So I reciprocated by telling her if she came any closer, I’d teabag her.
Her face. My balls. A date.