Willing Victim: Remastered

by Cara McKenna

  “See you Wednesday,” she said.

  “Up to you.”

  She got out and slammed the door without looking back. Flynn idled until she’d unlocked the building’s front door and closed it behind her. She heard him drive away as she started up the steps, her body mourning the sudden absence of his smell and voice. Wednesday sounded like a hundred years from now.

  And Wednesday sounded far too soon.

  4

  Laurel stood outside Flynn’s building, sheltering under the awning from the evening’s warm rain, staring at the keypad beside a list of tenants. M. Flynn, 508. Easy as pie. Just punch in the numbers and buzz his apartment.

  She opened her purse and woke her phone. Seven fifty-two. Eight minutes early. Would that look too eager? It wasn’t as though she could control how fast the bus got her here… Still, maybe she should take a walk around the block and be fashionably late. Except it was raining and her hair was already fuzzy enough from the humidity—

  A knock on the glass in front of her made Laurel yelp and jump. Flynn stood on the other side, staring at her. He made a beckoning motion with his finger as he pushed the locked door open.

  “Oh,” she said and stepped into the stuffy foyer. “Are you on your way out someplace?”

  “No, dipshit, I have an appointment. With you. I saw you walk up the street from my window like five minutes ago. Thought maybe you couldn’t figure out the buzzer, Little Miss Engineer.”

  “Oh,” she said again, unable to think of a witty comeback or a good lie. “I was just checking my messages.”

  “Uh huh. Anyhow, come on up.” He turned and she followed him into the elevator.

  “Did you have a good day?” she asked.

  “Yeah, not bad. You get dinner yet?”

  “I did.” They exited at the fifth floor and walked down the hall to his apartment. It felt different than when she’d been here on Saturday. More and less intimidating at the same time. Flynn locked up behind them and took her umbrella, hanging it on a hook to drip-dry.

  “You tell somebody where you are?” he asked. She’d left him a message the previous afternoon, wanting to double-check his address, and when he called her back he’d told her to do as much.

  “I gave my roommate your name and everything,” she said.

  “Good girl.”

  Laurel let his patronizing tone slide, pleased he had a clear understanding of how sketchy he was.

  She followed him to the living area, finding it looked a little less sinister in the waning daylight, and sober. She turned to Flynn. “So, do we just, you know…get right to it?”

  “I’m not a whore,” he said, expression somewhere between amused and insulted.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Have a seat, sub shop girl. You want a drink? Soda? Wine?” He walked to the counter and held up a bottle of red as Laurel sat on the edge of his couch.

  “Yeah, sure. Wine’s great.”

  He uncorked it and poured her a generous measure in a glass with a Christmas holly pattern around the lip. Taking a seat kitty-corner from her on the easy chair, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

  “So, what are you into?” he asked.

  “Sex-wise?”

  He nodded.

  “I haven’t done anything super-crazy before,” Laurel said. Except coming here.

  “Let me know what’s off the table. Anal?” he asked, businesslike.

  She shrugged. “Not my favorite, but I’ll go there. Just, you know…”

  “Be gentle?”

  She nodded. “That sounds stupid, since I’m here because, you know. You’re into rough stuff.”

  “I don’t wanna hurt you. That’s the last thing I want. That’s why you need to tell me anything you know of that’ll freak you out.”

  “I gag easily,” she offered.

  “Does it freak you out?”

  “No, I wouldn’t go that far.”

  He nodded. “You want condoms with oral?” He seemed to be going down a mental checklist and Laurel wondered how many times he’d conducted this interview.

  “Should I, with you?”

  “Your choice.” He got up and went to a filing cabinet standing between two windows, returning to hand her a paper with hospital letterhead dated three weeks prior—a long list of tests detailing Michael P. Flynn’s negative status for all things contagious and undesirable.

  Laurel smirked. “Is this what you call foreplay?”

  “Pardon me if I kill your buzz, kiddo, but this is important to me. Should be to you too.”

  “No, it is. Just feels a bit clinical… Anyway I think oral’s okay without,” she said. “But thanks for offering.”

  “That doesn’t really deserve thanks, but sure. What about you?” he asked. “You clean?”

  She nodded, folding the letter and handing it back. “I didn’t bring a note though.”

  “Any traumatic experiences I should avoid triggering? Any off-limits words? You know, the C-word or anything?”

  “I don’t think so. Just don’t call me ugly or anything, please.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Any fucker ever tells you that, you give me a call and I’ll come over and kick the holy hell out of him for you.”

  Laurel flushed warmer than she had contemplating any of the other aspects of Flynn’s brutality.

  “Slapping okay?” he went on. “Like, just spanking to start?”

  Her blush ran so deep she could just about taste blood. “Fine.”

  He nodded again. “All right. We’re not gonna get too crazy tonight, but if anything feels off to you, just use my first name and we’ll stop. You remember my first name?”

  “Michael,” she said. He couldn’t possibly guess how many times she’d repeated it in her mind in the last four days.

  “Good. And so you know, there’s no hidden cameras or any of that shit. And you’re welcome to look for yourself,” he said. “For what I am, I’m a decent guy. I don’t want you here if you don’t think you believe that yet.”

  “I trust you.”

  “How do you want it to end tonight?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Unless you tell me not to, I’m gonna come, for one. I’ll try to make you come too if you want me to. But if you think you’d rather leave hot and frustrated, I can do that.”

  “I wouldn’t mind coming.” She raised the glass to her lips to hide a nervous smile.

  “You got it. And what about afterward? You want to get tossed out on your ass? You want a lift home? You can stay the night, but I don’t cuddle or spoon and I leave at a quarter to six for work.”

  “Do I have to decide now?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Only if you want this to end with me acting like a jerk and giving you the boot.”

  “Is that what girls usually want you to do?”

  “No, not usually. But it’s an option.”

  “And what…what do you need from me?”

  He made a face then laughed. “Don’t think a woman’s ever asked me that before. And I guess I just need you to be here with good intentions. Don’t make me live the rest of my life feelin’ shitty about anything I do to you that you didn’t warn me not to. That’s about it.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “Good. And I’ll tell you now, I won’t be callin’ you tomorrow or the next day or the day after that, so don’t get in a stink when I don’t. None of the normal dating rules apply to this. I know what goes on here is twisted as fuck as far as most people are concerned, and I don’t want to be the creepy fucker callin’ up some girl he accidentally freaked out. If you decide you want to do this again, you call me. You decide I’m a jerk, don’t. My feelings won’t be hurt.”

  “Okay.” Laurel took a deep drink and grimaced at the sour wine.

  A smile melted Flynn’s stern, professional expression. “Sorry. I’m useless with booze. I just picked the one with the girliest label.”

  “Are you…” She trailed off.<
br />
  “Recovering?”

  She nodded.

  “Nah. I just don’t drink. Not since I was like twenty-five. Just a glass of something at a wedding or whatever. You remember what I said about coffee?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah. I’m twitchy enough without chemicals short-circuitin’ shit in my head.”

  “Maybe you should take up smoking,” Laurel teased.

  He stood. “Don’t fuckin’ tempt me. Hardest breakup of my life, me and cigarettes.”

  “How long were you going out?”

  Flynn looked at the ceiling, doing math in his head. “Twelve years.” He went to the sink to fill a pint glass with water.

  “Wow, well done.” Laurel raised her own glass and choked down another gulp in honor of Flynn’s abstinence. Gut-rotting or not, the wine was working. She felt heat creeping over her skin, loosening her muscles and mouth and inhibitions.

  “Can you tell I’m super-nervous?” she asked.

  He seemed to study her face. “I’d be worried if you weren’t. But no, you don’t seem that nervous.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “Nah.” He sat back down with his glass. “I’ve been on board with this part of myself for a few years now, and I know when a girl’s worth gettin’ nervous over.”

  Laurel frowned, insulted. “What do you mean?”

  “You didn’t show up with a trench coat, so I know you’re not going to whip it off and be wearin’ some crazy get-up made out of black plastic and dog collars, askin’ me to parade you down Broadway.”

  “Oh. But you’re not nervous about, I don’t know…your performance or whatever?”

  “Should I be? You got high standards?”

  She considered it a moment and Flynn laughed.

  “Neither of us is here to prove anything,” he said. “We’re here to have fun, and for you to maybe get your motor cranked like you never knew it could be. Or not. Who knows? My ego’s not tied up in this going a certain way. The only thing that makes me nervous is hurtin’ you by mistake, and I trust myself enough to think that’s unlikely.”

  “Are you good about knowing? You know, if a woman’s about to freak out.”

  He nodded. “I think fighting’s taught me how to read people pretty good.”

  “You should take up poker.” Laurel drained her glass and set it aside. “Do you have some kind of waiver I should sign, Mr. Preparedness?”

  “Nah, let’s start. If I do something that makes you want to sue me, I’ll probably deserve it.”

  Laurel smiled at him, feeling as if she’d uncovered a complex new dimension of a man who’d seemed so simple at first glance. He really stuck his neck out for this, putting his faith in his partners as much as they did him. Maybe more.

  “You’re really quite…trusting,” Laurel offered.

  “And you’re really quite attractive when you bust my balls, sub shop girl. Why don’t we get down to business and see how this goes?”

  The chatting and alcohol had eased the tension in Laurel’s body but it flooded back with a vengeance as Flynn sat beside her. His weight shifted the couch cushions, reminding her just how big he was.

  She cleared her throat. “Can we keep it pretty vanilla, to start? And I could tell you when I might want you to get…meaner?”

  He nodded. “Whatever you need.”

  “Okay, good.” She studied his eyes, different than she remembered. Blue with a dark outer ring and a burst of amber around the pupil. She realized she probably looked silly, her own eyes crossed from staring at him this close up.

  Then he kissed her, and she couldn’t give a good goddamn about anything except his mouth.

  Training wheels or not, Flynn only gave her a couple soft kisses before his tongue slid between her lips, hot and slick and aggressive. She sucked a breath through her nose, focusing on her body’s thrill and filtering out the fear.

  His palms felt broad and warm as they grazed her neck, a little taste of the promised roughness in the way his fingers tangled in her hair, freeing half of it from the elastic. She stroked his shoulders and chest, taking in those firm contours as his tongue delved deeper.

  He pulled away to say, “Get on my lap.”

  A shiver trickled through her at that first order. She toyed with saying “Yes, Sir,” but wasn’t ready to dive into the submissive role quite so soon.

  She tossed a leg over and straddled him. Flynn’s eyes and hands roamed her sides, her arms, her small breasts. She touched his face and hair and ears then he grabbed one of her hands and put it to his mouth, sliding two fingers between his lips. He sucked hard, making her fingertips prickle and her eyes widen. She felt his tongue push between the digits, then the drag of his teeth down her skin. He made a throaty noise that raised the hairs along her arms and he pulled her fingers out.

  “Take your top off,” he said.

  Her body warmed at being commanded by this man. She’d done little snatches of role-playing with lovers but it’d always felt cheesy and awkward. Not with Flynn. She knew he wasn’t play-acting. She peeled her shirt up and tossed it over the arm of the couch.

  “Nice,” he whispered, eyes darting over her skin. His rough palms swept up her stomach and ribs, cupped her breasts. “Didn’t anybody tell you it’s July?” He meant her pale skin.

  “I’m not really a beach person.” She glanced down at her freckled arms and the white skin of her trunk that never saw the sun.

  “I like it,” he said, still staring. “You must be Irish.”

  “I’m a mutt. And don’t forget the red hair’s not really mine.”

  He ignored her attempt at self-deprecation. Reaching around, he got her bra clasp open. Another husky, appreciative noise escaped him as the garment dropped. His touch started light, the graze of his fingers stiffening her nipples. He cupped her breasts, squeezing and kneading softly, then a bit rougher. Laurel got her first taste of physical dominance when his palm slid to her lower back, jerking her closer, higher. She braced a hand on the couch. His lips claimed one breast as he palmed the other, and her free hand went instinctively to the back of his head, nails raking his scalp.

  Hard suction, then a glancing of teeth.

  “God.” It came out as barely more than a grunt.

  He freed his mouth. “Say my name.”

  “Flynn.”

  A smug noise warmed her wet skin. “Keep saying it. It gets me so fuckin’ hard.”

  Fever burned in her neck and cheeks as she thought of arousing him and she shifted her hips, wanting to feel the evidence. Pressing their centers close, she ground against the stiff ridge hiding behind his fly. “Flynn.”

  “Yeah.” His mouth moved to her other breast, even rougher than with the first. His thick thighs fidgeted between hers, his swelling cock craving more space or more friction as the tension mounted.

  “You feel big,” Laurel whispered.

  He pulled his head away. “You wanna see me?”

  She nodded.

  “Push that table back and get on your knees.”

  She got off his lap, slid the coffee table away and knelt between his feet. Her heart raced, a hundred percent excitement, zero fear.

  Flynn scooted forward so his thighs flanked her ribs. He tugged off his shirt, offering the spectacle of all that powerful muscle, the smell of his skin.

  Laurel didn’t wait for an order. She reached for his belt, getting the buckle open and letting the worn, heavy leather fall aside. She freed the button and lowered his zipper, then spread his jeans open, revealing a strip of black cotton. She caught the first hint of his scent, one that made her mouth prickle in anticipation. He eased his jeans down a couple more inches and adjusted his cock, centering the impressive bulge in his open fly.

  She glanced up to meet his eyes, wanting an order this time.

  “Touch it.” Cold.

  Laurel swallowed and put her fingertips to the ridge, feeling his flesh react. She flattened her palm, surveyed his broad, fevered erection, rev
eled in his sharp inhalation. His hand covered hers, wrapping it tight around him, making her feel how thick and hard and ready he’d grown.

  He moaned above her. “Yeah… Fuck, I’ve been thinking about this all week, making you touch my cock. Get it out, girl.”

  She tugged his waistband down, exposing every throbbing inch, wrapping her hand around him again and loving the smooth feel of his skin.

  “Good girl.” His hips flexed into her slow, gentle exploration. “Harder.” He guided her hand again, tightening her grip and quickening her stroke. “That’s good. That’s good. I want this so bad.” He made their shared rhythm fast and rough and groaned in time with the pulls. “I’ve been jerking off thinking about this. About making you taste me.” Pre-come beaded at his slit then slid down his head to ease the motions.

  “Flynn.”

  “I’m so fucking ready, you’re gonna get me off before we even start playing. Taste me,” he ordered.

  Laurel brought her mouth to him as their hands continued to work. She kissed his head, gave him a light lick.

  “Yeah. More. Tongue me.”

  She lapped at his slit, lavishing it with wet caresses.

  “Good girl. Tease it. Tease it and I’ll reward you with a nice mouthful.”

  Her face burned as she took his orders, the sounds of his panting breaths and the salty taste of him leaving her lightheaded. She flicked her tongue over him, savoring a flash of power as his bossy hand faltered and his grunts turned to shallow gasps.

  “God, fuck.” He tangled his fingers in her hair, holding her head but not forcing her mouth. Not yet. “Keep it tight,” he said, and she squeezed him harder. “Keep teasing me.”

  She fluttered her tongue across his slit, the taste of his pre-come greeting her in steady bursts. She neglected him just long enough to say, “You taste so good.”

  “Yeah. Take more of me. Suck my cock.”

  Bitch, she added to herself, the word seeming implicit from his harsh tone. She took him into her mouth, sucking hard. Any discomfort was worth it just for the sounds he made.