by Cara McKenna
“Can I call you Nurse White? That’s such a good porno name.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “I bet there isn’t much porn out there that does it for you, huh?”
“Why d’you say that?”
“Because the normal stuff’s probably too boring, and the things that you are into… Well, I guess I just imagine it would be icky, watching other people pretending to do rape stuff and all that. Or worrying if it wasn’t really simulated. I mean, I feel grossed out just trying to imagine Googling the keywords for that.”
“You’re not far off.”
“Plus I don’t think you own a computer. Or a TV.”
“There’s a laptop around here someplace,” he said, sounding suddenly sleepy and distracted. “I haul it to the coffee shop if I need to do something online.”
“You know…”
“What do I know?”
“I was just thinking, when I first met you, you seemed really…obvious,” she concluded. “And you’re not. Not just how you are in bed,” she said, rambling. “On the outside you’re, like, über-macho, Mr. Toolbelt-and-Boxing-Gloves with your bossy accent and your attitude and your…tallness.”
“My tallness?”
“And your body and everything. But you’re really something else on the inside. Sorry,” she said after a pause. “That sounded way more squishy than I meant it to. Should I insult you, to take the edge off all that squishiness?”
“Nah. I’ll just take it out on you next time.”
She smiled. “I’m sure you will.” She eased a bandage over his nastiest cut, pressed it gently into place. “Done fussing.”
He nodded.
Laurel carried the supplies back to the bathroom, took a quick shower and reemerged naked. Flynn was stretched out on the bed in his shorts. He sat up as she flipped the bathroom light and fan off. As always, his gaze lacked subtlety and, as always, she liked it.
“Can I steal another shirt to sleep in?”
He managed to stare even more pointedly. “Fuck no.” But he rose a moment later and tossed her a tee from his dresser, looking disappointed as it swallowed her torso.
“Thanks.”
“Hit the lights and get over here.”
Laurel turned the overhead lights off, came back to the bed, dusted the grit from her feet and lay across the rumpled covers. Flynn rolled to his side, coming close. He wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her damp hair, his breath flaring in hot, slow intervals.
“You said you don’t do spooning,” she said.
He shushed her.
“Are you the only one allowed to break the rules you make?” she asked.
“I dunno. Try sometime and find out.”
They lay in silence for a long time. As Laurel grew drowsy she felt Flynn’s body calm then turn restless. His sticky arms shifted around her.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Christ, your skin smells so fucking good.”
Before Laurel could offer a sleepy reply she was turned onto her back and Flynn was braced above her. Her body roused a few seconds ahead of her brain. “Hello.”
“Like vanilla custard.”
“So you say.”
He leaned in and kissed her, light and slow, a lazy drag of his warm lips against hers. “You too sore?”
“Nope. Have at it.”
He smirked. “You need lube?”
“Find out for yourself.”
The smile deepened and he slid a hand between their bodies, two fingers dipping inside her pussy. “Oh fuck.”
He found a condom and kicked his underwear away. Laurel peeled her shirt off and watched him stroke himself stiff, knowing the mere fact he hadn’t ordered her to do it marked this occasion as different. By the time he rolled the condom on, his breathing was labored, heavy and impatient. She propped her legs open as he knelt between them, his palms flat on the mattress beside her ribs. His hips angled his cock to her pussy and he sank in slow.
“God,” Laurel muttered. “I love your cock.”
He lowered to his elbows and pushed his face against her neck, muffling his words. “I love your cunt. You’re so fuckin’ warm. I can’t get enough of this.”
She whispered above his ear. “Do you want me to struggle?”
“No. I just want to fuck you.”
She ran her hands up and down his body, admiring his back, his ass, the week-old rope-burn scar still raised along his shoulders, the damp bristle of his short hair. Eventually her palms settled on his hips. She memorized how he felt. She brought her legs up, wanting to wrap her entire body around him, possess him as he was possessing her.
He took his time, pumping deeply, savoring, giving his cock whatever it needed as his curt, hungry breaths warmed Laurel’s neck.
In time his thrusts shifted, turned frantic, the change in this domineering man fascinating her. She curled her nails against his skin and shuddered at the power she felt, sensing how helpless he’d grown.
“Michael.”
Flynn shot up on locked arms and froze.
“Oh God, sorry,” she said. “That was supposed to be a sweet-nothing, not a safe word.”
His rigid body fell slack. “Jesus, you scared me.”
“Sorry. Is it okay if I call you that? Can I change my word?”
“To what?”
“Uh…parakeet?”
“Fine.” He leaned in close again, bringing his slick chest back to hers, breathing into her shoulder. “I’m not used to being called that though.”
“What, parakeet?”
He snorted. “No, genius—Michael. Doesn’t really feel like my name.”
“You’d rather I called you Flynn?”
He pushed back up on to his arms. “Yeah.”
“Okay. I will. But let’s keep the new safe word. In case I slip up again.”
His body got back to work. The desperate quality from before hardened, transformed at least partly into his usual, aggressive style. He felt good, but she missed that tiny taste of what she suspected was a rare glimpse at a softer side of Flynn. Of Michael, maybe. But she made a mental note to not get her hopes up about seeing too much of this man’s gentler alter ego.
Above her, he moaned. He hammered her deep, their thighs slapping with each pump. “Take my fucking cock.”
She grasped his hips, tugging in time with his thrusts to spur him on.
“God, I wish I could fuck you bare. Come right inside you.” He slammed into her then suddenly stopped, pulling out and moving back on the mattress.
“Is everything okay?”
He was already lowering himself, moving his face between her legs. “I need to taste you.”
She gasped as his tongue lapped at her clit, hot and wet and hungry. He hooked his arms under her thighs and clamped his hands to the creases below her hipbones. Laurel had gotten plenty of head in her time, but never like this. Flynn fucked her with his mouth—tongue driving deep, lips suckling, the stubble of his jaw scraping her tender skin to fan the flames. He set a rhythm of firm licks from her lips to her clit, punctuating each with a grunted, “Yeah.”
“God, Flynn.”
“You taste so fucking amazing.” He brought his head up and Laurel could see the violent rise and fall of his chest. “Sit on my face,” he said.
She got up and they swapped places, Flynn lying back with his head just below the pillows. She swung a leg over and wedged her calves under his arms, settling her pussy against his mouth and grasping the edge of a shelf for balance. She fussed with the position until he yanked down on her hips, pulling her closer. “Oh God.”
His voice was thick and desperate. “Fuck my mouth.” He made his tongue stiff, spearing her, nose grazing her clit, and Laurel rocked her hips and let the sensations and textures of him drive her insane. One hand left her and she felt the motions behind her, knowing he’d started stroking himself. She let go of the shelf and leaned back, craned her neck, wishing she could see more. A flash of his pumping fist and swollen cock, the condom
stripped—then her balance faltered and she faced forward again, grabbing the shelf.
Flynn broke away, and his next order unnerved her a little. “Turn around.”
She obeyed, fascinated by how he still managed to be in charge, even as he served her. She got in position and tried to ignore how vulnerable she felt, spread open with her ass in his face. But as she braced herself on her palms, facing his feet, the view made it entirely worth it. Flynn’s mouth went back to work, followed by his hand.
“Yes,” she murmured. “Gimme a good show, Flynn.” It wouldn’t be hard to stroke or suck him herself, but Laurel wanted to make him do the work, to be spoiled by this bossy man. She watched that tight fist pulling on his thick cock, luxuriated in his flicking tongue and sucking lips. Her brain projected a screen over the visual and she imagined him losing control. Each time she conjured the image of him shooting, bathing his belly in all that hot come, she edged closer to climax.
When the pre-come glistened at his tip she reached out to rub it into his head, teasing his slit with her thumb, loving the moan he rewarded her with.
“I can’t wait to watch you come, Flynn.”
His grip seemed to tighten, the pulls slowing for Laurel’s enjoyment, turning more explicit. She cupped his tight balls in her palm, squeezing, fondling, rubbing the smooth skin just behind them. His body jerked beneath her, sending her tumbling into her release. Her thighs fluttered around his face as the pleasure rocked through her. She watched that fist crank into overdrive, fucking his cock fast and rough, getting him there just behind her. His chest and stomach clenched, and the first spasm lashed come against his damp skin, followed by two more, a deep groan, then peace. He swore softly.
Laurel fumbled off of him and flopped onto the mattress. He grabbed the towel and cleaned himself up, then his body wrapped around hers again, warm and damp from the summer and the sex.
“Man,” she sighed. “That visual should keep me going ’til the next time I come over.”
“Pervert.”
“Oh right. Me, the pervert.” She reached back to pat his damp hair. “You keep telling yourself that.”
They fell silent, sleep soon coming down on Laurel like a narcotic curtain. Clothes, covers and no-cuddling rules abandoned, she fell asleep to the rhythmic hush of Flynn’s breathing in her hair.
9
Laurel woke first, sleepy morning light from the tall windows coaxing her eyes open. She peeled her body from Flynn’s, still in the same positions as when they’d fallen asleep. He groaned as she stood from the bed.
“What time is it?”
She squinted at the microwave. “Nine thirty-two.”
“Oh fuck.” He sat up, confirmed the time and swung his legs to the floor. “This is real obnoxious, but we gotta get going.”
For real? She’d been looking forward to a lazy couple of hours before she had to go home and get ready for work. “Seriously? It’s Sunday.”
“I know. I gotta drive my sister to frigging church.” He yanked his underwear and jeans up his legs. “I can drop you at home, if that works for you.”
“Okay. Sure.” She dressed and threw on some mascara and concealer, frowned at the reflection of her hair, parted weirdly from being slept on damp.
Flynn looked ready to go when she emerged.
“Sorry about the rush,” he said. “I don’t usually sleep so late. You must have fucked the sense out of me.”
The compliment took the edge off her disappointment. “It’s fine. I have to work in a bit, so I should probably get going anyhow.”
She assembled her purse and Flynn locked up behind them. They took the elevator down three flights and she followed him to apartment 202. Flynn knocked and female voices flared behind the door.
“They’re never fuckin’ ready on time.” He thumped a couple more times. “Jesus can’t wait all day, ladies.”
Laurel raised an eyebrow at him. “What was your stance on impatient people again?”
“Punctuality trumps patience.”
“And where exactly does hypocrisy fit in?”
Flynn’s smirking retort was cut off as the door opened and a harried-looking woman appeared before them. She was tall and pale like Flynn but with unconvincing auburn hair and at least an extra decade’s wear and tear.
“You have to pound my door so fuckin’ hard, Mike?”
“It’s nearly ten of. Heather, this is Laurel, Laurel, this is my sister, Heather.”
Heather put out a hand and gave Laurel’s a firm shake with a faint bite of acrylic nail. “Nice to meet you. Kim’s just putting her face on.” Heather left the door open and disappeared inside, replaced by a faint whiff of cigarettes.
Laurel looked to Flynn. “Putting her face on? I thought your niece was, like, six years old.”
“That’s my grandniece. Or great-niece? Anyway, that’s Kayla. She’s usually at her dad’s on the weekends, or with his mom, at any rate. My niece Kim is twenty-two.”
“How old is Heather?” Laurel asked, keeping her voice low.
Flynn did a calculation in his head. “Forty-six.”
“Wow, big gap.”
“There’s a few more of us in between, but I’m only close with Heather.”
His sister reappeared in the doorway. “Yeah, I raised his ass.”
Flynn nodded. “Yeah, she raised my ass. Fine, upstanding citizen you created too.”
Heather’s penciled eyebrows rose dryly. “Sober, employed, no record. I did just fine, thank you.”
A plump young woman materialized behind her, looking more prepared for loitering outside a convenience store than for church. Snug jeans with overdone fade marks, brassy-blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun, two long corkscrew curls hanging down in front of her ears. Her makeup suggested she was looking to make an unlikely impression on her Lord and Savior.
“Hey,” she said. “I’m Kim.”
“Laurel.” They shook hands as Heather locked up.
Flynn led them to the elevator and a minute later they piled into his car, shotgun entrusted to Laurel. He started the engine and made a U-turn onto the street.
“So where’s Ricky these days?” he asked, eyes on the rearview mirror at one of the women. No one spoke. “What’s a shrug mean?” he asked. “Prison? Rehab? Cult?”
Kim spoke, sounding theatrically bored. “No. He’s around.”
“Around where?”
“I dunno,” she sighed. “Someplace.”
“He still in school?”
Another sigh, angstier than the last. “If I see him I’ll ask him.”
“Where’s Kayla? With his mom?”
Another silent reply via the rearview.
Laurel stared straight ahead at the road, wondering how often Flynn’s fly-by-night lovers drove around with his family on a given Sunday morning.
“Your eye looks better,” Heather said.
“This one’s been playin’ nurse, takin’ good care of me,” Flynn said, jerking a thumb at Laurel.
She blushed, glad the women wouldn’t see.
Flynn pulled up beside a stone church five minutes later.
“Thanks, Mike,” Heather said. “Nice to meet you, Lauren.”
“Laurel,” Flynn corrected. “See you at twelve. Pray for my soul.”
The women climbed out and Kim mumbled a goodbye before the doors slammed.
“Right,” Flynn said. “Straight home, or you need a lift someplace special?”
“Home’s fine. I have to work at one.”
Flynn flipped on the radio and they drove into Boston without speaking. His silence seemed comfortable but Laurel’s felt melancholy. She blamed the damp air and the flat gray sky. She turned to him as they passed the huge waterfront hotel, mere steps from where they’d met.
“I sort of get why you were so hard on that idiot couple, that afternoon I bought you lunch.” As soon as the words came out she worried he’d take it as an insult, think she was calling his niece obnoxious.
But all Fl
ynn said was, “I want to shake her sometimes. And her fucktard boyfriend.”
“Is your sister married?”
He shook his head. “But they were together for a long time, her and Kim’s dad—Robbie, the guy who taught me to box. On and off, but mostly on. Really good dude. They broke up maybe five years ago. I try to bust Kim’s balls as much as I guess he would, if he was here.”
“Was he like a father figure to you or something?”
Flynn gave a dismissive sort of snort. “No. He was just my sister’s cool-ass boyfriend, who treated me like a grown-up when I was twelve. Every guy I knew whose dad was around, they made me pretty sure a father’s just there to yell a fuck of a lot and to have a bottle surgically attached to their hand the second they got home from work. If they worked. Robbie found Jesus or something when he was like eighteen and I never saw him drink anything harder than Red Bull in the twenty years I knew him.”
“Are you religious?”
He shook his head. “Not since I was about ten.”
“Your tattoo looks religious,” she said. She’d Googled the Latin already but decided not to share this fact in case it sounded like something a stalker might do.
“It is,” he said. “It’s about Saint Michael.”
Laurel grinned. Archangel Michael. Holy ass-kicker.
“That’s actually Robbie’s fault too,” Flynn said. “When I was in high school he photocopied this painting for me out of an old art history book, of Saint Michael slaying Lucifer, since he’s my namesake or whatever. I think he was trying to make religion seem bad-ass.”
“Maybe it worked. You did get the tattoo.”
Flynn shrugged.
“He sounds cool,” Laurel said. “Robbie, I mean. I’d like to meet him sometime.”
“Wish you could, sweetheart, but he’s dead.”
She winced, taking a psychic punch to the gut. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
Flynn kept his blue eyes firmly on the road. “He shot himself a couple years ago.” He crossed himself in such a reflexive-looking fashion Laurel wondered if he even knew he’d done it. “Cool motherfucker though. He went with me for a school thing when I was in, like, eighth grade. I forget why but he chaperoned, and I felt like the hottest shit happening, showin’ up with my sister’s tattooed, welterweight boyfriend to go to the aquarium or whatever.”