The Pact (Winslow Brothers 2)

At least, for me, it did. As per usual, I don’t have a flipping clue what he’s thinking.

Casual and calm as ever, he walks past me to what’s becoming known as the cabinet and gets himself a glass, filling it once again from the tap.

Does he ever drink anything other than water?

He’s showered, damp hair curling softly around the backs of his ears, and he’s dressed in a slightly different version of the same outfit from earlier last night. Black jeans this time, with a light blue T-shirt that makes his eyes seem otherworldly.

God, he looks good.

And I can’t seem to stop myself from taking in the view. The insanely hot view, mind you, and before I know it, I’m taking a mental inventory. I don’t want to forget even a sliver of what’s in front of me when I’m back home in LA, with only my hands and a vibrator to satisfy myself.

Wide, muscular shoulders? Check.

Prominent biceps? Check.

Slim but firm stomach showing through the material of his shirt? Check.

And a delectable hint of a perfectly equipped bulge whispers secret promises of what I know lies beneath those jeans of his? Check. Check. Check.

The beauty that is his body is just standing there, proffered to me like the most delectable meal on a silver platter. If I had to compare his physique to anything, I’d say his body is reminiscent of those hot Olympic swimmers who make it very apparent they spend hours upon hours in the pool.

Before I know it, I’m blurting out a question. “Have you ever…swam competitively?”

“No…” Flynn glances up from his phone, which I didn’t realize he was holding in front of himself, and cocks his head to the side. “Why?”

Because your body looks like someone sculpted it out of fucking stone, and I’m wondering if what I did last night was the best thing for me.

I realize that Flynn’s and my marriage arrangement isn’t fueled by love at first sight and butterflies. If anything, we’ve entered into a business contract without any hint of emotion. Besides, well, him feeling bad enough for my situation to take pity on me and offer up his pseudocommitment.

But he’s my husband. Temporarily, sure, but still my husband. And you should definitely fuck your husband before you get a divorce.

Right? Yes.

I did the right thing last night.

A memory of Flynn’s hips between my thighs, his hands to the counter behind me as he thrust inside me so powerfully my teeth chattered, plays like a film behind my eyes, and I have no choice but to close them and gather myself. Oh, yeah, you SO did the right thing.

“Uh…no-no reason,” I manage to mumble, gathering myself enough to place his T-shirt on the counter next to him with a small smile before walking around to the other side to sit down on one of his stools.

It’s only seconds before my mind runs away again, back to last night and the bad and sexy things that happened to make this a slightly less sterile environment.

I picture my head falling back and my heart rate skyrocketing and Flynn’s warm breath as he grunts softly into the skin of my throat. Good gracious, he’s hot. Like, forgive me, Father, for I have really, really sinned kind of hot.

Dirty, crude, uninhibited…I will never forget the sound of him whispering in my ear and telling me to fuck him like I wanted to be fucked.

His hips slowed, his chest slick with the effort he’d put into leaving an impression inside me, and I’d wrapped my arms around his shoulders and ordered him to carry me to bed.

And carry me to bed, he did. His bed, in fact, with careful, measured steps while his cock was still pressed to the hilt inside me.

I swallow, my hand drifting down to just above my pubic bone, where there’s been the most delicious ache rolling through me since I woke up alone in his bed this morning.

Geez, Daisy, get yourself together here. There’ll be plenty of time to remember all the details of your night together when you get back to LA—alone and horny and desperate to make yourself come.

Flynn is quiet and focused, his eyes back on his phone as he scrolls through something, and my eyes flick from the strong, chiseled lines of his face to the clock on the microwave display behind him.

Shit. “It’s already nine?”

Flynn’s eyes flit up to mine, considering me for a moment, and then he nods. “Yes.”

I jump up from the stool and hustle toward the front door where I know I dropped my purse upon arrival last night.

Flynn’s footsteps are soft, but not so much so that I don’t hear the pattern of them following me down the hall at a slightly slower pace. With the length of his legs, however, I’m sure he’s keeping up with me.