The Pact (Winslow Brothers 2)

Each piece that leaves my skin is a teasing reminder of his words that are now replaying in my mind on a loop. And every cell in my body is anticipating what’s to come.

I am at his mercy, completely naked and undeniably wanton for everything he has to give. His blue eyes blaze as he stares down at me, and I watch in rapt fascination as he removes his clothes. My eyes don’t miss the way his muscles flex with each precise movement or the fact that his cock is already hard, already ready to be inside me.

“You’re so beautiful, Daisy,” Flynn whispers as he climbs on the bed until his body hovers over mine.

So are you.

And then, always a man of his word, Flynn does all the things he said he’d do.

First, my mouth. My neck and shoulders. The curve of my back.

Then every inch of my skin.

And by the time he slides inside me, I am so overwhelmed with need I can’t see straight. All I can do is show him with desperate, greedy hands against his skin that I want more. That I want everything he has to give.

It’s sweet and slow but passionate and deep. It’s everything I want and everything I didn’t know I needed.

And it’s dangerously addictive.

So addictive that you don’t want this to end.

Saturday, May 11th

Daisy

I wake up to Flynn’s side of the bed empty, the sounds of the shower running in the bathroom, and every muscle in my body reminding me of the dirty, wicked, ah-may-zing things Flynn did to me mere hours ago.

I swear, I’m never going to hear the song “All Night Long” the same again.

Thoughts of last night flood my mind.

Flynn kissing my neck and shoulders and my breasts. His tongue lapping and sucking at my nipples. His face between my legs. His big, strong body hovering over mine as he slid inside me. All the things he whispered into my ear.

The way his blue eyes caught fire every time moans would spill from my lips.

The way he was gentle but deliciously rough at the same time.

Damn, the man is a stallion with a wicked mouth and a big penis. Are you sure you don’t want him to be your real husband?

I roll my eyes at myself and shift my focus to waking up.

Hands over my head and toes pointed away from my body, I stretch out my arms and legs beneath the comforter. My muscles are sore and a bit achy, but it’s the good kind of discomfort. The one that serves as a delicious reminder of last night.

Once I’m out of bed, I grab my favorite fluffy robe from the closet and stop dead in my tracks when I catch my reflection in the mirror.

Are those hickeys on my boobs? And my freaking thighs?

Fingers to my skin, I tap at the bruised flesh and deduce that they are, in fact, hickeys. But why I smile over that truth is something I don’t understand. Normally, I’d be a bit ticked off if a man marked me like this, but being marked by Flynn with a bunch of hickeys? I don’t know what I am, but it’s not mad.

Because you l-o-v-e love it, you little floozy.

Okay, fine. So what if I like the idea of Flynn marking me? Pretty sure any woman would love a man like him giving their body that much attention.

A little niggle of discomfort sets up residence in my chest, and I write it off as another sign of my sex hangover. I’m probably a little dehydrated. Maybe even low on blood sugar, too.

Uh-huh. Sure, that’s all it is…

Instead of marinating in my brain’s early morning absurdity, I tie my robe around my naked body and pad into the kitchen. Once I start a pot of coffee—caffeine first, then water and food—I locate my phone where I left it on the counter, moments before Flynn’s and my cake baking turned to insanely hot sex.

Though, before I start to check for missed notifications, I don’t miss the fact that Flynn has already managed to clean up our mess from last night. Come to find out, the more time I spend living with him, the more I realize that Flynn Winslow is a man who cleans up after himself.

He’s like a unicorn of men. But minus the horn and sparkles.

Oh, but he has a horn. And it’s hella big and sits smack-dab between his legs.

I don’t know what it is about Flynn, but I swear on everything, my mind has never been this much of a horny harlot until he showed up.

Phone in my hand, I swipe my finger across the screen and start rolling through any texts, calls, or emails I’ve missed.

An email from Damien that is actually work-related and can be dealt with on Monday.

A passive-aggressive email from Tara regarding the property in SoHo that I staged two days ago. She rambles on for about five paragraphs, but the gist of her words revolves around second-guessing everything I did with the place.