The Pact (Winslow Brothers 2)

And fucking Daisy until neither of us can breathe sure seems like it’ll make me feel better.

Stroking two fingers through her center, I find Daisy wet and ready enough for me that neither of us has to wait any longer.

“Keep your legs open,” I tell her. “I want you as deep as I can go.”

Eyes wide, she nods and complies, spreading her thighs apart to make room for my hips to fall in between. She feels like heaven against me, and my already hard cock jerks in anticipation.

With only a little maneuvering, I slide inside with ease, going slowly to give her time to adapt. I push past the limit, until the hilt of me is beyond the entrance of her, and she kicks her head back in response. Her eyes close, her fingertips curl into the comforter below, and her mouth rounds in pleasure.

That’s it. “That’s a good girl.”

Out and in again, I score a path for my thrusts while upping the tempo with each one. She pants slightly, the jolt combined with the relentless stroke at her most sensitive nerves making it hard to keep enough air in her lungs.

“Oh. My. God,” she forces out, her words a staccato to match my hips.

“Yeah,” I agree with her, moving my hands to go over the top of hers on the headboard. “Your pussy is gonna remember me tomorrow.”

“Uh-huh,” she agrees.

“My cock is going to remember you too,” I admit then.

Truth is, I’m starting to think certain parts of me might never forget Daisy.

Daisy

After I lost my shit on Flynn about blindsiding me with his family dinner, he apologized and proceeded to wring my body dry with crazy, hot sex and an intense orgasm that still has my legs feeling weak.

Personally, I’m more than okay with that sequence of events. Even if half of them threw me for one hell of a loop.

Although, it’s a bit of a dangerous game. I mean, if every time I get mad at Flynn he gifts me with an actual apology and an orgasm, I might be tempted to start making up reasons to be mad at him.

Not to mention, I’m finding that during and after sex, Flynn is far more talkative and freer with his words. Which is how I managed to get him engaging in a round of pillow talk with me in the darkness of his bedroom.

“So, that’s Ty’s thing?” I question with a raise of my eyebrow. “He just brings random women to family events?”

“Pretty much.” Flynn smirks. “And it’s never the same woman twice.”

His brother Ty is quite the character. I mean, he just went along with the possibility that I was there as his date even though he didn’t even recognize me.

“What about your dad? Why wasn’t he at family dinner?”

“My dad left when we were kids,” Flynn whispers in answer to my question about the patriarch’s absence from the gathering. He strokes his fingers softly over the small of my back while I lie naked on my belly, my head turned on its side to face him on my pillow.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur back.

“I’m not,” Flynn declares easily, his position mimicking mine and his voice quiet. “He left five rowdy kids to be raised alone by a sweet woman who didn’t deserve abandonment. I don’t need a dick for a dad just to say I have one. I have Uncle Brad and Aunt Paula and my mom and my brothers and sister, and that’s all I need.”

I want desperately to add that he has me too, that I’m in his corner and always will be, but the truth is, I don’t really know. We’re an arranged marriage, designed and executed for the sole purpose of maintaining my residence in the country. But the night in Vegas and tonight—and the phone sex too—it’s all crossed a line into territory that I can’t quite explain.

There’s passion and intimacy and interest there—I can feel it between us—but as far as I can tell, that’s as far as any intentions go for Flynn. No matter our easy companionship or the explosive chemistry we have in the bedroom, when the clock strikes midnight on my immigration crisis, Cinderella will go back to LA again and the prince will move on with his life.

“I don’t have a dad either. Or a mom, for that matter. I grew up in the foster system in Canada.” Flynn’s fingers never stop moving on my back, but somehow it seems like the pressure of his touch changes or something. “I do have Gwen—she took me in when I was a teenager, but she’s not really a mother figure per se. She’s more of a slightly mature girlfriend.” I shrug into the soft linens of his—well, our—bed. “Nevertheless, I’m thankful for her. I don’t know where I’d be if she hadn’t made sure I got a chance to start adulthood on my feet.”