Page 180 of The Winslow Brothers

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Her head stutters, but she ultimately nods. By the fifth or sixth bout up and down, it’s much more resolute. “Yes. I-I want you, Flynn. I need to know what you feel like.”

Fuck it.I can’t hold back. I have to be inside her, too.

Her words hit like a buzz, sending my mind into a tailspin of naughty—really fucking dirty thoughts. If she wants to know what I feel like, I’m going to make sure her pussy walls remember every goddamn stroke like I’ve written them in braille.

Sunday, April 7th

Daisy

I pull open the bedroom door—Flynn’sbedroom door—to the hallway, my clothes back in place thanks to a stealth mission at the crack of dawn and Flynn’s folded T-shirt in my arms, and head for the kitchen. I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at the door, working up the nerve to come outside and face everything I did last night in the light of day, but it’s bordering on way too long.

His bed. The walls. The black chair in the corner in front of the closet. They allknowthings. Things I’m not even sure I knew about myself before Flynn opened up an erotic portal to a place I’veneverbeen before.

Sweet land of the living, the man is…well-informed about the female body. He knew all the spots, all the buttons to push. I swear, if I weren’t sure it would make me sound entirely crazy, I’d consider asking him if he went 50/50 with God on all the details of the clitoris.

Deep breaths in and out, over and over again, I straighten my spine and force myself to walk toward the kitchen with my head held high. I’m a strong, independent woman. So what if I had insanely hot—condomless—sex last night with my husband whoisn’t really my husband but a conduit in helping me get a green card. It’s no big deal.

No big deal? Ha. That’s cute.

Surprisingly, the room is completely quiet as I step inside, and Flynn is nowhere to be seen. The counter pulls my attention immediately, and a tiny crimson tidal wave starts its ascent up the skin of my throat.

That counter…knows the details of my labia.

Shocked by my own thoughts, I squeak, cover my mouth, and power walk across the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and taking a peek in the fridge. I’m happy to find some orange juice—the vitamin C is definitely needed today—that’s within its expiration timeline and pour it into the waiting vessel.

“Finding everything okay?” Flynn asks, making my heart shoot through a self-inflicted hole in the ceiling.Cripes. Maybe I’m more on edge than I thought.

But, gah, what am I supposed to be like? I gotmarriedlast night. Not in practice, of course, but indocumentation, and hell, the mind-bending sex probably added at least a little fine print at the bottom.

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 asthe cabinetand 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. Theinsanely hotview, 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.

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