Page 181 of The Winslow Brothers

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 mythroat. Good gracious,he’s hot.Like,forgive me, Father, for I have really, really sinnedkind of hot.

Dirty, crude, uninhibited…I will never forget the sound of him whispering in my ear and telling me tofuck 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.Hisbed, 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.

I grab my phone from my purse, saying a small prayer that it still has some battery juice, and scroll over to the Uber app to call myself a car.

“Have somewhere to be?” Flynn asks then, making my head whip up from my phone and my lips roll into my mouth.

“Oh yeah. I’m sorry, but I was supposed to be at another work function about half an hour ago.”

He raises his shoulders nonchalantly. “Of course. Do you want me to take you back to the Wynn? I have to go anyway.”

It’s a nice offer, one I’m not sure I’d be able to resist if I didn’t have a reason, to be honest. “Thanks, but no. It’s a brunch at an old client’s house—not at the hotel. I don’t know much about Vegas geography, but I’m pretty sure it’s in completely the opposite direction.”

I search his eyes for disappointment and could almost swear that I see a flash of it, but the amount of trust I have in myself right now, in my current state of emotional turmoil, is minuscule at best. Frankly, I’m probably just projecting.

I lick my lips, tightening my grip on my phone to get up the courage I need before suggesting, “I-I would like to get your phone number, if that’s okay. And give you mine? I’m pretty sure I’m going to need to send you some immigration paperwork at some point, and this is probably the easiest way to get in touch with me.” I laugh at myself, self-deprecation all too ripe with theevidence of my current situation. “Clearly, I can’t be trusted with the mail.”

Flynn actually smiles at that, and immediately, it’s melted butter where cartilage should be in my knees.

He reaches out and steadies me with one hand while easing my phone out of my hand and into his with the other. With a lot of pushing of buttons, he enters his number into my contact list and then pushes the call button to bestow his phone with the same information from me.

And just like that, I have a lifeline to the most interesting man—who just so happens to be my husband—I’ve ever met in my life.

I stare down at his programmed number.Damn.I really didn’t dream it. I got married last night.

In a rented wedding dress with Marilyn Monroe officiating, no less…

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