Page 52 of Crown of Smoke

“Come again, Lucy… Fuck… I want to feel you come.” His hand slides between our bodies, his fingers rubbing over my clit.

It’s like an electric shock, sending a wave of pleasure coursing through me. I arch off the table and cry out.

“Yes!” Flynn cries out, his own pleasure overtaking him until he collapses over me. For a moment we stay there, catching our breaths. Finally, he straightens and extends his hand to help me up.

I slide off the table, adjusting my clothes. Flynn's touch lingers on my skin, and I hate how easily he can derail my thoughts. One minute, I'm pressing him about what he knows about the Keans and the Ifrinns and the next, I'm spread naked on the table as he takes me.

"You're doing it again," I mutter, more to myself than him.

"Doing what?" His blue eyes sparkle with that infuriating mix of charm and mystery.

"Distracting me when I ask important questions." I gather my scattered papers, trying to focus on the investigation rather than the way his muscles move as he pulls his shirt back on. But that's the problem with Flynn Tine. Everything about him is a distraction.

"I should be treating you like any other source. Getting information, following leads, staying objective."

"But?"

"But I can't seem to think straight around you." The admission costs me, especially when his expression softens.

Flynn steps closer, and I force myself to hold my ground. "Maybe that's not such a bad thing."

"It is when I'm trying to break a story and you keep" —I wave my hand between us— "doing this."

The truth is, I've never felt this kind of magnetic pull toward anyone before. It's more than physical attraction, though there's plenty of that.

But I have to fight against it if I want my story. Flynn's reaction to my research nags at me. The darkness and maybe pain that crossed his face when I gave him the list of names of the deceased in the Ifrinn fire, it wasn't the response of a detached investigator.

Before I can pursue my suspicions further, Flynn's arms sweep under me. My breath catches as he lifts me effortlessly, like I weigh nothing.

"What are you doing?" My voice comes out breathier than intended.

"Taking you to bed." The rumble in his chest vibrates through me where I'm pressed against him. "Unless you object?"

I should object. I should demand answers about his past, about his real connection to this case. But I’ve never been swept off my feet and it turns out, I like it.

So my fingers curl into his shirt, and my head tucks naturally into the crook of his neck. "This doesn't mean you're off the hook.”

"Wouldn't dream of it." His lips brush my temple, and the sweetness pulls me deeper into him. Every protective instinct screams that I'm falling too hard, too fast for someone who clearly has secrets. But the way he holds me, like I'm precious, the center of his world… how can I resist that?

He nudges my bedroom door open with his foot, and anticipation coils low in my belly. I'm already aching for him again, despite having just had him on the table. It's maddening how easily he can switch my brain from investigation mode to sex.

"Flynn," I breathe, not sure whether I'm protesting or pleading.

His grip tightens fractionally. "Yes, Lucy?"

The way he says my name, dark and possessive, scrambles whatever coherent thought I was trying to form.

“What are you doing to me?”

“I’m going to start by getting you naked again.” He sets me by the bed.

“I don’t mean that.”

He stops and stares at me. “You’ve got it wrong. It’s you who is doing something to me.”

I don’t see it, but he’s kissing me now, and I don’t want to think about how this could turn out badly. All I want to do is feel.

His hands and lips discover every inch of my body until I’m writhing and whimpering, then coming apart. He quickly follows.

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