Page 54 of Play the Last Track
I wrap my lips around his fingers and suck them clean.
***
He doesn’t give me back my underwear.
After Flynn makes me come in the corridor, he pulls me into the empty women’s bathroom and locks the door. He takes a hand towel from the small pile and wets it with warm water from the faucet. Then he drops to his knees and cleans me up, pressing another soft kiss to my upper thigh when he’s done.
And I let him. I let him clean me up, not one sarcastic comment or witty quip.
Have I ever been so silent after an orgasm? No.
Have I ever been eaten out like that in a public place before? Also no.
Does a part of me hope he might push me against the counter in the women’s bathroom and fuck me instead of cleaning me up? Definitely, yes.
It’s probably a good thing we didn’t go any further. My spiral tomorrow morning when I finally reflect on what we’ve just done will be bad enough.
I cross a leg over my knee, and my foot bounces under the table. I keep throwing glances at Flynn’s pocket, where my underwear is tucked in. I feel so exposed. The last time I would’ve sat through an event with no underwear on would have to have been in college. I tried rushing a sorority in my freshman year, but I was too opinionated, too loud for them. I shift in my seat, angling my knees toward Flynn as I lean an elbow on the table.
Dinner was delicious. At least, I think it was. I was too busy replaying the last hour's events to notice the meat I was eating or the taste. I’m completely distracted. I want to go again, even though logic screams at me not to even entertain the idea.
A warm hand slides down my calf, wrapping tightly around my ankle and stilling my movements. I look up at Flynn and, surprise, surprise, he’s staring right back at me.
“Why are you anxious?” he asks softly, leaning toward me so he can speak quietly in my ear. I shake my head, a lump crawling up my throat. “You are. Your foot is bouncing like crazy, and you haven’t been able to look me in the eye since we sat down.”
“I’m fine.”
His thumb presses into my ankle, finding a pressure point and circling it. My shoulders relax and I sit back in my chair. “Did I go too far? Did you not want me to touch you?”
“No,” I say quickly. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. “I don’t know. It was a lot. We had rules.”
“Fuck the rules.”
“They were there for a reason.” I fidget with a fold in my dress, my fingers slipping over the satin. “We … This was supposed to be just business. Remember?”
“I thought I said I wanted to be friends?”
“Friends don’t do what you did to me in a corridor, at a public event,” I whisper, avoiding his gaze again. Flynn hums, dropping his grip on my ankle and standing. He holds a hand out to me, and I hesitate.
“Friends dance though, right?” Even without looking up at him, my eyes still trained on his outstretched hand, I know he’s smirking as he watches me struggle with indecision.
I slip my hand into his and roll my eyes as I get to my feet. Flynn leads me to the dance floor, my thighs rub together, and it’s another embarrassing reminder that I’m completely bare under my dress.
When we reach the middle of the small crowd of people dancing, he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me tighter to him. I am pressed right up against his chest, and my cheeks heat as I feel my nipples harden at the friction it creates.
Fuck, one round of oral has turned me into a horny bitch.
Large fingers close around my own, and he pulls our hands to his chest, swaying us on the spot easily to the music the band plays. I take a careful look around us, but no one seems to be paying us much attention. They’re all too busy having their own conversations.
“You could at least give me my underwear back,” I murmur.
He smiles victoriously and shakes his head. “No way. They’re minenow.”
“You can’t keep them.” He could. In fact, if he does, it’ll probably be the hottest thing a guy’s ever done after a hook-up. Is it weird that I want him to refuse me? Say no and then absolutely keep them? I don’t know. Flynn confuses me.
“They’re mine.” He bends down slightly, pressing his lips to my neck as he murmurs words against my skin. “Besides, it’s making me hard knowing you’re walking around tonight with nothing on. I could slip my hand down”—the hand he has on my back begins to lower, fingers brushing against the top of my ass—“and just feel you. Bare. Wanting.”
My breath hitches, and I bite down on my lip as his hand curves over my ass. His fingers dig into the fabric of my dress, squeezing. I lean forward, trying to bury my face into his shoulder as I suppress a moan.
