Willing Victim (13 page)

“Brothers or sisters?”

She shook her head.

“What was she like? Your mom?”

“Sorry,” Laurel said. “I wasn’t trying to like start a conversation about it. I don’t know why I brought it up.”

“Because we’re friends?”

“Maybe… Anyway, she was…” She shrugged, feeling a hundred years old.

“Wonderful?”

Laurel laughed, hating the bitterness anybody could hear in her voice. “No, she was really hard to live with, actually.” She finished one crust and moved on to the next. “She had a really nasty kind of depression. She hardly ever could keep a job for more than a month, and she was needy and demanding and she sucked the life out of everybody around her.”

“Oh,” Flynn said simply.

“When I was like ten years old I already knew how to forge her handwriting so I could write the rent checks. She’d go on these weeks-long jags where she’d just lock herself in her room.”

“Sounds awful.”

She nodded, hating the stinging pressure in her sinuses. But she decided to tell Flynn something she hadn’t told anyone, not her roommates or friends, not even under the influence of drunken sentimentality on any number of wine-soaked girls’ nights. “It was sort of a relief. When she died.”

“Oh,” he said again. “Did you love her?”

She hissed out a long breath. “I don’t know. I don’t really think so.” Laurel sealed the last pie and stabbed vent holes in all the tops with a fork. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You need a hug or something?”

She kept her back to him so he wouldn’t see how pink her face must be. Her lips felt thick and tight from the emotion she was holding in. “No, thanks. I
would
like some beer though. If I give you some cash would you mind going out and grabbing me a six-pack?” She turned her face halfway to meet his eyes, away from the light.

“Course. You brought dinner. You’re
making
me dinner. I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

“Just Newcastle or Bass or something like that. Bottles.”

“Sure thing.”

She heard Flynn move around the apartment then leave. Laurel slid two pies into the oven, set the timer, wrapped the third in foil and scrawled the cooking instructions on its top with a Sharpie from Flynn’s junk drawer. She made a home for it in his freezer and leaned against the counter, staring at the strip of linoleum under her feet. The pattern reminded her of her kitchen growing up. She’d play in there for hours, pulling pots and pans out of the cupboards and building cities with them on the floor. Then hunger always set in and she’d abandon her project to go in search of food.
Self-raising toddler, just add water.

Laurel walked to the loveseat, gave the padded armrest a couple lame punches and burst into tears.

* * * * *

When Flynn got back they made small talk about the neighborhood and listened to the game while the pies cooked. Laurel savored the cool slide of bottled beer down her loosening throat. Though the topic had closed, she thought about her mom. She thought about herself, craving a drink when she probably needed a slap up-side the head. She wondered if she was depressed…but the thought was too heavy. At any rate, she knew why she was attracted to Flynn now—attracted to being with a guy who could completely dominate her in bed. It was what she’d been doing in every aspect of her life lately, wanting to hole up in the backseat and not be asked to drive. Just hand over the keys to someone else. She glanced at Flynn, wondering if that made him her pusher or her therapist.

“This was fucking amazing,” he said, scraping the last of his pie out of its tin.

“You want the rest of mine?” He accepted her dish and finished the few bites she couldn’t cram in. It felt oddly comforting to be taking care of somebody again. Somebody grateful, who could give something of himself back.

“I love cooking,” she said, turning her bottle around in her hands. “Or I used to. I used to cook something good every night. Then I got out of the habit when I started waitressing and my schedule got all wonky. Now I look at food and all I see is people’s orders.”

“Well if you change your mind, you can cook for my ass any night you like.” Flynn cleared the coffee table and did the dishes. He looked to Laurel as he dried his hands on a towel, something cautious tightening his features.

She felt hesitant too. They had a routine of sorts and she estimated it was eighty percent fucking, most everything else—the fights, this meal—mere foreplay. The transition into sex was complicated now, Laurel’s fault for introducing a downer topic. She wished she hadn’t brought it up, even if it was a relief to have told someone. But Flynn shouldn’t have been that someone. As stupid and impossible as the impulse was, she wanted to be perfect for him. She wanted to be what he was looking for and that surely didn’t include crying unless it was part of some fucked-up role playing scenario.

She stepped to him, knowing it was her job to give him the green light but also trying to gauge exactly what she could handle without risking a meltdown and really wrecking the evening. She put her hands on his chest, tilted her head up. He kissed her slow, soft. Laurel made a decision to stop over-thinking everything and respect her body’s wishes. She pulled her mouth away.

“Flynn.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not sure I’m up for anything too rough tonight. I’m sort of jangled.”

He nodded, leaned in, cupped her cheek and pressed his lips against the crown of her head. “No problem.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I don’t look at you and just see chicken pot pies and rape fantasies, you know.”

She swallowed, determined not to cry. “What do you see?”

“I dunno. Just Laurel, I guess. The smart, good-smelling redhead who’s been nice enough to put up with me for the last couple weeks… Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled to find somebody who seems to be in to what I like, but just knowing I get to have that once in a while is enough. Not every meal has to be Thanksgiving.”

“You can still be bossy though,” she said. “I like that. I like…you know, giving up control. It feels good, not having to be in charge.”

He tucked her hair behind her ears. “Sure. Whenever you’re ready. Whatever you want.”

“Can we make out for a while?”

Flynn put out his hand, inviting her to head for the bed and get comfortable. He kicked his shoes off and lay down beside her, and Laurel felt the tightness in her body intensify, then ease nearly to nothingness. He propped himself on an elbow and smoothed her hair back from her face with his other hand, and smiled.

“What?”

“I sort of like when you’re all vulnerable,” he said.

“I’ll bet.”

“No, not like that. Just when you’re all…”

“Weepy?”

Flynn rolled his eyes. “When you’re off your guard, I mean.”

She blinked a moment. “Do I come off as guarded, usually?”

He nodded.

“Oh.”

“That surprise you?” he asked.

“Kind of.” She thought of people she knew, worked with…of hyper-defensive Christie and her guerrilla Post-Its. “Do I seem prickly?”

“Nah. You just seem like you’ve got an extra layer on, sometimes. Not like armor, but like you’re wearing an invisible sweater. Like you’ve got your arms crossed over your chest, even when you don’t.”

“Oh,” she said again. Even as she ached to deny it, she could feel herself tugging that psychic sweater down over her head and burying her arms in its sleeves. “I guess you’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

Laurel didn’t reply, not in the mood for Flynn’s sanctimonious tone, no matter if he was kidding.

“It hit eighty-six today,” he said a few moments later.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” He leaned in close, eyes watching his fingers as he played with her hair. “Too hot for that extra layer you just put on.”

Laurel sighed.

“Good thing I know how to get you to take it off.” Flynn put his lips to her neck.

She sputtered out a derisive laugh at the playboy tone he’d adopted. “Smooth, Romeo.”

Flynn shut his eyes and half whispered, half sang the chorus to
Sexual Healing.
Laurel smacked him on the chest and crushed her head into the pillow, rubbed her palms over her face.

“Fine, keep your shield on. But get your clothes off, huh?” He plucked at the strap of her tank top. “You could use a distraction right now.”

Yeah, right.
More like
he
could use an escape from her unsanctioned show of emotion.

“Fine. But don’t think for a second that you’re tricking me into believing this is some huge sacrifice you’re making for me.” She cracked a smile at him but looked away quick, anxious from the eye contact.

They shed their clothes and came together. Flynn’s mouth tasted just like her own when they kissed, and his hand against her face pushed all the hesitation from her head. Laurel pulled away to stare down at his body, to put her fingertips to his ribs, to the damp skin stretched over his oblique muscles, the yellowing bruise just below his armpit. So many details, intimacies…only they weren’t hers alone.

His cock hardened as her palm drifted to his belly, rousing her in turn as she felt that new power—power to excite such a strong body. She wanted him helpless for a change—a tiny taste of revenge for how he’d made her feel the other night, teasing her about marriage at the gym, being tacky enough to point out her defensiveness just minutes before in bed.

“Make me come, Flynn.”

He spoke against her throat. “You want me to fuck you?”

“No. You have to wait your turn tonight.”

She felt and heard him laugh, a quiet, happy noise.

“Yes, ma’am.” He slid his body farther down the bed beside her, face at her chest, free hand creeping up her thigh.

Laurel folded her arms behind her head, intending to be as lazy and selfish as possible.

Pleasure overshadowed intention as Flynn’s tongue traced a curve along the side of her breast. She brought a hand down to touch the back of his head, hummed out a sigh as his lips closed over her nipple. Her fingers raked his short hair, fisted it as he suckled, as his hand edged close, teasing the sensitive crease where her thigh met her hip.

“Don’t keep me waiting, Flynn.”

But he did. His mouth dominated the action, lips sucking, tongue flickering, teeth grazing until Laurel writhed against him, so ready for his fingers she felt crazed.

“Touch me,” she said.

His mouth retreated by millimeters, breath cool on her wet skin. “Ask nicely.”

“Touch me, Flynn, please.”

His hand inched closer, the tips of two fingers glancing her lips. Her hips bucked and Flynn moaned his satisfaction against her breast. Even when he was the one taking orders, he still had all the control. Or nearly all. Laurel grinned, surveyed his body, the stiff, beading cock at attention between his legs, surely hurting with insistence. Two big, warm fingers flirted with her entrance, the touch still slow, still light, tightening her with need and impatience. She memorized his face, the arch of his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose marred surprisingly little given how many times it must surely have been broken in the last two decades. A little white bandage next to his sideburn seemed to glow against his skin. Laurel forgot her arousal for a moment, hypnotized by him.

Fall in love with me.

His fingers pushed inside, pushed the ridiculous thought from her head. She gasped and jerked as he penetrated, two fingers thrusting then curling, caressing and teasing and coaxing the little knot of nerves inside her pussy. Shit, he was good. Heat flashed across her skin, then chills, then pure, maddening need. Tension pulsed through her veins and made her fingers and toes tingle, collected in her belly, pounded in her clit. She felt the weight and the smooth, hot skin of Flynn’s cock on her thigh, just above her knee, and imagined him ramming it in deep, all hers.

“Fuck, you’re good, Flynn.”

He intensified the touch, setting a steady pace he echoed with his own body, small thrusts of his hips that rubbed his erection against her leg. His mouth stayed hungry, moving to her other breast to make the pleasure burst in to bloom all over again.

“Make me come, Flynn. Touch my clit.”

He made her wait again. When his thumb finally grazed her hard clit she gasped, gripped his hair, raked his neck with her nails. He gave her a couple more light teases and stopped.

“Jesus, Flynn, please.”

She could feel his smile from the way his lips tightened over her nipple. He pulled away, kept his fingers teasing as he got his body lower, lower, until she felt his cheek scrape her inner thigh. Two licks against her clit and the pleasure tore her in two. Heat and electricity boiled through her cunt and shot down through her legs, clenching them around Flynn’s back. His hand and mouth kept working, coaxed a second, borderline-painful orgasm from her, hot on the heels of the first. When he released her Laurel watched white spots dance in front of her eyes and realized she’d stopped bothering to breathe.

“Oh,” she said dumbly.

She melted back into the bed as Flynn lay down beside her, one arm shoved beneath her head and the pillow, the other draped across her stomach, fingers fanning over her ribs.

“Hot.”

Laurel mustered a wrung-out laugh and tapped her knuckles against his temple. He rested the side of his face on her sticky shoulder and she could sense his smile in her periphery.

“You’re pretty pleased with yourself, aren’t you?” she asked.

He shrugged, way too innocent.

“Well,” she sighed, “you should be… So what would
you
like? You broke my brain, so I’ll do just about anything right now.”

“Nothing fancy,” he said. “Just play with me, I guess.”

Laurel turned her head to meet his eyes. “I can do that.”

She pushed up on to her side. Flynn covered her mouth with his as her hand wrapped around his half-hard cock. That familiar heat grew against her palm, inside her own chest as he stiffened. He abandoned the kissing to stare down at her hand.

“Good,” he mumbled. He rolled on to his back and Laurel sat up straighter so she could stroke his hard stomach as her other hand masturbated him. She gave him sensual, slow pulls, taking her time, loving how he changed as he got closer, how his breathing went shallow and his face flushed, arms twitched.