Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 101041 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101041 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Saturday, May 18th
Daisy
Eyes bleary and brain begging for coffee, I shuffle out of the bedroom and down the hallway.
After I came home last night, all stressed out and anxious and locked inside my own head, I was prepared to burrow myself into work that could’ve waited until Monday and just…I don’t know…ignore—more like, avoid—everything.
But the night took an unexpected turn.
A “Flynn’s head between my legs” kind of turn, and next thing I knew, we were naked, in bed, and I was giving my best impression of a rodeo queen while he was gripping my ass and whispering dirty things into my ear.
Sometimes, it feels like Flynn just intuitively knows when I need a distraction.
Because he does. Which begs the question, what are you going to do without him?
As I step into the kitchen, the soft sounds of classical music playing from the Bluetooth speakers fill my ears, and I find Flynn sitting at the table with a newspaper in his hands. And not the digital newspaper most people read from their phones, but the actual newspaper with real paper and ink.
I don’t know why, but there’s something so sexy about a man reading the newspaper. Especially when it’s Flynn and he’s wearing only a pair of boxer briefs.
Boxer briefs that give quite the show of the kind of heat he’s packing…
“You doing okay over there, babe?”
I blink past the fantasy fog and realize I’m just standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring at him quite…crudely. Well, hell. Apparently, I’m a pervert.
Flynn quirks a questioning brow, and I bumble my way through an awkward nod, mumbling, “Mm-hmm,” as I head over to the coffeemaker.
“Coffee, huh? Seemed like you were headed in my direction.”
I glance over my shoulder and find him smiling at me in a way that makes me wonder if he has any clue how attractive he is.
Seriously. Why’s he gotta be so damn good-looking?
Hand to my hip, I turn around and face him with a cheeky grin. “Maybe I was. But now I’m thinking you should come over here.”
Flynn doesn’t hesitate to set down his newspaper, get out of his chair, and stride straight toward me. I’m in his arms between one beat of my heart and the next, and his lips move against mine, slowly provoking an ache to stir between my thighs.
He deepens the kiss and slides his hands into my hair, and I’m allll about the direction this is heading, but Flynn slows the movements of his lips until he ends our embrace with a soft press of his mouth to mine. “Morning, babe.”
A few seconds later, he’s back at the table with his newspaper in his hands and his eyes scanning the pages.
Um…excuse me? Hello? Please, sir, I’d like some more.
I stare at him, as if my eyes alone have the power to get his attention, but he doesn’t look up from his paper. Mind you, a paper that isn’t feeling as sexy as it did before. If anything, it’s now the world’s greatest literary cockblock, and it’s ruining my selfish need for more attention from Flynn.
Slightly annoyed and now far hornier than one woman should be upon just waking up and without her proper caffeine fix, I pour myself a cup of coffee and mentally prepare myself to lure the oblivious man at the kitchen table through other means.
Okay…think, Daisy. What’s sexy? What’s something that no man can resist?
Knowing full well that I’m currently wearing only a simple silk nightgown with nothing underneath, when I go to get my favorite French vanilla creamer from the fridge, I take my sweet, sweet time and make a show of bending over to reach the container from the middle shelf.
I’m talking, someone call the Academy and let them know there’s a new actress in town, any second Meryl Streep will be calling me for tips, kind of show.
When I feel the sensation of my nightgown sliding up my thighs, I know, I fucking know, that my milkshake that brings all the boys to the yard is on full display for Flynn.
Are you sure that’s what milkshake means in that song?
Frankly, no, I don’t know that, but whatever. Just work with me here.
I pretend to rummage around in the fridge—my ass and hoo-hah still hanging out in the wind—and then I steal a quick glance over my shoulder to check my target.
Is Flynn’s gaze resting joyously upon my ass? Nope. That would be a negative, ghost rider.
Not even kidding, the sexy bastard is still looking at his paper. I’m flashing goodies like it’s Mardi Gras and he’s got the beads, but he’s just reading the newspaper like it’s any ol’ Saturday morning that doesn’t include his wife practically spread-eagled in front of the fridge.
What is in that paper? The key to eternal life?
I’m starting to feel like a bit of a brat for being so annoyed that Flynn isn’t giving me attention, but damn it, that’s what I want. Throw a red dress on me and call me Veruca Salt because I want Flynn’s eyes on me and his hands on me and his big, perfect, beautiful cock inside me, and I want it all right now.