Willing Victim (5 page)

Pam cried out, raked his back as she climaxed. Laurel’s mind swam for a second, lost in the details of Flynn—his sweat-damp hair, muscles gleaming in the city’s ambient glow. She breathed in his smell, feasted on his body. She wanted him more violently than anything she could recall, as though the need in her were blinding pain and the only thing that could take it away was Flynn.

“That’s right,” he whispered, hips giving a few gentle pumps as Pam calmed. “That’s right. Good girl.” He leaned in, kissed her forehead, the gesture sending an odd ripple through Laurel, seeming twice as graphic and raw as any other intimate contact she’d witnessed in the last ten minutes.

Flynn pulled out and got to his feet as Pam made it unsteadily to her knees. She reached out to unroll the condom from his cock, set it aside and stroked his hard flesh. Laurel imagined him in her palm. His balls looked tight and high, telling her how close he must be. His hand took over after a minute, jerking fast and rough, and Laurel felt each bump of his head against Pam’s lips. She felt his skin under her nails as Pam dug her fingers into his thighs, saw his need as her eyes stared up at his face.

“Here I come, sweetheart. Open up wide for me.”

Laurel ached to see him come but Pam’s mouth closed over his head, keeping the moment private, forcing her out of all this borrowed intimacy. She had to be satisfied watching his clenching ass and his tight fist as his hand slowed, listening to his rumbling moan as he released. She saw Pam swallow what he gave her, caught her breath as his gaze jumped to her face for the briefest moment.

“C’mon.” He put a hand out and helped her to standing. “Go get cleaned up.”

Pam disappeared inside the bathroom, closing the door to block out the light and the whir of the fan. Laurel’s stomach dropped and she wondered if she was supposed to go now. She bit her lip and watched Flynn tug on his jeans and buckle his belt. The shower hissed on behind the bathroom door.

Flynn turned to her, still barefoot and stripped to the waist and looking just as dangerous as he did in the ring.

“Still here, huh?”

Laurel tried to keep her eyes on his face, off his gleaming stomach, tried to keep her awareness on the words and off her pleading cunt. “Looks like it.”

Flynn nodded and pulled his shirt on as the water shut off on the shower. He gathered Pam’s clothes, knocked on the bathroom door. A hand emerged to accept them with a thank-you.

Laurel got up, stepping to the windows to peer at the empty street five stories down.

“You dawdling?” Flynn asked. When she turned to try to come up with a pithy answer she found him smiling at her, thumbs tucked into his pockets.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You probably got some questions. Run away if you want though.”

She opened her mouth to speak just as Pam opened the bathroom door, flipping off the light and fan to emerge fully dressed. She looked different with her hair wet, bangs off her face, eyeliner and dark lipstick gone—vulnerable and heartbreakingly human. She turned to Laurel, her voice softer than it had been all evening.

“Did you like it?”

Laurel pursed her lips a moment and nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for inviting me.” She turned to Flynn and held his eyes to tell him the thanks were meant for both of them.

“You need an escort to your car?” he asked Pam.

“No, I’m just across the way.”

“I’ll watch from the window,” he said. “Go on, it’s late.”

She gave him a last look then turned to Laurel. “You need a ride anywhere?”

“No, I live close,” she lied. “Thanks though.”

“Take care,” Flynn said, and closed the door behind Pam. He braced a hand on the wood and leaned into it a moment as if he were thinking, then walked to the windows. He stared down into the street, raised a hand in a small wave and a car started up outside.

He turned to approach Laurel, crossing his arms over his chest. “So.”

“You’re bleeding,” she said, eyes on the thin stream of fresh blood coming from the gash on his lip.

He wiped his mouth, smearing red. “You traumatized now or anything?”

She ignored his patronizing tone. “Do you have rubbing alcohol?”

He blinked at her a couple times then headed to the bathroom. He crouched at the cupboard below the sink, coming out with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Laurel slid past him and rooted through his medicine cabinet, finding antiseptic ointment and bandages. No cotton balls, but she popped the toilet paper roll off its spool and headed back into the main room. She heard Flynn follow as she walked to his bed and sat on the edge. He looked down at her, semi-silhouetted. She patted the mattress and he surprised her by sitting.

Laurel angled his head and inspected the cut. He didn’t flinch as she brushed her fingertips over it.

“You a nurse or something?”

“No, I’m a waitress.”

“Aren’t you too old to be a waitress?” he asked, the tease stinging a little.

“I’m only twenty-nine.”

“Yeah, but you can wait tables in Providence. Nobody moves to Boston to become a waitress. Where’d you drop out from?”

“Nowhere. I graduated from Wentworth.” She wet a wad of toilet paper with the peroxide and pressed it to his lip. He didn’t bat an eye. “I just didn’t like my field so much once I got into it.”

“Waste of thousands of dollars.”

She frowned at him. “I had a scholarship, not that it’s your business. Is there a humongous chip on your shoulder I should be disinfecting?”

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding it.

“What do you care, anyway?”

“I like to know who I’m playing with, and you seem like you might be sticking around.” He watched her smear her fingers with ointment before dabbing it on the cut.

“Well, I’m a failed engineer who waits tables at a tourist trap in Quincy Market,” she said, addressing his lips.

“And you don’t live around here, do you?”

“No. I live in the North End.”

“Roommates?”

She nodded. “I’m pushing thirty and my career’s in the crapper and I wait tables and have two roommates. And my longest relationship lasted less than your current fuckbuddy arrangement. Happy?”

Flynn laughed genuinely for the first time and it changed him. It deepened the lines beside his eyes and mouth, revealed his imperfect but white teeth. It also reopened the cut and Laurel glared at him.

“What else have you got?” She touched her fingers to a nasty bruise just above his collar. He peeled his tee shirt up and she grimaced at the collection of black and blues—way more now that she was close up. An ugly scrape traced his collarbone but nothing else appeared to be bleeding. Laurel swabbed the scrape and smeared it with Bactine, eased a bandage on and pressed it in place.

“Why do you do that?” she asked. “The fights?”

“Same reason I do the other shit you saw tonight.”

“Which is?” She crumpled the bandage wrapper in her fist and met his eyes.

“Dunno. Just need to.”

“Does it make you feel alive or something?” she asked.

“Why’d
you
come here tonight?”

She nodded. “Touché.”

“You done fussing over me?”

She screwed the cap back on the ointment and nodded again.

“You drive here?”

She shook her head. “Bus.”

“Buses ain’t running this late. You want a ride?”

“I can call a cab.”

“Or I can give you a ride. Come on.” He stood and tugged his shirt back on and she followed, setting the first-aid supplies on his counter. She grabbed her purse from the table as Flynn pulled on his shoes and clipped his keys to his belt.

“Flynn isn’t your first name, is it?” Laurel asked.

“No. It’s Michael.”

“Oh.” She’d been expecting a little more evasion or possibly a stranger name than Michael. “Well, my last name’s White.”

“Right, Laurel White. I’m Michael Flynn.” He shook her hand curtly. “You’ve watched me fuck and we know each other’s full names. That enough for your first night?”

She gave him a snide smile. “Sure.” They left the apartment and he locked up behind them. They shared a silent elevator ride and walked half a block to a rust-pocked white station wagon. Flynn unlocked the driver’s side, slid in and leaned over to pull the lock for Laurel’s door. She sat down and glanced at him, then around the car.

He started the engine, grinning. “What’d you expect?”

“Not a station wagon.”

“I’m the only non-drinker in a bar full of fighters. Some nights I wish I had a bus for getting people’s drunk, limping asses home.” He pulled them onto the silent street and Laurel rolled her window down, breathing in that ripened summer city smell. Flynn flipped on a classic rock station and lowered the volume.

“So,” she said. “Thank you. For letting me tag along.”

He shrugged and they didn’t speak for a couple minutes as he drove them over a bridge and through the Seaport District. “Dirty Water” came on, as though they’d crossed into a parody of themselves. Laurel suppressed a laugh.

“Think you’re interested in what I do?” Flynn asked, turning to her. “If you are, just tell me what night.”

“Are you interested in inviting me?” she asked.

“Pretty sure I just did.”

She shifted in her seat and clutched her purse tighter. “I’m interested. I’m not sure how I’ll feel tomorrow though.”

“Just pick a night. You can always stand me up.”

“You must work early,” she said, stalling. “So weeknights would be—”

“You’re thinking way too hard about it. Just pick a day.”

“Okay. Wednesday. I’m off work at four.”

He nodded. “Fine. Come over around eight. Or don’t. But I’ll make sure and be home then.”

She nodded and exhaled, feeling all at once relieved. “Is there a…shallow end? You know, to the rough stuff.”

He grinned at her. “You need training wheels?”

“Well—”

“Just fucking with you. Of course there’s a shallow end. You’ve seen how I like to screw. But it’s a preference, not a fetish. I don’t
have
to be a prick to get hard.” He turned the car onto Atlantic Avenue, downtown looking as empty as Laurel had ever seen it.

“Regular sex is like jerking off to me,” he went on. “It feels good, it gets the job done. But I’d rather be doing something else, you know?”

“Are you part of the BDSM scene or whatever?” Laurel asked.

He made an exasperated noise. “I can’t stand that shit. They make everything so fucking complicated. You might as well be one of those Civil-fucking-War…” He twirled his hand, searching for the word.

“Reenactors?”

He snapped his fingers at her. “Three points. Anyhow, I just like stuff a lot of women don’t, so I have to make sure I find the ones who do. Like, really do. Do you have a man someplace?”

“No.”

“Good,” he said.

She sighed, mildly annoyed. “And exactly how many people do
you
see at a given time?”

“Just one for the last few months.”

“Oh.” Laurel’s muscles relaxed a bit. It was ridiculous to already feel a twinge of jealousy over this man, but it was also an undeniable relief to know she wasn’t going to be just one in an endless stable. “So what about it gets you off, do you think?”

Flynn shrugged, eyes on the road. “Power, I guess.”

“Same with the fighting? You like—”

“I’m not real interested in being psychoanalyzed, kiddo. Dissect my rotten soul all you want but keep it to yourself.”

“Sorry. I have an engineer’s brain.”

He eyeballed her. “What’s that mean?”

“I like understanding how things work,” she said.

“Well, draw yourself a pretty little blueprint and do me a favor and don’t show it to me. I like fighting, and I like fucking. I don’t care much for thinking.”

“Okay.”

He took a right on Hanover into Laurel’s neighborhood. “Tell me where to turn,” he said.

“Left on North Bennet.”

He drove to her building and put the car in neutral, double-parking on the narrow one-way street. She caught the wink of headlights in the rearview mirror and unstrapped her seat belt. “Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem. You got your phone? I’ll give you my number, case you need it.”

Laurel pulled her cell out and he entered his info.

”I never hear it ring, so just leave a message. I’ll see you Wednesday at eight,” he said, handing her phone back. “If you find the balls.”

“I—”

An SUV pulled up behind them and honked. Laurel flung her door open but Flynn grasped her wrist.

“What?”

“Nothing, just making that prick wait. I can’t fucking stand impatient people.”

The horn blared again.

Flynn leaned out his window. “What’s the rush at three a.m. on this gorgeous fucking summer night?” His grip was too tight for Laurel to break.

A series of honks, and Flynn propped his elbow out the window, presumably flipping the driver the bird. Laurel felt her face color. She hated being a part of a scene.

“I can wait all night, douchebag,” Flynn sang once the horn quieted.

Laurel’s heart beat in her throat. A greedy, primitive part of her relished the thought of the pissed-off driver confronting Flynn, only to get loomed over by a tower of black-eyed, split-lipped muscle. Instead they gave a last honk and reversed, fast, turning down a side street with a petulant squeal of tires. Flynn let her hand go and the blood trickled back into her fingertips. She tried to imagine him holding her wrists in another context and blushed deeper, glad it was dark.

“See you Wednesday,” she said.

“Yeah, we’ll see.”

She got out and slammed the door without looking back. Flynn idled until she unlocked the building’s front door and closed it behind her. She heard him drive away as she started up the steps, her body mourning the sudden absence of his smell and voice. Wednesday sounded like a hundred years from now.

And Wednesday sounded far too soon.

Chapter Three

Laurel stood outside Flynn’s building, sheltering under the awning from the evening’s warm rain, staring at the keypad beside a list of the tenants. M. Flynn, 508. Easy as pie. Just push the numbers and buzz his apartment.

She opened her purse and pressed a button on her phone, illuminating the screen. Seven-fifty-six. Four minutes early. Would that look too eager? It wasn’t as though she could control how fast the bus got her here… Still, maybe she should take a walk around the block and be fashionably late. But it was raining and her hair was already fuzzy enough from the humidity—

A knock on the glass in front of her made Laurel yelp and jump. Flynn stood on the other side, staring at her. He made a beckoning motion with his finger as he pushed the locked door open.

“Oh,” she said and stepped into the stuffy foyer. “Are you on your way out someplace?”

“No, dipshit, I have an appointment. With you. I saw you walk up the street from my window like five minutes ago. Thought maybe you couldn’t figure out the buzzer, Little Miss Engineer.”

“Oh,” she said, unable to think of a witty comeback or a good lie. “I was just checking my phone messages.”

“Uh huh. Anyhow, come on up.” He turned and she followed him into the elevator.

“Did you have a good day?” she asked.

“Yeah, not bad. You get dinner yet?”

She nodded. They exited at the fifth floor and walked down the hall to his apartment. It felt different than when she’d been here the last time. More and less intimidating at the same time. Flynn closed the door and took her umbrella, hanging it on a hook to drip-dry.

“You tell somebody where you are?” Flynn asked. She’d left him a message the previous afternoon, wanting to double-check his address, and when he’d called her back he told her do as much.

“I gave my roommate your name and everything,” she said.

“Good girl.”

Laurel let his patronizing tone slide, pleased he had a clear understanding of how sketchy he was. She followed him to the living area. She cast her eyes all over the space, then at Flynn. “So, do we just, you know…get right to it?”

“I’m not a whore,” he said, expression somewhere between amused and insulted.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Have a seat, sub shop girl. You want a drink? Soda? Wine?” He walked to the counter and held up a bottle of red as Laurel sat on the edge of his loveseat.

“Yeah, sure. Wine’s great.”

He uncorked it and poured her a generous measure in a glass with a Christmas holly pattern around the lip. He took a seat kitty-corner from her on the other couch, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

“So, what are you into?” he asked.

“Sex-wise?”

He nodded.

“I haven’t done anything super-crazy before,” Laurel said.
Except coming here.

“Let me know what’s off the table. Anal?” he asked, businesslike.

She shrugged her tight shoulders. “Not my favorite, but I’ll go there. Just, you know…”

“Be gentle?”

She nodded. “That sounds stupid, since I’m here because, you know. You’re into rough stuff.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you. That’s the last thing I want. That’s why you need to tell me anything you know of that’ll freak you out.”

“I gag easily,” she offered.

“Does it freak you out?”

“No, I wouldn’t go that far.”

He nodded. “You want condoms with oral?” He seemed to be going down a mental checklist and Laurel wondered how many times he’d conducted this interview.

“Should I, with you?”

“Your choice.” He got up and went to the filing cabinet standing between two windows, returning to hand her a paper with hospital letterhead dated two weeks prior—a long list of tests detailing Michael P. Flynn’s negative status for all things contagious and undesirable.

Laurel made an amused face. “Is this what you call foreplay?”

“Pardon me if I kill your buzz, kiddo, but this is important to me. Should be to you too.”

“No, it is. Just feels a bit clinical… Anyway I think oral’s okay without,” she said. “But thanks for offering.”

“That doesn’t really deserve thanks, but sure.”

“What about you?” he asked. “You clean?”

She nodded, folding the letter and handing it back. “I didn’t bring a note though.”

“Any traumatic experiences I should avoid triggering? Any off-limits words? You know, the C-word or anything?”

“I don’t think so. Just don’t call me ugly or anything, please.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Any fucker ever tells you that, you give me a call and I’ll come over and kick the holy hell out of him for you.”

Laurel flushed warmer than she had contemplating any of the other aspects of Flynn’s brutality.

“Slapping okay?” he went on. “Like just spanking to start?”

Her blush ran so deep she could just about taste blood. “Fine.”

He nodded again. “All right. We’re not going to get too crazy tonight, but if anything feels off to you, just use my first name and we’ll stop. You remember my first name?”

“Michael,” she said, praying he couldn’t guess how many times she’d repeated it in her mind in the last four days.

“Good. And so you know, there’s no hidden cameras or any of that shit. And you’re welcome to look for yourself,” he said. “For what I am, I’m a decent guy. I don’t want you here if you don’t think you believe that yet.”

“I trust you.”

“How do you want it to end tonight?”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Unless you tell me not to, I’m gonna come, for one. I’ll try make you come too if you want me to. But if you think you’d rather leave hot and frustrated, I can do that too.”

“I wouldn’t mind coming.” She raised the glass to her lips to hide a nervous smirk.

Flynn nodded. “Good. And what about afterward? You want to get tossed out on your ass? You want a lift home? You can stay the night, but I don’t cuddle or spoon and I leave at a quarter to six for work.”

“Do I have to decide now?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Only if you want this to end with me acting like a jerk and giving you the boot.”

“Is that what girls usually want you to do?”

“No, not usually. But it’s an option.”

“And what…what do you need from me?” she asked.

He made a face then laughed. “Don’t think a woman’s ever asked me that before… I just need you to be here with good intentions, I guess. Don’t make me live the rest of my life feeling shitty about anything I do to you that you didn’t warn me not to. That’s about it.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Good. And I’ll tell you now, I won’t be calling you tomorrow or the next day or the day after that, so don’t get in a stink when I don’t. None of the normal dating rules apply to this. I know what goes on here is twisted as fuck as far as most people are concerned, and I don’t want to be the creepy fucker calling up some girl he accidentally freaked out. If you decide you want to do this again, you call me. You decide I’m a jerk, don’t. My feelings won’t be hurt.”

“Okay.” Laurel took a deep drink and grimaced at the sour wine.

A smile melted Flynn’s stern, professional expression. “Sorry. I’m useless with booze. I just picked the one with the girliest label.”

“Are you…” She trailed off.

“Recovering?”

She nodded.

“Nah. I just don’t drink. Not since I was like twenty-five. Just a glass of something at a wedding or whatever. You remember what I said about coffee?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. I’m twitchy enough without chemicals short-circuiting shit in my head.”

“Maybe you should take up smoking,” Laurel teased.

He stood. “Don’t fuckin’ tempt me. Hardest breakup of my life, me and cigarettes.”

She offered an empathetic smile. “How long were you going out?”

Flynn looked at the ceiling, doing math in his head. “Twelve years.” He went to the sink to fill a pint glass with water.

“Wow, well done.” Laurel raised her glass and choked down another gulp in honor of Flynn’s abstinence. Gut-rotting or not, the wine was working. She felt heat seep over her skin, loosening her muscles and mouth and inhibitions.

“Can you tell I’m super-nervous?” she asked.

Flynn met her eyes. “I’d be worried if you weren’t. But no, you don’t seem that nervous.”

“Are
you
nervous?”

“Nah.” He sat back down with his glass. “I’ve been on board with this part of myself for a few years now, and I know when a girl’s worth getting nervous over.”

Laurel frowned, insulted. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t show up with a trench coat, so I know you’re not going to whip it off and be wearing some crazy get-up made out of black plastic and dog collars, asking me to parade you down Broadway.”

“Oh. But you’re not nervous about, I don’t know…your performance or whatever?”

“Should I be? You got high standards?”

She considered it a moment and Flynn laughed.

“Neither of us is here to prove anything,” he said. “We’re here to have fun, and for you to maybe get your motor cranked like you never knew it could be. Or not. Who knows? My ego’s not tied up in this going a certain way. The only thing that makes me nervous is hurting you by mistake, and I trust myself enough to think that’s unlikely.”

“Are you good about knowing? You know, if a woman’s about to freak out.”

He nodded. “I think fighting’s taught me how to read people pretty good.”

“You should take up poker.” Laurel drained her glass and set it aside. “Do you have some kind of waiver I should sign, Mr. Preparedness?”

“Nah, let’s start. If I do something that makes you want to sue me, I’ll probably deserve it.”

Laurel smiled at him, feeling as if she’d uncovered a new, complex dimension of a man who’d seemed so simple at first glance. He stuck his neck out for this, putting his faith in his partners as much as they did him. Maybe more.

“You’re really quite…trusting,” Laurel offered.

“And you’re really quite attractive when you bust my balls, sub shop girl. Why don’t we get down to business and see how this goes?”

The chatting and alcohol had eased the tension in Laurel’s body but it flooded back with a vengeance as Flynn sat beside her. His weight shifted the loveseat, reminding her just how big he was.

She cleared her throat. “Can we keep it pretty vanilla, to start? And I could tell you when I might want you to get…meaner?”

He nodded. “Whatever you need.”

“Okay, good.” She studied his eyes, different than she remembered. Blue with a dark outer ring and a burst of amber around the pupil. She realized she probably looked silly, her eyes crossed from staring at him this close up. Then he kissed her and she couldn’t give a good goddamn about anything except his mouth.

Training wheels or not, Flynn only gave her a couple soft kisses before his tongue slid between her lips, hot and wet and aggressive. Laurel sucked a breath through her nose, focusing on her body’s thrill and filtering out the fear. His palms felt broad and warm as they grazed her neck, a little taste of the promised roughness in the way his fingers tangled in her hair, freeing half of it from the elastic. She stroked his shoulders and chest, taking in the firm contours as his tongue delved deeper.

He pulled his head back an inch. “Get in my lap.”

A shiver trickled through Laurel at that first order. She toyed with saying “Yes, Sir” but wasn’t ready to jump into her role quite that efficiently. She tossed a leg over and straddled him. Flynn’s eyes and hands roamed her sides, her arms, her small breasts. She touched his face and hair and ears then he grabbed one of her hands and put it to his mouth, sliding two fingers between his lips. He sucked hard, making her fingertips prickle and her eyes widen. She felt his tongue push between the digits, then the drag of his teeth down her skin. He made a throaty noise that raised the hairs along her arms and he pulled her fingers out.

“Take your top off,” he said.

Laurel’s body warmed from being commanded by this man. She’d done little snatches of role-playing with lovers but it’d always felt cheesy and awkward. Not with Flynn. He wasn’t play-acting. She peeled her shirt up and tossed it over the arm of the couch.

“Nice,” he whispered, eyes darting over her skin. His rough palms swept up her stomach and ribs, cupped her breasts. He smirked. “Didn’t anybody tell you it’s July?” He meant her pale skin.

“I’m not really a beach person.” She glanced down at her freckled arms and the white skin of her trunk that never saw the sun.

“I like it,” he said, still staring. “You must be Irish.”

“I’m a mutt. And don’t forget the red hair’s not really mine.”

He ignored her attempt at self-deprecation. Reaching around, he got her bra clasp open. Another husky, appreciative noise escaped him as the garment dropped. His touch started light, the graze of his fingers stiffening her nipples. He cupped her breasts, squeezing and kneading softly, then a bit meaner. Laurel got her first taste of physical dominance when his palm slid to her lower back, jerking her closer. His mouth took one breast as his hand teased the other. She felt hard suction, then a glancing of teeth.

“God,” she muttered.

His mouth broke away a moment. “Say my name,” he said.

“Flynn.”

A smug laugh warmed her wet skin. “Keep saying it. It gets me so fucking hard.”

Heat burned in her neck and cheeks as she thought of arousing him. She shifted her hips, wanting to feel the evidence. Pressing their pelvises close, she ground against the stiff ridge behind his fly.

“Flynn.”

“Yeah.” His mouth moved to her other breast, even rougher than with the first. His thick thighs fidgeted between hers, his swelling cock craving more space or more friction as the tension escalated.

“You feel big,” Laurel whispered.

He pulled his head away. “You wanna see me?”

She nodded.

“Push that table back and get on your knees.”

Laurel got off his lap, slid the coffee table away and knelt between his feet. Her heart raced, a hundred percent excitement, zero fear.

Flynn scooted forward so his thighs flanked her ribs. He tugged off his tee shirt, offering the sight of all that powerful muscle, the smell of his skin.