Flynn puts his guitar down and picks up a notebook. He sprawls sideways in an armchair, his long legs extending over the armrest, far beyond the confines of the furniture. He holds the notebook on his knees and a pencil between his fingers. When he glances up at me, he catches me watching him.
Instead of reacting, he just looks steadily back at me, his brown eyes seeming to see deep into the depths of my soul.
That look alone makes me want to swear my undying love to him again. In English this time.
But I know that would be foolish. He’s not mine to keep.
After a moment, his gaze drops, and he writes something on his paper.
“Are you writing a song?” I ask. For some reason, my pulse quickens.
He nods, his gaze lifting to mine again.
“Is it…” I can’t finish the question. It seems way too assuming. Of course, it’s not about me! Only a delusional middle-schooler would think such a thing.
“About you,” he answers, stealing my breath.
I want to run over and look over his shoulder, but that would disturb his process. He’s in the creative flow. I happen to be his muse. Even if I think it’s about me, even though I desperately want to assign all kinds of crazy meanings to this–it’s not. Artists are inspired by whatever is around them, and I’m the one who happens to be around him right now.
Instead, I force myself to look back at my own drawings. To borrow his creative energy and get in the flow myself.
I sketched the most beautiful corsets, tie-dyed in shades of red and wine, trimmed in black velvet, of course. The bottoms would match but the cut would vary–one dancer could wear short shorts with ruffles on the ass, another could be in a short, poufy skirt, one a long, ankle-length skirt with crinoline underneath, then another with pants.
I can’t wait to take measurements and get started.
Flynn picks up the guitar again, plays the tune he’d been working on before, then returns to his notebook.
I rearrange myself on the sofa, turning sideways to put my feet up and just watch Flynn at work. He’s so beautiful. I could live stream him again, so his fans can see him, but this time I want him all for myself. Instead, I unzip my jeans and slip my hand inside to touch myself.
I haven’t masturbated since my trauma. Not once.
But everything feels different now. I’m a sexual being. Flynn helped return that to me. So did the Black Velvet burlesque dancers.
I’m not afraid of the past swallowing me up any more. I can let it stay in the past. I stroke my fingers inside my panties to just feel my damp folds. As I touch they grow wetter. I think of the way Flynn fucked me against this couch this morning and wetness coats my fingers.
Flynn glances up. “Fuck.” He tosses the notebook and pencil on the coffee table and gets up. “Do you need some attention, Peaches?”
“Yes.” I draw out the syllable.
Oh my God. I’m flirty. It’s so fun.
He drops to his knees in front of me and palms my thighs. “May I taste?”
I shake my head, and he watches my face closely.
“No?”
“I’m already primed,” I tell him. It’s true–I don’t want his tongue between my legs. I want his cock.
He reaches for the waistband of my jeans and tugs them down and off my legs. His gaze falls hungrily on my panties. “Are you sure?”
I scramble to my feet and drop the panties then turn to kneel on the couch, holding the back of it and presenting my ass to Flynn. “Can we do it this way?”
His chuckle is dark. “We can do it any way you like, sweetheart.” He jogs to the bedroom. “I’ll be right back,” he calls as he goes. When he returns he drops a fistful of condoms on the coffee table and shucks his clothing.
He opens a condom and rolls it on. I don’t want to think about the fact that he probably buys in bulk or how many he’s already used this month.
It doesn’t matter. He’s with me right now. And I’m with him. And I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
It’s dumb to try protect myself against future hurt by refusing to enjoy the present. Why miss out? Because then I’ll have something to miss?
I’d rather have the memory of this than no memories with Flynn at all.
I wiggle my ass for him. “I think Adrian likes to spank Kat,” I say with a giggle. “Actually, I think it’s probably the other way around. She must like to be spanked.”
“Are you asking me to spank you, Nadia?”
Flynn is so smart.
“Maybe?”
His hand crashes down on my ass before I get embarrassed. It’s sharp and surprising but not unpleasant.
It doesn’t scare me or bring on bad memories. I was never spanked–that would’ve been far too playful for cigar man. He wasn’t playful. He liked the violence. Rape. He was more into choking and holding me down and forced sex.
Flynn rubs my offended cheek. “You okay?”
“I like it,” I gasp.
Flynn lets out a low curse and slaps my other cheek. “Yeah? That’s good because I like doing it.” He delivers two more slaps. “You look so sexy right now with my handprint on your ass.” He rubs again.
I moan my appreciation. I love the way he touches me–the rough and the gentle.
He continues, warming my ass with slaps alternating with rubbing, then he slides his fingers between my legs. I separate my knees wider and arch up for him. He takes my hips and pushes them down a little lower to line the head of his cock up with my entrance. He’s tall enough to enter me standing up behind me. He slides in, and I suck in a breath and moan.
“You good, Nadia?” His voice is scratchy and rough, deepened with desire. I love that I have the power to turn him on this way. To make him come undone like he was last night.
“Yes.”