The things he craved in the darkest, homeliest shadows of himself were his to take. A red cape but also a green light, one that told Flynn when he exited the bathroom, it was on. If he came home and found it hanging on the rod it was her way of taunting, Gore me. Laurel had teased Flynn about being a bull when it came to sex, and that towel was their inside joke.
Sure, this was the towel Laurel used for a day or two after she dyed her hair each month, and the one they f*cked on when she was on her period, but it was more than that. Hunger rose inside him, exhaustion forgotten. Something caught his eye as he set his clean clothes on the toilet tank-an old red towel slung over the shower curtain. He ached in ways he hadn’t before, even if his lust for the sport hadn’t cooled a jot. Flynn spent his days working construction, which wasn’t kind to his body either, and in the past couple years he’d come to feel it. They fought for glory and for fun, not for money, but that was no reason not to go hard each and every time. He’d won but that bastard always gave Flynn a run for his money, underlined the fact that he was thirty-three now, no longer invincible. He’d been up against his toughest rival in the final fight of the night. “Yes, ma’am.” He gathered a fresh tee and shorts and some flannel bottoms from the dresser then headed for the bathroom. “I like your violent musk, but suit yourself.” She opened her book. He might be exhausted, but his body didn’t plan to rest until his cock got its way. She knew what fight nights did to Flynn, the way the adrenaline turned to lust the second he stepped out of that basement gym. “You must be wiped.” She knew better than that, though. He dropped his gym bag on the loveseat by the door. “Hey, you.” Her smile was dozy and sweet, hair a coppery tumble he’d be more than happy to mess up if she’d let him. Laurel was sprawled across his bed, a pillow on her belly and a closed book atop that, sock-clad feet flexing idly.
He felt a flash of the heat that possessed him during a fight and pushed the worry from his mind as he opened the door.įlynn’s apartment was a studio-bedroom, living room, and galley kitchen all in one high-ceilinged square space, plus a full bath. The thought of anything bad happening to her, let alone in his place, with him not there… Made him paranoid and protective, even if his building was pretty safe. She’d been sloppy about that when she’d first started hanging out in his absence, and he didn’t like it. He tested the knob, pleased to find it locked. She lived just a few blocks from the tourist-trap restaurant she worked at but she always came to his place on fight nights, letting herself in with her key and waiting up for him. Tonight she’d worked, and would’ve finished up around ten. Laurel nearly always came to one or the other, whichever her waitressing schedule didn’t clash with. It kept the chill at bay as he slammed the car door and headed for his building, a hulking old brick behemoth.įight nights were Fridays and Saturdays. Heat crept through him, not the radiator’s doing.
Maybe amenable to having that book plucked away, replaced by the weight of her lover lowering down, his lips on hers and sleep be damned. Maybe already asleep with a book on her chest. He’d be home soon, in his warm apartment, with a warm woman curled up and waiting on his couch or in his bed. You’re not twenty-five anymore, his body bitched, but he ignored it. Not defeated, but he’d taken a couple hard shots in his final boxing match, one to the temple and one to the chin, and his neck was sore, like whiplash. Salt and gravel crunched under his tires as he pulled onto the street, South Boston all but abandoned this time of night, save for the odd car in the distance and scattered drinkers making their way home with clumsy, nervous steps along the slick sidewalks.įlynn was beat, literally. The streets were crusted with brown-gray ice and these flurries would do jack to cover it over. It was late February, the charm of New England winter gone with the abandoned skeletons of Christmas trees weeks before. Sick as he was of shoveling, he almost wished for a final storm. Still, he didn’t bother with the heater-it was a quick drive. He could feel frost in his hair and an ache growling in his wrists and fingers. It had to be ten degrees out, and just the short walk from the bar’s exit to the curb had chilled his sweat and stiffened his spent muscles. Flynn climbed into his car just after one on Saturday night, waking the grumpy engine on the third crank.