Page 101 of Gold Rush

Flynn nods, pulling the tie over his head and tossing it on the coffee table. “You start.”

I move a pawn from the d2 square to d4.

“Queen’s Gambit?” He takes the pawn. “Let’s do it.”

Eight moves later, he announces, “Check.”

I study the board, playing out a few possible strategies. He’s winning.

My sweatpants are the logical choice to lose first, so I lift my shirt over my head and toss it on top of his tie.

Flynn’s eyes go straight to my boobs. He’s seen me shirtless plenty of times, so that’s not terrible for my ego. But one of my favorite things about Flynn is that he never makes me guess or assume. He’s as blunt about his appreciation of my body as he is about everything else. It’s sexy in the moment, and it’s also excellent for my self-confidence, always.

“If you were trying to make me not give a shit about playing chess, you’ve succeeded,” he says, gaze still fixed.

My breasts feel heavy and full. Tingling and sensitive, as my nipples harden to firm points.

Flynn groans as he registers the changes to my body too. Without glancing down, he lifts the board and moves it to the coffee table.

“That’s an automatic forfeit,” I inform him. “I win.”

“You were about to lose.” He crawls over me, crushing the pillows that are normally carefully arranged. “Which is why you took your shirt off.” His mouth lands on the side of my neck, planting an open-mouthed kiss on top of what I never realized was a sensitive spot.

I wrap my arms around his back, tilting my face back so he has better access.

“They’re just boobs, Flynn.”

“They’re your boobs, Florence.” He takes the left one into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the areola before blowing on the swollen tip. “Feel how hard I am?”

“Yes,” I gasp.

He’s so male. His scent, his weight, his voice, and most of all, the heavy erection rubbing right between my legs. And no matter how many times I try to justify my reactions as hormones and pheromones and the psychological component of everyone thinking I’m dating this man, there’s some aspect of it that’s just … Flynn. He makes me feel like the most desirable woman in the world. And he does it during the moments I’m most myself. Confessing I faked orgasms. Admitted I studied how to give a blow job. Playing chess.

I’ve had sex with other guys. Good sex—or what rated as good at the time. But I’ve never experienced this before. Nothing—not self-consciousness or anxiety or responsibilities—matters. Those typical considerations are all there, but they’re cloaked by a veil that allows me to temporarily ignore them. Yet, somehow, I’m also aware of every detail. Each individual heartbeat. Each freckle on Flynn’s nose.

My breasts rasp against the stiff cotton of his shirt, the friction minimal yet overwhelming.

“More,” I beg.

“Patience is a virtue.”

“Flynn,” I growl.

“Florence.” He mimics my tone.

I slide my hands higher, into the short strands at the base of his skull and up into the section of his hair that’s slightly longer. Scrape my fingernails against his scalp, which I’ve learned he loves.

He grunts, his hand squeezing my hip before it slides into the loose band of my sweats. “I can’t believe I get to fuck you.”

The pressure in my pelvis increases, the desperate urge to be filled by his hardness nearly unbearable. I wish that were the only part of my body affected. It’s not. My heart stutters in my chest before resuming a rapid rhythm to match my fast breathing.

“I’m not exactly feeling unlucky right now,” I admit, biting my bottom lip as his fingers stroke a line along the crotch of my soaked underwear.

Flynn is much better at this than I am. At teasing and flirting and touching. But he never makes me feel inferior, so I try harder for him than I have for anyone else.

“That feels really good.” My voice sounds nothing like normal. Husky and affected.

“You feel soaked. Did flashing me your tits get you this wet?”