Public Display of Everything (11 page)

"Tell me when you need it instead." He only pauses to lube up both our cocks. Then he strokes me hard, cups my sac, massages, and resumes tongue-fucking me into oblivion.

I gnash my teeth together as I pick up the pace in the video. I stare at the muscles in my ass clenching every time I ram into Flynn. Combined with his stroking me off right now, it's almost too much. I can feel it in my fucking toes.

"Need you," I growl. "I'm already close, goddammit."

Flynn hums, taking his sweet fucking time, and gives me a few more wet thrusts and deep licks. "Good." He finally stands up, only to drive me closer to the brink of insanity by dragging his cock between my ass cheeks. "I won't last long. That’s why I wanted you close. The site suggested that."

Delirious in my need, I crack a lazy smile at his Googling habits, but it's forgotten the minute he pushes the head of his cock against my hole.

"I'll go slow," he whispers, gripping my hips with his slick fingers.

Not too slow, I hope. As he carefully inches inside, I force myself to relax and push back. He stretches me to the point where pain takes over, but I also happen to love it rough; the burn makes everything more intense.

By the time he's buried deep inside my ass, I spit out a hoarse curse and bite down on my forearm still resting on the back of the couch. I'm a live wire, hyperalert and sensitive. Has it ever been like this in the past? Doubtful. I know it's been ages, but I would've remembered this.

"Oh God," Flynn breathes out. "Are—are you okay?"

"Yeah." My voice is like gravel. I see nothing, hear nothing. "I need you to fuck me.

I feel his shudder.

He pulls out slowly, then pushes back in, and that’s it. I go from simmering to boiling. Beads of perspiration press to the surface of my skin. It feels like I'm on fire. Palming my cock, I squeeze it hard to delay my climax, but it's futile with Flynn's pace increasing.

Exactly like his way of touching and kissing, his fucking is instinctual. He may plan and prepare, but once he loses it, sex consumes him.

"Feels—fuck, fuck, fucking—amazing," he pants.

All I can muster is a gritty groan. Amazing doesn’t cover it. He's everywhere. Hammering his cock inside me, he sends shockwaves of pleasure through me.

"Can't stop, can't stop," he grits out. "I need to fill you up, Cory. Have to. Oh my God, baby."

At those words, I let go of my cock and grip the edge of the couch, my fingers digging in. Never in my life have I been so desperate that I whimper and beg, but Flynn brings it out of me. Evidently.

In a particularly hard thrust, I nearly lose my footing. Flynn cries out and falls forward, his cock pulsing inside me as he comes. I'm not even worried about my own orgasm. I know he'll give it to me. At the moment, his climax is more important than my own, and isn't that a fucking revelation.

"Fuck, shit, fuck," he groans hoarsely. "You didn’t come."

I swallow dryly and shake my head. "Focus on yourself right now. Take what you want from me."

He shivers and breathes heavily against my shoulder blades, his arms snaking around me to find my aching dick. "It's actually good." He puffs out a couple labored breaths. "There's something—I want to try. Christ. Shit, fuck. I can't breathe."

At the sight of my white knuckles, I force my fingers to let go of the couch. It's difficult, my body strung up and tense. I barely even feel it when Flynn pulls out from me. It's something that usually stings, makes me wince and hiss, but I'm too rigid with urgency and desperation.

"Lie back on the couch," he rasps, then disappears from the room.

I move automatically, landing on my back. One look at the TV shows us asleep in each other's arms. We look beautiful together, end of fucking story, but it's not exactly what I need right now.

When Flynn returns, I half expect him to be happy-go-lucky and sweet, but all I see is dark hunger in his eyes. He swipes a warm washcloth over me to remove the lube, then tosses it on the floor.

Next he moves down my body and kisses my inner thighs. "Are you sore?"

"Yeah, but…" Fuck, I can't speak. "Keep going—oh, motherfucking
." I let out a growl of pure ecstasy as he gently blows cool air and licks around my opening. He groans softly, no doubt tasting his own release inside me. It's all the lube we need, so I just sink further into delirium when he begins to finger-fuck me.

A moment later, he puts me in his mouth, too. He sucks my cock down his throat and curls his long fingers inside my ass. I jump in reflex, followed by a string of curses as he rubs against my prostate.


I hold my breath and nod quickly. He found it, all right. "Close," I hiss through clenched teeth.

Over and over, he rubs the pads of his fingers over that spot. My cock leaks of pre-come, something Flynn seems to enjoy the hell out of. He moans and sends vibrations up my shaft.

I explode.

The only warning I manage to give is a shallowly breathed
I fist Flynn's hair and bury my dick in his throat. My eyes close. Or at least my vision goes black. I'm fucking lost. He keeps massaging my prostate, drawing more streams of come from me.

In the end, my lungs are burning and I gasp for air. It's like hitting the surface after being underwater for too long. My limbs go slack. I sink into the couch, and I get this drunk feeling, torn between crying and laughing my ass off. Of course, I have energy for neither, so I stay quiet and focus on catching my breath.

"That was so sexy, Cory." Flynn sounds horny again. I feel it too, when he crawls up my body and collapses half on top of me. "So, so sexy. Intense. Out of this world." He pauses. "I need a better superlative."

"Gimme a minute," I mumble sluggishly.

He chuckles and draws a blanket over us. "I'm thrilled I have the same effect on you as you have on me." If this is how he feels after I fuck him and make him come, I suppose I can feel good about myself. 'Cause…
. "Okay, I have the word now."

"Hmm?" I'm not sure what he's talking about. I wanna sleep. I can already feel myself dozing off.


What? I mean…no, that’s not a word. I think. Fuck if I know. Some days I need a dictionary around Flynn.

In the hazy minutes before I succumb to sleep, I recall another man who knew his way around words.



Chapter 10



I've decided to leave Boston. I have a year and a half before Jayden starts first grade, and Dylan and I need a break from this goddamn place. Jennifer's visits are sporadic at best, so I sincerely doubt she'll object.

I'd like to see more of the English countryside.

Hope you're well,



The next morning, I leave the bed without making a noise. I pull on a pair of sweats, go to the bathroom to take a leak and wash up, then make my way to the kitchen. Since we're meeting Tammy at ten and Flynn's not a morning person, I figure pancakes will fix his mood, if only slightly. He's said he loves chocolate pancakes but has complained about the shitty mixes they have in the stores, so I'm banking on success thanks to an old family recipe.

With the double batch almost ready, I turn on the gas stove. I nearly drop the skillet, but I guess I can prevent a disaster every now and then.

Instead of pouring cocoa into the batter, I use chocolate chips and Nutella, and just as I'm dumping a generous amount into the bowl, I hear Flynn's feet padding closer.

His arms snake around my waist, and he presses his forehead to the back of my neck. "Good morning," he mumbles.

"Hey, you." I bring his hand to my mouth and kiss the tips of his fingers. "I didn’t expect you up this early."

"Neither did I." He huffs. "But you took the warmth with you when you got up."

Definitely moody. "I'm making pancakes."

He stiffens, then peers around me. "Chocolate?"

"Yep." I grin to myself and pour the first cupful into the skillet. "If you're up to the task, you could set the table and grab the peanut butter and the bowl of dark chocolate I grated earlier. There should be bananas and Fluff, too."

"That is simply too much to process. I have questions." Flynn lets go of me and stalks over to the fridge. "You
chocolate?" I hum and flip the pancake. Far from pretty, but oh so good. "I'm intrigued. Next question: no syrup or butter?"

"Not for these." I smile and shake my head, thinking back on when Dad made these for Mom. It was—or
, I suppose—the only thing he could make without burning down the house. He told me,
"A man should learn how to cook at least one thing, and if it's a dish that will earn you the heart of a woman, she will take care of the rest."

Sexism aside, I like the sentiment. He made them when he was trying to make my mother fall in love with him.

Glancing over at Flynn as he hurries to set the table, there's no doubt in my mind. I want the same.

"Is it a recipe I can try?" he asks next.

Preferably not. The omelet sandwich incident was only yesterday. Besides… "I have the recipe right here." I tap my temple. "Only the Matthews men know it."

Flynn purses his lips, his eyes lighting up at the challenge. "Is the batter any different from all the recipes on the internet? Or is it only about the condiments?"

I shrug and hide my amusement. "Who knows?"

He narrows his eyes. "You're teasing me. I'm sure of it."

"Or maybe I wanna be the only one who can make you these pancakes."

There's no reply for that. He continues setting the table, now with a serene little smile playing on his lips.


Flynn wipes his mouth on a napkin and sits back with an expression similar to shell shock.

"I think I ate too much." He releases a breath and flattens his hands against his stomach. "Oh God, definitely too much."

I snort a laugh and take a sip from my coffee. "You should've stopped at two." They were pretty fucking big.

"I should have." He nods and stares at his empty plate. He looks as if he's halfway into a food coma. "Perhaps we should reschedule with Tammy."
Nice try
. My smirk says as much. "Or maybe not." He sighs. "We're meeting her at ten?" We both check the clock on the wall. It's eight thirty now, so we have another hour. "Crap. That gives me time."

"To…?" I raise a brow over my mug, then drink the last of it.

He makes a face and slides his fork through some melted chocolate on his plate. "Sarah told me that if I trust you, I should tell you the real reason I left the States after high school. I've spoken so highly of you during our chats that she was surprised I haven't shared my past with you already. So, she advised I do that before we involve family and friends." Well, he sure as fuck has my attention now. He doesn’t seem comfortable at all, which makes me worried. "The truth of the matter is that I do trust you. I don’t want you to think otherwise—"

"I don’t." Reaching over the table, I grab his hand and squeeze gently. "I don’t wanna rush you, either. Whenever you're ready, okay?"

"That’s the thing, I suppose. I
ready. I've probably been ready since the day I first saw you months ago. It's just very embarrassing."

"You know," I muse, "one of these days, you're gonna have to tell me how long you've been my private voyeur."

He flushes. "That’s a short story. I walked into the pub one day and saw you sitting there." He gives a one-shouldered shrug. "You looked like a fantasy, but more than that, you were completely enthralled with a story you were telling Tammy. It was about…um, it was about history. The Tudors?" I nod, smiling widely. "Yes. So. Your friend was nodding and smiling, but I still have the feeling she was incredibly bored." I crack up at that. Sounds like Tammy. "You were so…passionate, I'd say. I couldn’t stop thinking about you after that. I don’t know how many times I tried to approach you but took the coward's way out instead."

"Jesus." I smile self-consciously, shifting in my seat. "You have a way with words." And what a fucking understatement. "Then you walked up to me and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse." I grin to deflate the tension.

I guess I'm not used to hearing those kinds of compliments. So genuine and heartfelt. Mostly, I hear "hot," "sexy," and "handsome," which say nothing whatsoever about who I really am.

"You were unattainable to me." I absently play with his fingers, thinking back. "I definitely noticed you, but I pushed all those thoughts away." I rub my chest and shake my head. "But that’s another story."

He nods and tilts his head. "You're deflecting a bit, yes. Is it possible that you're not ready to hear—"

"I am," I say quickly. "I'm just worried. From what I've gathered so far, I'm guessing someone's hurt you pretty bad, and…" I exhale heavily. "I can't afford a plane ticket to Seattle to kick some ass at the moment. But I'll shut up now." Looking up, I see his shoulders shaking with silent chuckles. "I'm glad I amuse you."

"No, no." He shows his palms and tries to calm down. "You're very sweet."

The deflecting has run its course. There's nothing I can do now but listen.

"Tell me," I murmur.

He lets out a soft breath and finds my hand on the table again. "I came out to my grandparents and brother when I was sixteen." A faraway expression takes over his face, and he keeps that gaze locked on our linked fingers. Maybe it's easier. "They took it well, even my grandfather who's always been sort of strict and taciturn. He'll never wear a Pride pin or anything, but he understands and accepts." The light in his eyes slowly fades. "In school, I only told my closest friends. We were a small and tight-knit group, or so I thought. I still don’t know who spread the news, but all of a sudden I wasn’t the invisible computer nerd. I was the queer who couldn’t speak to another male without rumors flying around about my probably performing sexual favors for friendship. It went on like that until the last semester of my senior year."

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