“Honey.”
She took that as approval, smiling to herself and turning her attention to the button of his fly.
“Don’t,” he said softly.
“Why not?” She murmured it, more seduction than question. I’m not as delicate as you think.
“Not yet.”
“I’ve missed this,” she told him, letting another slow stroke of his straining cock underscore that truth. And if she’d missed this, Flynn had no doubt mourned it.
His voice was thick, unsteady. “You don’t need to,” he said again. He held her hand but she slipped free, seeking his zipper.
“Like I said, I want to.” She hurt for it, physically. Literally. Arousal was a hot, grasping ache inside her, and her salivary glands stung and watered, anticipating the weight of his hands on her, guiding her, holding her hair. His voice, mean and bossy once more, a change so welcome after weeks of patient encouragement. She spread his fly open, greeted by that intoxicating scent. It seemed nearly new after all this time.
“Honey, don’t.”
She cupped him, traced the edge of his erection with her thumb, but then his hand was around her wrist, tight, jerking her away.
“Jesus, Laurel. Knock it off.”
She sat back, feeling slapped. She had no words, but her expression seemed to speak for her—he looked chastised in an instant. He scrubbed his hands over his face and hair, eyes squeezed shut, mouth set.
“Sorry,” he muttered, not sounding especially sorry.
“I’m sorry. I thought you’d be more than up for that, after all this time.”
“Not yet.”
“Sorry,” she said again. “It’s just… I’m ready. You’ve been, like, superhumanly patient, and I wanted to get there again, tonight. I’m ready, really.”
In a breath he was up and walking away, zipping up and buckling his belt as he went.
Frozen there on her knees, Laurel could only watch him stride to the sink and fill a glass with water. The hard floor beneath her, so welcome only moments before, felt humiliating. Her throat was tight, words too thick, lodged deep. She managed to pry free the only one that counted right now.
“Flynn?”
He set the glass down and braced both hands on the counter. When he dropped his head she could see his back expand and contract, his breaths looking slow and forced.
“Baby,” she said, instantly realizing she’d never called him such a thing before. “I need you to talk to me. Or to tell me to go, and we can talk some other time.” Her voice was calm but her heart was pounding. He’d never been like this with her. If he sent her away with no explanation, she’d be a wreck until she heard from him again.
An almighty inhalation swelled his entire frame, then he raised his head. He turned, met her eyes, leaned back against the counter looking older, somehow. After a moment he seemed to wilt, expression going from stony to weary. “Get off the floor, for fuck’s sake.”
She moved to sit on the coffee table. “Did I say something wrong?”
Another gigantic breath and he rubbed at his face again. “No. Yes and no.”
“Tell me.”
He dropped his arms and met her stare. “You said you’re ready.”
She nodded. “I am.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Okay. That’s fine. I didn’t mean to rush you. I just assumed you must be pretty hard up by now.” She cracked a little smile, not earning one in return. “You want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
She felt herself tipping from panic into exasperation, her backbone restacking itself. “Well, tell me what’s wrong or tell me to go.” She brushed the grit from her knees. “It feels like I’m only going to keep saying the wrong thing if you don’t help me out, here. Do you want me to go?”
“Yes,” he said, his tone soft and cold.
Another psychic slap, and she rose on unsteady legs.
“Wait—no. Sit. Fucking sit.”
She did, watching as he made his way across the room. He didn’t sit beside her but instead on the floor, his back against the couch and his arms crossed atop his knees. It made him look small, a feat she’d have thought impossible before this moment.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, addressing his wrists or maybe her shins. “I know I’m being a royal dick. I’m just… I’m feelin’ a load of stuff and I don’t know what the fuck to do with it.”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t want to. You’re just gettin’ over everything. You deserve to be gettin’ over everything. I don’t wanna shit all over that.”
“‘Everything’ meaning the miscarriage?”
“Yeah.”
“God knows how much time you’ve spent listening to me cry and talk about it. You’re allowed to have feelings about it too.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yeah, you really are.”