CHAPTER 15
Daisy
My breath hitches, caught in my throat, as I tap the folder with a trembling finger. It opens.
Oh, bloody hell.
Me.
Not just any me—it’s Unhinged Shopping Channel me, in my Union Jack skirt. From The Bidet Incident. The video that launched a thousand memes (okay, maybe a hundred) and singlehandedly destroyed any chance I had of being taken seriously outside of bathroom fixture demonstrations.
My jaw drops. Why? Why does Dr. Edward Cavendish—Mr. Big Brain with the judgey nostrils—have this saved on his iPad?
Hold up. Wait just a goddamn minute. Is this . . . Is this what I think it is?
No way.
It can’t be.
But there it is, staring me down, undeniable. Am I—oh god—am I in Edward Cavendish’s private spank bank?
A jolt of heat shoots through me, followed by a wave of near-hysterical laughter I barely manage to choke back with a hand slapped over my mouth.
Does he lie in his perfectly made bed and watch me cry over expensive bathroom fixtures?
This is . . . something. Though what exactly that something is, I couldn’t tell you if you put a gun to my head.
I swallow hard, staring at the screen. There I am in crisp HD: flushed, mascara smudged, that stupid skirt hiked up as I flail through the bidet’s “ferocious spray functionality.” The video’s so clear you can practically see the goosebumps pop up when the water blasts me by surprise.
I should stop.
This is already way too much. I definitely shouldn’t dig deeper.
My finger hovers over his video folder for about a millisecond before I’m swiping into it, hands trembling.
I really, really shouldn’t.
Too late. I’m in.
OH. MY. GOD.
It’s a full-on shrine. Every single video is me. Welcome to The Daisy Wilson Collection: Greatest Tits and Bits , starring yours truly in that Union Jack skirt that apparently lights a fire under His Lordship’s posh exterior.
There I am, bent over a garden trimmer—way more suggestive than I ever intended. There’s me bouncing around a heated bird bath, jiggling in ways that scream “invest in a sports bra.” And, oh look, me gripping an extending pole saw with a hold that, in hindsight, looks straight out of a dirty joke.
Well well well.
Turns out Dr. Cavendish has got quite the appetite for common-as-muck girls in patriotic mini skirts.
The posh bastard’s got taste.
I’m not imagining things either—I saw that look in his eyes when he caught me in his bed. That flash of heat before his control slammed back into place. I doubt he wanted to join some weird uncle-nephew sandwich situation but he definitely liked what he saw.
Not that it changes anything. I know how men like Edward Cavendish operate with girls like me. They’re after the fun parts, the filthy parts, the no-strings parts—not the real me. To him, I’m just a walking fantasy: a living, breathing patriotic pin-up who demos garden tools and gets him going.
I don’t have a Cambridge degree. I couldn’t pair a wine with a steak if my life depended on it, and I’d be lost in a debate about foreign policy or whatever people like him ramble about over their overpriced foie gras. My version of artisan bread is grabbing a loaf from M&S instead of Tesco. Most days I don’t even make my bed—I just sort of . . . rearrange the wrinkles.
But still . . . apparently, me in that skirt does it for him.
Maybe he’s got a thing for the whole schoolgirl-meets-national-pride aesthetic. Maybe he’s secretly harboring fantasies about teaching me a thing or two about proper behavior. All that commanding presence, the tightly leashed control that fills a room without him even trying. And that voice. The one that drops into a dangerous, low register when he’s displeased.
Oh, he’d make an excellent teacher, all right.
My mind’s running wild when I hear footsteps. Closing in fast.
I stare at the screen like it’s about to explode.
Shit shit shit.
How do I get this back to how it was? I jab at the screen frantically, my fingers suddenly clumsy and useless.
I can’t let him catch me here, elbow-deep in his secret video stash. He’ll know I’ve seen it. And then what?
The footsteps are getting closer. Fuckfuckfuck.
My hands tremble as I swipe at the screen.
Come on, Daisy, you absolute muppet. Get it together.
Maybe I should just own it? Hey, Edward, quick question—do you prefer the bidet breakdown or the garden shears mishap? Just gathering viewer feedback. Also, should we talk about this weird sexual tension or keep pretending it doesn’t exist?
Oh god. I can’t. I can’t do it.
Once we acknowledge whatever this is between us, there’s no going back. No more safe, comfortable distance. Just the raw truth that Edward Cavendish gets off on watching me make a tit of myself on television, and how some twisted part of me is thrilled by that knowledge.
The tent flap rustles.
My wine-soaked brain picks the only rational option available, and I dive into his wardrobe.
I hunker down, squashing myself under his perfectly hung suit.
Edward strides in, and even from my new sanctuary, I can smell him—fresh from the shower, with that expensive soap scent and an aura of unapproachable Edward-ness.
Why the actual fuck did I think hiding in his wardrobe was better than getting caught with his iPad? I hope he doesn’t decide to do laundry right now.
He zips the tent flap shut, and my stomach flips. Great. I’m trapped.
Peering through a tiny gap, I see him messing with the lamp. The light softens, casting this warm, cozy glow—wait, is he actually setting a mood? My throat lets out a gulp so loud I’m surprised it doesn’t echo across the campsite.
He reaches for his T-shirt hem and up it goes. Those back muscles ripple and suddenly the shirt’s gone and it’s just . . . him. Standing there in nothing but shorts.
I clamp my hand over my mouth to stop the completely undignified noise trying to escape my throat. Because bloody hell .
Edward Cavendish is BUILT.
Not in a loud, gym-obsessed, “I live off protein shakes” way, but strong. Capable.
I shamelessly take in every detail, fully aware I’ve dug myself into a hole and am only sinking deeper.
His arms and shoulders look like they were sculpted by someone with very specific intentions about making women lose their minds.
And that stomach . . . good lord. Defined planes and a dark trail of hair that leads down like a sinful treasure map . . .
God yes.
Now that’s a bulge.
This is a body made for stamina—hours hunched over operating tables or . . . well, other pursuits.
It’s criminal for someone to be England’s brainiest and look like a Greek statue come to life.
Through the narrow gap in the wardrobe doors, I watch him apply deodorant. Each movement is deliberate, calculated—like he’s performing surgery instead of just stopping his pits from sweating. No wonder they trust him with scalpels.
The cap clicks shut with precision.
Then he turns.
Straight toward the wardrobe. Toward me .
My breath snags in my throat. He’s going to open it. He’s going to see me. And then what the hell do I say?
But he doesn’t reach for the door. Instead, his thumbs hook into the waistband of his shorts, and—oh.
Oh fuck me.
They hit the floor, and my brain short-circuits. Complete system failure.
Edward Cavendish stands in front of the wardrobe mirror, completely naked and unaware of my presence.
My eyes widen in shock as I see it, the largest and most magnificent cock I have ever laid eyes on.
Well.
That explains the confidence. The man’s clearly winning at life.
I might be drooling. No, wait—I am drooling.
Because his cock? It’s a fucking masterpiece. Eighth wonder of the world, right there. Thick, long, and undeniably perfect, each vein and ridge clearly defined.
That’s a two-handed situation. Maybe even three, if you’ve got dainty hands like mine. The sheer thickness of it makes my thighs press together.
Forget Mrs. Cavendish’s marble statue, this is what they should be immortalizing in stone.
He checks his stubble in the mirror, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s giving me the most exclusive, intimate show of my entire life.
My body responds with a throb that’s wildly inappropriate. Though really, what part of hiding naked in a man’s closet could ever be considered appropriate?
What was I even thinking? I could’ve just set the iPad down, muttered something vague about hunting for whiskey, and bolted like a semi-normal person. But no—I panicked and flung myself into his wardrobe, making this whole situation approximately seven thousand times worse.
There’s no coming back from this. Can’t exactly pop out now with a cheery “Surprise!” and expect anything less than a restraining order.
Peeking through the gap, I see him stroll over to the bed and pick up the iPad. My stomach drops like a stone. He stares at the screen, brow furrowing, and my pulse kicks into overdrive. He knows. He knows someone’s been snooping through his dirty little stash.
He taps the screen a few times, his fingers dancing across the glass, and then . . .
My voice fills the tent, chirping away about “revolutionary bathroom technology!”
I might actually pass out.
He jabs at the volume, turning it down, but it’s still loud enough that I can hear myself rabbiting on about “gentle cleansing action” in the background.
His hand travels south and— oh fuck.
His expression shifts, morphing into something dark and intense.
No.
This is not happening.
This cannot be happening.
Except it one hundred fucking percent is.
And I can’t look away.
I’m not even sure I’m breathing.
He stares at his iPad with the kind of concentration he probably uses in theater: brows knitted together, mouth set in a determined line. Though I doubt he’s thinking about laparoscopic shit right now.
He wraps his fingers around his shaft, stroking lazily from base to tip, and my heart rate explodes into a frantic rhythm.
No. Fucking. Way.
He’s not. He can’t be. This isn’t happening.
Stop looking, Daisy. For the love of god, STOP. LOOKING.
But I can’t tear my eyes away from the mesmerizing sight of his hand moving over his cock, his grip tightening as it swells and hardens beneath his touch.
That muscle in his jaw—the one that always ticks when I do something inappropriate—clenches rhythmically.
He spits on his cock, a filthy gesture that sends shockwaves of pure lust coursing through me. I nearly kick the wardrobe. Fuck me. That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Was not expecting that plot twist.
His breathing is heavy, jagged, unsteady, and yet—somehow still, he sounds pissed off.
Like he’s absolutely fuming for daring to have needs. Annoyed that he’s fallen victim to base urges when he probably had plans to do something more respectable—like read a medical journal or perfect his brooding stare.
His brow furrows, his jaw clenches, and his handsome features twist into something that looks perilously close to outrage.
Like he’s rage-wanking.
Like this is some sort of emergency procedure he needs to complete before he can return to being Lord Perfect-Posture.
I clamp my hand over my mouth, sinking my teeth into my knuckles. One peep, one slightly too-loud breath, and I’m done for.
His abs flex tight, the muscles in his forearm bulging like he’s locked in a fierce tug-of-war with his own cock. The way he’s handling it, you’d swear it was forged from iron.
His mouth falls open in a soft, guttural groan, a sound that sends heat flooding through me from head to toe, settling between my thighs like a throbbing, insistent ache.
The most reserved, stiff-upper-lipped man in all of England is coming undone.
Because of me.
Because of my televised bidet meltdown.
He’s watching my video.
On. Bloody. Repeat.
Every time I demonstrate that cursed bidet, his breathing gets more ragged. When I start having my emotional crisis over the spray settings, his head falls back, that perfect throat exposed, and I have to physically restrain myself from doing something incredibly stupid like moaning myself.
Oh god. This is simultaneously the hottest and most mortifying moment of my life. My entire body is humming like a live wire and all I can think about is bursting out of this wardrobe to show him what else these hands can handle beyond garden gadgets. Step aside, Edward—years of product demos have given me killer grip strength .
But I can’t move. Can’t do anything except watch Dr. Cavendish lose control while watching me lose mine.
My legs have turned to liquid, my skin is on fire, and every single nerve ending in my body is screaming for attention.
The irony of hiding in Edward Cavendish’s wardrobe while he gets off to videos of me isn’t lost on me. This is definitely some sort of modern Shakespeare. “A Midsummer Night’s Wankmare” or “Much Ado About Bidets.”
Really, this is basically research. Very important data gathering on the effects of Union Jack skirts on upper-class male viewing habits.
And you know what it tells me? Even posh guys like Edward, deep down, have a thing for common girls. Turns out you can take the man out of Cambridge, but you can’t take away his appreciation for a girl in a pleated skirt.
The hand not holding his cock grips the iPad, knuckles white with tension.
“Fuck,” he growls. It’s dripping with a need so intense it sends a bolt of heat straight through me.
I bite my lip, my teeth sinking into the soft flesh as I try to stifle the whimper threatening to escape.
Every fiber of my being is screaming, aching, begging to replace his hand with mine. To feel the weight of him, hot and heavy and pulsing, against my palm.
I’m never going to be able to look at a bidet the same way again.
Or Edward.
Or the Union Jack.
But god, it’s worth it. It’s so unbelievably, earth-shatteringly worth it.
I slap both hands over my mouth as he lets out a sound that’s going straight into my own lady spank bank forever and proceeds to ejaculate all over his stomach.
He tosses his iPad aside, the device landing on the bed with a dull thud, and reaches for a towel. He cleans himself off, erasing all evidence of his momentary lapse in control.
Jeans and a T-shirt go on next, slipped into with ease, followed by a quick spritz of aftershave.
How dare he look so composed after that?
I sit frozen, disbelief spreading through me, as he slides into his shoes. With a final, casual adjustment of his collar, he strides out of the tent.
As if nothing happened.
The flap swings shut, and my legs finally give. I spill out of the wardrobe, sprawling onto the floor.
I am not the same woman I was ten minutes ago.