CHAPTER 26
Edward
She strides out of the studio, that pleated mini skirt skimming the curve of her thighs with every step, paired with a leather jacket that does nothing to shield her from the cold—or from my attention.
A restless heat knots low inside me.
Watching Daisy on set has felt like bloody foreplay. Every coy smile and teasing lilt in her voice, the shift of her hips as she demonstrated whatever overpriced nonsense they were peddling . . . it had me gripping the arm of my chair like a man barely holding it together.
My jaw tightens as my gaze flickers down her body before I can stop myself.
I let out a sharp breath.
Right. Rein it in.
I won’t admit to her that I’ve spent the last three hours driving in aimless circles around London, as if I had anywhere else to be, only to end up here, outside her TV studio.
“You letting me drive?” she asks, flashing that grin of hers.
“Not a chance,” I say, brisk. “Where’s your coat?”
She spreads her arms wide, as if to say ta-da . “I’m wearing it.”
“Stylish as that leather jacket may be—”
“Pleather, actually,” she cuts in, spinning with a theatrical twirl. “But convincing, isn’t it?”
“Regardless of its authenticity, it’s still insufficient for these temperatures at two in the morning.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m fine. I’m not some old granny who needs to be swaddled in blankets.”
“You most certainly are not,” I mutter, catching myself just before my gaze drifts down those bare legs again. “Tell me you don’t walk home in that skirt alone.”
“Ooh, Doctor Daddy’s back in town,” she teases, smirking.
“I’d rather you didn’t twist my perfectly reasonable concern into something sordid,” I say, but my mouth quirks.
“Can’t help it. You’re too easy to wind up.”
Before she can protest, I shrug off my coat and drape it over her shoulders.
If I’m honest, I’m unnerved. This wasn’t planned. She ambushed me outside the hospital. Luckily, Lucia forgave me for cancelling on dinner. She’s become a good friend. I softened the blow by handing over my opera box for next month, at least.
“I usually change before I leave,” Daisy says, pulling my coat tighter around herself. “Don’t worry, I don’t let myself freeze to death. But I knew I’d be in your big, comfy car tonight.”
“I would have given you time to change.”
Her smirk turns sly as she tilts her head up at me. “Kept the skirt on for you, though.”
She does a little twirl, my coat fanning out around her bare legs as she saunters toward the Audi.
I groan. God help me.
Daisy
The forty-minute drive to my flat is the automotive equivalent of edging.
I’ve been in cars with Edward before—like that infamous driving lesson. Or those awkward lifts home when he played chauffeur for me and Sophia, radiating silent disapproval from the driver’s seat.
But this? This is something else entirely.
He’s driving so damn slow. Or maybe he’s just driving normally , and I’m the one whose turned into a sex gremlin. Because I’m hyper-aware of every little detail. The way his fingers flex on the gear stick—strong, capable hands I have now seen do . . . things. The way his forearms shift, the muscles tensing and relaxing as he turns the wheel.
I realize, with zero intention of fixing it, that my skirt has crept dangerously high on my thighs. One pothole and he’s getting the full show.
We’re attempting normal conversation, but the air is so thick with sexual tension I’m surprised the windows aren’t fogging up.
He’s asking me about work. Bloody garden tools.
He keeps flicking his eyes down to my legs before snapping them back to the road, and every time he does it, the air in the car thickens.
Deciding to poke the bear, I shift in my seat, crossing and uncrossing my legs just to see if—
Oh, there it is. The death grip on the steering wheel.
“Do you always drive this slow?” I ask, unable to stop the smirk that creeps in.
“Something wrong with my driving?”
I bite my lip, nerves manifesting as reckless sarcasm. “It’s just . . . like, are you trying to set a new record for most red lights hit in a single trip?”
He keeps his eyes on the road. “Would you prefer I disregard traffic laws entirely?”
I let out a breathy giggle. “Right now, I feel like I’m being chauffeured to bingo night.”
His knuckles turn white from strain.
I need to stop looking at those hands. Those surgeon’s hands that save lives.
He shifts the gear stick, his voice dropping an octave. “I wasn’t aware you were in such a hurry to get home.”
“I’m not,” I murmur, my fingers drifting close enough to brush the fabric of his trousers.
For one glorious second, I think he’s going to snap—swerve the car to the side of the road, yank me onto his lap, and finally do something about the ungodly amount of sexual tension suffocating this vehicle.
“Some things,” he says, “are worth taking slow.”
“What do you know,” I murmur, my hand trailing just shy of his thigh, “we’ve hit another red light.”
I watch his jaw clench.
“Stop being a brat.”
Oh. Well. That’s unexpectedly hot.
“If you must know,” he continues, “that skirt of yours is incredibly distracting.”
My breath catches.
Well. Now we’re talking.
I shift in my seat, parting my legs just enough to be plausibly deniable. Just a casual adjustment. Nothing to see here.
“Daisy.”
The way he growls my name. Half warning.
“What?” I blink up at him, all wide-eyed. “I’m just getting comfortable.”
Which is a lie, obviously. I’ve never been less comfortable in my life.
Mostly because I am currently soaking through my knickers.
I rest my hand on my inner thigh, letting my fingers trail higher as I shift my legs wider.
“If your goal is to get us both killed,” he grits out, glancing up at his rearview mirror, “you’re going about it rather effectively.”
I hum, running my fingers along the edge of my skirt. “I thought surgeons were meant to have good focus.”
“My focus is excellent. Which is how I can tell you exactly how many inches that skirt has ridden up in the last five minutes.”
I let out a breathy laugh—then suddenly realize we’re no longer moving.
Wait. We’re here?
Somehow, in my horny haze, we have arrived at our destination.
“Would you like to come up for a cup of tea?” I hear myself ask. Like we’re in some quaint period drama.
He turns to face me fully.
And dear god.
The way he looks at me—the slow drag of his gaze over me like he’s barely restraining himself—makes my stomach swoop violently.
“Yes.”
Just—yes.
He’s out of the car coming around to open my door, because of course he is. He’s incapable of not being a gentleman. But there is nothing gentlemanly about the situation happening in his trousers when I step out.
And I do not mean at the knees.
I take his hand—because my legs suddenly feel like jelly—and lead him up the steps to my flat in the old, creaky Victorian house.
I fumble with my keys.
Get it together, Daisy. He’s just a man.
A man who just told you to stop being a brat in a voice that practically licked your clit.
The lock finally clicks open, and as he steps inside, his gaze flicks around the room with that assessing look of his. Doctor habits, I guess.
His frame fills the doorway, shoulders brushing the sides like the flat wasn’t built to accommodate a man who could probably bench-press my sofa and then me on top of it without even panting.
His gaze lands on my yoga mat. The salt lamps. The pile of rumpled gym gear in the corner, which is Jamie’s fault, not mine.
“Remind me who you live with?”
“Jamie. The event planner. You know, the guy who arranged the glamping trip. He’s away tonight,” I add, casually.
So I can scream as loud as I want , I say with my eyes.
“Ah yes, the mastermind behind the communal sleeping arrangements,” Edward says dryly. “Was that his idea of event planning, or an elaborate revenge plot for unwashed dishes?”
“He was very apologetic about that particular fuckup.”
I glance around my flat, seeing it through his eyes, suddenly hyper-aware of every mismatched throw pillow and crystal arrangement. “Bit of a downgrade from your place, huh? I’ve got yoga mats and IKEA furniture. You’ve got four floors and art worth more than my annual salary. But I guess that dynamic has always existed between us.”
His brow furrows. “The only difference that matters is you bring life and passion to every room you enter. While I . . .” He pauses, adjusting his cuffs like the words make him uncomfortable. “Well, I can only hope you’ll see past my sometimes-lacking social etiquette to whatever redeeming qualities might lie beneath.”
Oh my god.
My heart actually skips .
“That’s . . . really sweet,” I manage.
“I’m direct, as you’ve noted,” he says, his mouth quirking. “Sometimes that manifests as bluntness. Occasionally, if I’m fortunate, it might accidentally venture into . . . sweetness.”
I smile at him, feeling suddenly shy—which is ridiculous because I literally humped this man in a church last week.
Come on, Daisy, you’re good at flirting. Why are you so bloody intimidated now?
Maybe because he’s Edward fucking Cavendish, and he’s standing in my flat.
He tracks my movements as I shrug off my jacket with deliberate slowness, though my fingers aren’t nearly as steady as I want them to be.
I move toward him, channeling confidence I absolutely do not feel, and place my hands on his chest.
Holy fuck —the solid wall of muscle beneath that crisp, expensive fabric makes my mouth go dry, my fingers twitching to tear it off him.
His breath catches when I run my fingertips down his chest—oh. Oh, that’s nice. His nipples harden under my touch, and the reaction sends a bolt of pure, liquid heat straight between my thighs.
Jesus. The way his body responds to me has my pulse hammering in my throat. He’s always so controlled, but right now? Right now, I know I could wreck him.
And I really want to.
“What are you doing?” he asks, an edge to his voice.
“Taking off your jacket.” I slide the fabric off his broad shoulders. “Making you feel at home. You look . . . tense.”
Though, judging by what’s pressing against my hip right now, tense might not be the word I’m looking for. The thought makes me throb.
“I’ll make you some tea,” I say sweetly, pushing him down onto a chair, enjoying the way his eyes flash at my touch.
I turn my back to him, moving toward the kettle, feeling his gaze drag over every inch of me. My whole body hums.
“You want ordinary English breakfast?” I ask, not looking at him.
The kettle whirs to life, filling the charged silence.
“Yeah,” he rasps, the word rough with gravel. It is decidedly not a voice thinking about tea.
I smirk to myself. Before I can overthink it, I slide my hands beneath my skirt, lifting it just enough—just enough to let him see .
I step out of my G-string, letting it drop to the floor.
Letting him see exactly how wet I am for him.
The sound he makes—Christ. Half groan, half warning. Like a man being pushed past his breaking point.
I pop the teabag in. “Milk?” I ask, still not turning around.
“Daisy,” he growls.
I smile and close my eyes. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
With the patience of a saint—or maybe a complete sadist—I pour the milk, watching the white clouds swirl lazily through the amber liquid. Stir. Clink. Stir.
And finally turn around.
I don’t just walk over to him. I strut , every sway of my hips designed to torture, every step bringing me closer until I’m standing right between his legs, towering over him with my mug of tea.
His eyes snap to mine, dark and hungry, but my gaze drops to the very obvious problem he’s got pressed against his trousers.
Oh, hello.
He exhales sharply, nostrils flaring, as though physically restraining himself from flipping the table, bending me over it, and making me feel just how much I’ve wound him up.
“This,” he says, “is exactly what you accused me of. Wanting to fuck you. Are you playing games with me?” His gaze burns into mine, daring me to keep playing.
I tilt my head, lips curving. “Maybe. What if I am?”
He leans in, so close I can feel the heat of his breath against my skin. “You’re sending rather conflicting messages, Daisy. What is it that you want from me? Do you want me to be a gentleman . . . or shall I abandon every last pretense of propriety?”
A full-body shiver rolls through me.
I don’t know what’s hotter—the fact that he’s still trying to be good, or the fact that he’s one groan away from completely losing it.
“I think you’ve proven yourself a gentleman when it matters,” I murmur, letting my fingers drift up his shirt, tracing the ridge of his collarbone. “But right now . . . I don’t want a gentleman.”
His hands twitch at his sides.
“What do you want, Daisy?”
Without breaking eye contact, I set the tea down on the counter—away from us. Worst cup of tea I’ve ever made, anyway.
I take his hand and guide it between my legs. His fingers are warm—tense with restraint—as I press them against the slick heat waiting for him.
His breath catches like I’ve knocked the wind out of him. His eyes squeeze shut, jaw locked, breathing through his nose like he’s holding himself back with everything he’s got.
I feel the twitch of his fingers, the start of something breaking loose—
And then I let go.
Just drop his hand.
Just to give him a little tease.
“Oh, god,” he groans. “You’re killing me.”
And then—finally—something snaps.
His hands clamp down on my hips, and color floods his cheekbones as his fingers dig into my flesh.
I settle over him, sliding onto his lap, my bare, slick heat pressing directly against the rigid length of him through his trousers. The contact sends a violent shudder through both of us.
“Here we are again,” I murmur, my arms sliding around his neck.
His grip tightens. “We do seem to find ourselves in compromising positions with remarkable frequency.”
I smirk, dragging my fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch. “No vicars to interrupt us this time.”
“Nobody but us.” He stares up at me with open want.
Then his mouth crashes against mine, and holy fuck —there’s no hesitation, no gentleman’s pretense. Just a man who’s spent too long denying himself.
Oh.
Yes.
Everything we’ve been circling, fighting, teasing—it detonates.
His stubble scrapes my skin, a delicious burn I already know I’ll feel tomorrow. And god, do I want to feel it tomorrow.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and suddenly, I’m drowning in him. The taste of him. His heat. The way his hands tighten possessively on my hips.
I grind down against him, and the friction tears a groan from both of us.
“May I touch you?”
I let out a breathless laugh. “You are touching me.” To drive the point home, I roll my hips against him, savoring the way his grip immediately tightens.
“You know what I’m asking,” he grits out, that muscle in his jaw ticking like he’s one deep breath away from losing his mind. His gaze flicks to my breasts before snapping back up.
“Then say it.” My voice drops to a whisper. A taunt. “Say exactly what you want to touch.”
“Very well. Since you insist on clarity”— Oh, I do —“I’d like to slide my fingers into your wet cunt. Feel how drenched you are for me. I saw that beautiful little display you put on, and now I need to know exactly how ready you are. Is that direct enough for you? Clear enough?”
I have never been more attracted to a man in my entire life.
“Yes,” I moan, the word barely registering as human.
His hands slide under my skirt, fingers skimming bare skin, and—oh, fuck. He throws his head back, exposing his throat, as his fingers discover just how wet I am.
“ Daisy .”
He pushes his finger inside me, and everything stops.
The world narrows to this. To him. To the way he feels. My body doesn’t just respond; it surrenders.
His mouth falls open, like he’s so overwhelmed he can’t even kiss me anymore, like he needs every last ounce of focus just to process what he’s feeling.
He begins to move his fingers—not perfect, not practiced—desperate. And somehow his clumsiness is the sexiest thing about it.
“I haven’t . . .” he starts. His head drops forward, forehead brushing mine like it’s the only way to hold himself together. “Not in so long. And Jesus , Daisy— you feel amazing. ”
“You’ve been thinking about this.”
“Constantly,” he admits, the word ripped from him like a confession he never meant to make. Like it costs him something to say it out loud.
“I want to hear you say it,” I whisper.
“Say what?”
“How much you fantasize about me.”
“Desperately. Obsessively. All the fucking time.”
He slides his fingers over my clit and I throb.
“I’ve imagined this,” he groans, “more times than is appropriate. More times than I can count.”
“And?” I challenge.
His eyes lock with mine. “And I’m done imagining.”
Like a man starved, he lifts me. Sets me down on the kitchen table.
My skirt rides up, gathering high at my hips, leaving me exposed and completely at his mercy.
His pupils blow wide.
“Jesus,” he whispers, almost reverent.
I am completely bare.
And judging by the way he’s looking at me—
I have never been more worshipped in my life.
His hand finds me first, sliding through my slick heat. I move against him instinctively, chasing the friction, grinding against his palm with a shamelessness I don’t even try to hide.
But then—suddenly—his hand is gone.
A whimper escapes me, the loss unbearable.
I open my mouth to protest—
But then— oh, fuck —his mouth is on me.
I gasp and buck off the table at the first wet, hot press of his tongue against my clit.
He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t ease me into it.
He devours me. Like he’s been waiting so long for this he doesn’t have the patience to be slow.
A deep, guttural sound tears from his throat, vibrating against me.
His tongue moves with a rhythm that’s pure animalistic need. Like he’s lost every last ounce of his legendary composure.
Another groan rumbles from his throat— louder this time. It’s filthy .
My back arches off the table in a way that would make my yoga instructor weep with pride.
I tangle my fingers in his hair—not to guide, just to hold on. To survive whatever hurricane of sensation he’s dragging me into.
“Edward,” I moan. My eyes fix on the ceiling spots above me, but they don’t look like ceiling spots anymore. They look like constellations.
“You are exquisite,” he murmurs into my pussy. “I am, without a doubt, the luckiest man alive right now.”
He starts with teasing flicks—just the tip of his tongue tracing the most sensitive part of me, like he’s learning. And then—
Then he devours.
The flat of his tongue presses hard against my clit, circling, sucking with a pressure so perfect, so devastating that I cry out.
His hands—god, his hands—they’re not just holding me, they’re controlling me. Both on each thigh, spreading me open.
He’s relentless. He alternates—slow, torturous circles that make me ache, then sharp, fast flicks that send shockwaves through my entire body.
“I thought you were a prude, Eddie,” I gasp, delirious with pleasure.
His mouth stills before he lifts his head, just enough to meet my eyes.
And holy hell, it’s the hottest damn thing I’ve ever seen.
“Perhaps,” he muses, “what you mistake for prudishness is simply a man who knows exactly how to unwrap a precious gift.” His lips curl. “I prefer the term selectively passionate.”
A wrecked, breathless laugh escapes me.
His mouth never stops. Sucking. Licking. Fucking ruining me.
The pleasure builds spiraling higher, tighter, unstoppable. My legs begin to tremble around his head, muscles locking, releasing, locking again as heat pulses through me in wave after devastating wave.
“Oh god,” I whimper, the words barely coherent. “Oh—Edward—I can’t—”
But I can.
And I am.
I clamp my thighs around his head, trembling.
I’m falling apart. Completely. Utterly. Beautifully destroyed.
His teeth graze my most sensitive skin, pushing me further and sending another shudder through me.
Now that’s how you do it , I think deliriously.
“Wow. All this time I’ve been wasting my energy on guys who would hump my leg at any given opportunity when actually it’s the grumpy, repressed ones who are secretly out here going at it like wild animals. Like they’ve been holding it in for so long just waiting for a chance to explode—”
His head lifts slightly—just enough for me to see the exasperated look on his face, his mouth still glistening from—
“Daisy, darling?” he interrupts.
“Yeah?” I manage, still breathless, still very much floating somewhere between the living world and some transcendent space.
“Please shut up.”