CHAPTER 32
Daisy
The brutal sound of an alarm yanks me out of the most delicious dream.
A dream where I was draped across a four-poster bed in a swanky townhouse, by a man whose tongue was doing the lord’s work.
I groan, burying my face deeper into the pillow, willing it to stop. Shut up, shut up, shut up.
And then—
Oh.
Oh.
There’s a very warm, solid chest pressed up against my back. A muscular arm draped lazily over my waist. A firm, unmistakable shape nudging insistently against my bare ass—
Oh yes. Yummy.
My lips curl into a slow smile.
What a night.
I had more orgasms than I can count on my fingers; I need my toes too.
Behind me, there’s a sleepy groan, followed by shuffling as Edward’s arm leaves me— nooo, come back —and he fumbles to silence the alarm.
I roll over to face him, painfully aware that I have morning breath but deciding that I do not care.
Because Edward Cavendish is staring back at me, half awake, smiling softly.
I’m in Edward Cavendish’s bed.
Again.
And this time, it’s for all the right reasons.
And I am not about to be kicked out.
. . . I hope.
“Morning,” I murmur, feeling shy, which is absurd considering the filth this man was whispering to me last night.
He leans in, presses a lazy kiss to my lips. “Good morning,” he murmurs against my mouth, his voice gravelly from sleep.
Edward Cavendish—in his glorious morning state—is now very much making his presence known, solid and insistent and pressing into my stomach.
I blink, then giggle. “ Well , that’s quite the morning greeting.”
He exhales through his nose, not looking remotely ashamed. “Unpreventable, I’m afraid.”
“I see.” I nod sagely, attempting to contain my glee. “A totally involuntary reaction, is it?”
“Yes,” he replies, voice clipped, but I don’t miss the way his lips twitch.
“So this has nothing to do with me, right?” I tease, shifting slightly—just enough to watch his jaw tighten.
“You? No, not at all. You’re entirely irrelevant in this scenario.”
I press my hand down between us to palm his cock, and oh , hello there, Daddy. Thick. Hard. So, so ready.
I’m already feeling the heat pooling between my thighs. Honestly, I think last night left me too damp to ever fully dry off.
He groans as I start to stroke him.
“Is it inconvenient?” I muse. “It’s the one organ you can’t control. That must be frustrating for someone like you.”
“Approximately sixty percent of your organ functions are autonomic. Your heart, digestive system, respiratory system—”
“Edward,” I interrupt, my grin threatening to take over my entire face. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.
“I do. And you’re deliberately testing my control of said organ.”
“Why is the head shaped like that?” I ask innocently, biting my lip.
“Evolution isn’t always elegant, darling. It’s designed to maximize stimulation while ensuring efficient . . . delivery. It’s like a plunger, actually. Though that’s perhaps not the most romantic analogy.”
“Oh my god,” I laugh. “This is getting alarmingly BritShop. Next, I’ll be doing a live demonstration of its features. This is very useful information though. My other . . . recent courters were dumb as fuck.”
“Useful? Where exactly do you plan on applying this newfound knowledge?”
“Dinner parties and whatnot.”
Edward bites his lip, his breath hitching slightly. “Christ.”
I continue stroking him, reveling in the way his breath catches. “It’s quite a good shape for blowjobs actually. When was fellatio invented—the ’80s?”
“Actually,” he starts, voice gritted, “historical evidence suggests . . .”
Oh, this is happening.
The man is about to give me a lecture on the history of blowjobs while my hand is wrapped around his cock.
And I love that for me.
“Oral practices date back to ancient civilizations,” he manages, though his voice is noticeably rougher now. “The Greeks and Romans were particularly . . .” He inhales sharply as I work him, his entire body tensing under my grip. “. . . comprehensive in documenting such activities. Shakespeare was likely familiar, though he”—a sharp exhale—“expressed it through clever wordplay.”
I blink up at him, delighted.
“It’s very useful going out with a world-class surgeon. Not that we are going out! Just . . .”
“Daisy, we’ve established, we’re going out.”
I swallow.
“Okay,” I croak.
And because I cannot begin to process that in any healthy way right now, I double down—my strokes growing faster. Two pink spots bloom high on his cheeks.
“I can’t,” he groans, grabbing my wandering hand, like some tedious, responsible grownup who has actual things to do today besides being edged to madness in his own bed. “I’ve got a conference this morning. I’m already late. If I don’t stop you now, I’ll never drag myself out of this bed.”
“A conference ?” I echo, scandalized. “On a Saturday? What monster schedules these things on weekends?”
He lets out a pained breath.
“I already agreed to it,” he mutters, sounding less than thrilled. “It’s the Global Health and Surgery Initiative—an international humanitarian conference. We’re supporting an NGO that sends surgical teams abroad. It’s at the QEII Centre. A thousand people will be there, so I need to turn up.” He rubs a frustrated hand down his face. “Particularly since I’m a guest speaker.”
“You’re speaking at the QEII?” I sit up, beaming. “Wow . . . that’s sexy.”
“That is not its intention,” he says, dry as hell. “I’d hope I’m there for my medical expertise.”
Before I can fire back, he groans, leans down, and plants a kiss on my forehead. Then he peels back the blankets with a muttered “This might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done—getting out of bed with you in it.”
I smirk, very pleased with myself.
I prop myself up against the pillows, watching as a naked Edward stalks to his wardrobe and pulls out a fresh pair of neatly folded underwear.
His entire drawer is a military operation—everything stacked, arranged, color-coordinated to an almost unsettling degree.
A man who folds his underpants? Not inherently hot.
A surgeon who folds his underpants and speaks at a prestigious humanitarian conference?
That’s dangerously hot.
“I suppose I should let you get on with it,” I say, stretching lazily across the sheets. “Who’s going to this thing, anyway?”
“Industry and medical people. Interested members of the public.”
I barely pause before blurting, “Can I come? I’d love to hear you talk.”
He stills. It’s the smallest pause—half a second. The flicker of something before he schools his expression back into composure.
My stomach dips.
“You’d be bored,” he says, reaching for a shirt.
I frown. “I wouldn’t. Not if it’s you up there.”
He smiles.
But it’s the polite Cavendish smile. The one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Maybe next time,” he says, voice gentle but still . . . off. “I’m not sure I could get tickets at this late notice.”
There it is again.
That gentle brush-off.
It doesn’t sting. Not exactly. It just . . . lands wrong. Settles in my chest in a way I don’t like.
“I’m going to shower. Relax, okay?”
I nod, sinking back into his comfy bed as he vanishes into the en suite. The second the water kicks on, my hand’s already twitching toward my phone.
Seven a.m. on a Saturday. Way too early for my brain to be churning like this. I don’t mean to look up the conference. I just . . . want to imagine him there. Standing on stage, all commanding and brilliant, using those posh vowels to save the world.
For totally normal, non-anxious reasons, I tap into the ticket section.
There are tickets. Plenty of them. Not just for medical bigwigs either—there’s a public option, still wide open.
My heart gives an uneven thud as I stare at the screen. Maybe it was my dumb questions earlier. Maybe that’s when he decided I’d be a liability tagging along. Millie wouldn’t have asked that stuff. That stunning doctor from the hospital wouldn’t have either.
I lock my phone, letting it drop onto the bed. Seriously, Daisy, get a grip. Why’d you have to blurt out “Oh, can I tag along?”
What’s wrong with me? I’m already here, sprawled out in his bed, in his life. We’re spending time together, the sex is incredible—why push it?
I take a steadying breath and sink deeper into the sheets. I’m being ridiculous.
He stands there, adjusting his tie with the kind of anal retention that makes my butterflies take flight. It’s the way his jaw flexes as he pulls it tight that’s weirdly hot. He looks every inch the powerful man—the kind of man who makes decisions that matter .
My mouth literally waters.
It’s also the waistcoat. Waistcoats should be banned. Too sexy. Too authoritative. I am one second away from throwing myself at him and pulling at that tie with my teeth.
Meanwhile, I’m still tangled in the sheets like some sort of Victorian mistress watching her gentleman caller prepare to go off and be important.
I stretch, yawning. “Guess I’ll get ready too.”
Before I can move, he sits on the edge of the bed and places a hand on my thigh.
“Stay,” he says. “Enjoy a bath. Relax.”
I blink up at him. “You’re encouraging me to be lazy? Who are you, and what have you done with Dr. Cavendish?”
His lips twitch. “Just stay. Please. It’s early. Just because I’m getting up doesn’t mean you have to. You work late nights; you need your sleep.”
I beam. “You sure you don’t want rid of me?”
He absently brushes his thumb over my thigh. “If I wanted to get rid of you, I wouldn’t be telling you to take a bath and make yourself comfortable in my home.”
Well, then.
I open my mouth, but nothing remotely intelligent comes out, so I just nod mutely.
“Very good, my darling,” he murmurs, standing smoothly.
My soul leaves my body. Because that right there? That’s the posh equivalent of “good girl.” It’s like being praised by Mr. Darcy after he discovered Christian Grey’s red room.
As if suddenly realizing what he’s said, he clears his throat awkwardly and checks his watch.
I sit up sharply, the duvet slipping down to my waist, and his gaze flickers down.
I smirk. Gotcha.
I watch, smug, as his nostrils flare.
“Daisy,” he warns.
I blink owlishly up at him. “Yes, Dr. Cavendish?”
His hands clench and release at his sides, like he’s having a silent debate. Strangle me or throw me down on the bed, unbuckle that gleaming leather belt, and fuck me senseless?
If I get a vote here—and frankly, I think I should—it’s option B.
Here I am—completely naked in his bed, spread out, offering myself up on a platter—while he’s fully dressed, standing over me in a three-piece suit.
The contrast is criminally sexy.
Finally, like a man succumbing to fate, he presses a hand onto my breast.
My body’s response is instant, nipples hardening, aching for more. I arch into him, desperate for his hands all over me.
“God,” he rasps. Frustration and lust battle it out in his voice as his thumb circles my nipple. “I really should be going, but—”
Apparently, he doesn’t finish the thought.
Because suddenly, his mouth is on me, his lips wrapping around my nipple, and—fuck.
I gasp, the unexpected pleasure jolting through me.
My clit throbs in response, and I arch my back even more.
“Oh my god,” I whimper, shoving my tits right into his mouth.
I run my fingers through his hair as he sucks on my overly sensitive peaks.
He pulls me closer, one hand gripping me firmly while the other slips down between my thighs, finding me soaked and ready. I spread my legs wider. No point in playing hard to get now.
“Please,” I beg in a husky whisper. “Edward, please.”
I fall back onto the bed, widening my legs, giving him full access.
He’s working his fingers in and out of me like he owns me. Shit, right now I am his property. If he wanted to, he could slap a barcode on me.
In. Out. Slow. Deep.
It feels so fucking good.
Watching his expensive cufflinks glint with each movement, his crisp buttoned-up shirt contrasting against my naked body. . . it’s beyond sexy.
I moan, long and loud, as we both lock eyes, until I’m seeing stars.
My hips buck as he finger-fucks me into next Tuesday.
I come hard against his palm. Oh god, yes.
Before he can move away, I drag his cuff against my damp slit.
Just enough to leave a barely-there stain—a filthy little secret that will sit on his wrist like a love note during his very serious, very important conference.
“Now you can leave,” I murmur, a satisfied smile playing on my lips.
I pad around Edward’s bedroom giddy with whatever this is between us. Because it’s something.
I peek into his en suite. Holy shit, it’s bigger than my entire flat.
No, actually. I think my flat could fit inside it, with space left over for a small Greggs.
I clutch the doorframe, experiencing a violent case of bathroom envy.
The bath is massive—like someone looked at a normal bath and thought, But what if we made it big enough for an orgy? One of those dramatic, claw-footed, Regency-era monstrosities, the kind of tub that demands you lounge in it, preferably while sipping champagne.
There’s no way Edward uses it. He’s a shower man—efficient, practical, no time for leisurely soaks.
Right, adding “bath time with Edward” to my to-do list.
This place has so many surfaces that need christening. At this rate, I can cancel my gym membership—who needs HIIT classes when you’re regularly climbing a surgeon?
I wander back into his bedroom, running my fingers along his bookshelf, which—unsurprisingly—is stacked with intimidating material. Medical journals and what appears to be the complete works of every dead important person who ever wrote anything.
My gaze drifts toward his wardrobe.
I shouldn’t.
I really, really shouldn’t.
But after the waistcoat and the “Very good, my darling” what’s a little harmless snooping? It’s just clothes. Nothing scandalous.
I pull open the first door.
It’s 90 percent suits. Rows of jackets and trousers in varying shades of blue, gray, and brown.
There’s a whole section dedicated exclusively to cashmere jumpers. They’re so soft I briefly consider burrowing into them like some sort of naked mole-rat.
The organization is alarming. He even has specific hangers for different types of clothing. Who has a fucking hanging system?
I don’t know whether I want to kiss him senseless or mess up his sock drawer just to see what happens.
Okay, after this, I’m done snooping.
I open the next wardrobe.
And freeze.
A small section of women’s clothing.
My heart does a stutter as my brain slowly catches up with what I’m looking at.
These are Millie’s.
Beautiful, flowing dresses, probably from whatever boutique Kate Middleton shops at. Not a single mini skirt. Not even a scrap of denim.
Just long, elegant things that belonged to a long, elegant woman.
I force myself to swallow the sudden lump in my throat. Is it weird he still has them?
I hesitate, then—almost without thinking—pull one out, holding it up to myself in the mirror.
Guilt twists in my stomach.
What the hell am I doing?
Does this make me an asshole? Rummaging through a dead woman’s wardrobe?
My fingers tremble against the fabric, the silk cool against my skin. I don’t know why my hands are shaking. Or why this unsettles me so much.
Or why I suddenly feel like an irredeemable asshole.
Probably because I shouldn’t be touching this. I shouldn’t be standing here, in Edward’s bedroom, draped in a dead woman’s dress, making this entire situation about my own insecurities.
This is a fucked-up situation that I should never have put myself in.
I stare at my reflection, the dress hanging awkwardly against my body.
Millie was taller than me. This probably fell just to her knees, elegant and perfectly tailored, while it swamps me entirely.
It’s too long.
The fabric is too expensive.
It’s too grown-up.
Millie probably wore this to work at the hospital. Maybe she wore it to dinner parties, the kind where people drink expensive wine and casually discuss the state of the health service while I’d be in the corner, shoveling bread rolls into my mouth and googling who the chancellor is.
Maybe she wore it to a conference like the one Edward’s at today.
I swallow hard and carefully slide the dress back into place, wondering whether Edward would be angry if he knew I’d looked.
I close the wardrobe quickly, like slamming it shut might also shut down the uneasy feeling. Like if I don’t see them, they don’t exist.
But they do.
And they belong here.
Millie’s clothes look right next to Edward’s tailored suits and cashmere.
This doesn’t change anything. Edward was married to a lovely lady. I wish for his sake she were still alive. None of this is new information. Edward talks about Millie openly, keeps her memory alive because that’s who he is .
Do I really think my Topshop sale-rack wardrobe is ever going to end up in here ? Hung beside Edward’s bespoke suits? Do I really think I’ll be the one folding my Primark multipack knickers into his organized drawers?
The thought makes me want to palm my face.
I force a breath, trying to shrug it off.
It’s fine.
This is fine.
But I can hear it.
That tiny, insidious voice. The one that always knows before I do.
Be careful.