CHAPTER 33
Daisy
“You torture me in that little skirt.”
Edward groans as he tosses his keys onto the hallway table, his voice rough, like he’s genuinely suffering—like my work uniform has been designed to torment him and not, you know, shift garden tools at unreasonable hours.
I smirk, kicking off my shoes. “Pretty sure the skirt is the only reason you come to collect me.”
These past few weeks, Edward has fallen into the habit of collecting me after my Friday night shifts because he doesn’t have work in the morning. It’s sweet, him waiting up to collect me. Every other night, he insists on booking me a cab home. “Non-negotiable, Daisy.” Oh, then I get the full London crime statistics lecture, as if I haven’t been bopping around this city just fine on my own.
It’s ridiculous, unnecessary, overbearing —
And so, so sweet.
He steps closer, fingers tilting my chin up.
“That,” he murmurs, “and the fact that I hate the thought of you going home alone this late at night.”
My stomach betrays me with a somersault, like an idiot.
It’s inconvenient how attractive he is when he’s being all protective and broody.
We’ve had numerous hot dates at his place over the past two weeks, and the butterflies? They haven’t left. They’re thriving. Multiplying. The only thing I hate is lying to Sophia, but with the wedding chaos consuming her, she’s barely asking me any questions about what’s going on in my world. Conveniently .
“I appreciate it, I do.” I sigh, leaning against the doorframe. “But you don’t need to keep booking me a taxi. This must be costing you a fortune. The Underground runs late now, you know.”
His jaw flexes. “I do need to. For my peace of mind. I wish you’d consider getting a presenting job during the day.”
I fight the urge to groan, because we have had this exact debate more than once. “It’s not like the BBC is ringing me up with a primetime slot,” I say lightly. I hate how small my career makes me feel sometimes, especially standing next to a man who saves lives.
“I told you, I know people there. I could arrange for you to meet someone. Maybe get an interview.”
I snort. “For what? The News at Ten ?”
His lips twitch. “I think you’d certainly brighten up the headlines.”
I roll my eyes as he steps closer.
His fingers skim over my shoulders, sending a shiver rippling down my spine as he gently slides my coat off. Like he’s unwrapping something precious. A Ferrero Rocher.
Ever the gentleman.
He tilts my chin up and kisses me.
Not rushed. Not desperate.
Steady. Sure. Like he’s telling me something without words.
It’s enough to make a girl forget she once tested a vacuum cleaner’s suction power on her own face during live television.
His hands find my waist, pulling me in, and I melt into him, my fingers curling into his shirt.
And fuck, he’s hard.
I reach down to palm his cock through his trousers.
“This little skirt of yours,” he growls, his accent sharpening each clipped word. “It’s indecent.”
I lift the hem of my BritShop TV skirt with mock innocence. “Just wait till you see how wet I am under it. Makes this skirt look church-appropriate.”
He takes my jaw in his hands. “You’re a bloody menace to my self-control, my darling.”
Then his lips are on mine.
We’re kissing with our eyes open, neither of us willing to look away—like if we blink , the other might vanish. Or maybe like we’re both waiting for the inevitable moment when one of us comes to our senses.
Something shifts in the air.
One minute he’s telling me I’d be great on the BBC, the next those surgeon’s hands are frantically working at his belt.
“I can’t bear it any longer,” he grunts, pushing his trousers down. “I need to have you. Right here, right now.”
Oh fuck.
My breath hitches and before I can so much as respond, he lifts me up. I gasp, instinctively wrapping my legs around his waist.
“Feel what you do to me, Daisy,” he murmurs as he draws me flush against him. “You make me hard as a rock.”
“Oh, god,” I whisper, my breath hitching.
He holds my gaze. “May I?” Perfect manners, even in his lust.
“Yes!” I gasp, already fucking dying for it. “God, yes. Go for it.”
He chuckles.
With one hand supporting me, he manages to push my knickers aside with his other. Rougher than he usually is, which makes it even hotter.
With a groan, he thrusts his throbbing cock into me, impaling me against his hallway wall.
“You feel so bloody amazing,” he breathes, his eyes never leaving mine. “I can’t keep my fucking hands off you. Five minutes alone with you, and I’m”—a guttural sound rips from his throat as his cock drives deeper—“ravishing you like some fucking wild beast. You make me feral.”
A laugh that sounds more like a moan spills out of me as he slides in and out, his dirty talk rendering me mute.
His jaw tightens, a thick vein popping at his temple as he drives into me. “Fuck, darling, come for me. I can’t hold back anymore. I need to feel you explode around me, feel you pulsing and milking me as I fucking fill you.”
His forehead presses against mine, our breaths ragged and desperate.
I’m so close—teetering on the edge, every nerve ending lit up like a live wire.
I don’t know if it’s the way he feels inside me, the raw, unfiltered need in his voice, or the words spilling from his lips—so unlike the composed, restrained Dr. Cavendish the rest of the world sees.
But whatever it is, I’m gone.
My lips form his name.
Everything shatters.
I shudder around him, my body convulsing violently with the sheer force of my orgasm, but he keeps me upright, his breathing erratic and harsh against my lips.
With a guttural roar, he drives into me, his cock throbbing as he releases, filling me with his heat, completely lost in his own explosive climax.
We stay like that, pressed against his fancy wallpaper, for what could be minutes or days or possibly several lifetimes—time gets a bit fuzzy when you’ve just had your brain scrambled by mind-bending sex.
Not complaining, though. A little chaos never hurt anyone.
“Thank you,” he breathes against me.
I blink up at him, lick my lips. “You don’t need to thank me for that.”
He tightens his grip slightly. “ I do. You have no idea what you do to me.”
A shiver runs through me, but before I can respond, he exhales, smoothing down my skirt with careful hands. Then he smiles before threading his fingers through mine and leading me toward one of his many lounge rooms.
“Sit down. I’ll sort the drinks,” he says, already heading to the kitchen.
I grin goofily as he disappears, not just because we just defiled his hallway wall, but because he knows my drink order now. Gin and tonic, heavy on both, with a slice of lime cut with the kind of surgical precision that reminds me you can take the man out of the operating theater, but you cannot stop him from treating every citrus fruit like it’s in need of a bypass.
I flop onto his magnificent couch and casually flick on the TV. I know the drill—I watch TV, he works.
Last time, he made a few sniffy comments about my Married at First Sight obsession but, to his credit, let me watch it anyway. Though really, after what we just did, he’s lost all right to pass judgment on my life choices.
He re-emerges, handing me my gin. He has a small whiskey for himself. Only one, of course, because the man has superhuman levels of self-control.
“Thank you,” I say, taking a large sip.
His brow furrows slightly. “Let’s drink these and go to bed. It’s late.”
“Yes, Doctor Daddy,” I tease.
Edward exhales through his nose—the long-suffering kind that I know means I’m being simultaneously exhausting and endearing.
He reaches out and pokes my nose like he’s pressing a Daisy, behave button. “Less cheek, you menace.”
I smirk, swirling my drink lazily. “If you keep scolding me in that stern, disapproving voice, I’m just going to give you more cheek. It’s basic cause and effect.”
“I’m serious.” His tone shifts, and when I look up, he’s watching me with that concerned, slightly exasperated, very Edward expression. “I know this is your job, but these constant late nights aren’t good for you.”
Or for him —maybe that’s what he’s really saying. Because as much as he works brutal shifts at the hospital, he also adjusts around my graveyard hours.
I study his face—the tired, handsome angles of it—and a flicker of doubt creeps in.
Is this becoming too much for him?
Am I?
“I have a full night off Wednesday evening if you’re free,” I ask in a small voice.
“Yes, but I’m warning you now—we’ll be in bed by ten. I need my sleep.”
“Fine by me.” I pause, taking another sip. “Oh! Next Saturday, I was thinking we could try that new vegan place near mine. What do you think?”
He hesitates, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. “Ah. Actually—there’s a Tate Britain members’ night that evening. I’d planned to attend. Could we reschedule? Or perhaps I could pick you up after and take you to mine?”
Hmmm.
“Or . . . I could come with you to the Tate?”
“You don’t have to. I know it’s not your thing. You’d be bored.”
I feel a little insulted.
That’s the same line he trotted out for his work conference— “You’ll be bored.”
What does he think I do all day—sell bidets and read gossip rags? I mean, yes, occasionally, but I’ve been known to glance at the news when I’m not busy being a cultural illiterate.
“Excuse me? I love art,” I say, sitting up straighter, fully offended now. “That exhibition at the Tate was incredible. The giant room with all the flickering lights and mirrors was properly mind-blowing.”
My eyes heroically refuse to dart toward Married at First Sight on the telly, where some bloke named Jez is currently sobbing into a protein shake.
“That was Tate Modern , not Tate Britain . Tate Britain focuses on historical and classic British art from the 1500s onward. Tate Modern has your”—he air-quotes—“’edgier contemporary pieces.’”
Ugh. The superiority of this man.
I cross my arms. “I just got them mixed up. I’d still love to go. But I suppose you don’t think I’m smart enough for Tate Britain, is that it?”
He presses his lips together. “Daisy—”
“It’s fine,” I barrel on, ignoring the calm down, madwoman look on his face. “Clearly, I’m just an idiot with no appreciation for anything beyond Love Island , bidets, and yoga mats.”
“That’s not what I—”
“You don’t want me to go, do you?” I narrow my eyes.
His brow lifts. “The exhibition is on Hogarth. It doesn’t really seem like your thing.”
“You seem awfully keen to decide for me what is and isn’t my thing. I happen to enjoy Harry Potter .”
He blinks. “ What? ”
“Hogwarts?”
“ Hogarth. ” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “One of the most important English painters of the 18th century. He’s not a wizard.”
“Fine. That sounds very interesting too.”
“You’ve spent the last three nights in my house watching that show,” he says, nodding toward MAFS , the picture of disapproval, “and shouting ‘Oh my god, they’ve only known each other for three days, why are they already getting divorced?’ Forgive me if I didn’t immediately assume you had a deep, burning passion for 18th-century sketches.”
I huff, folding my arms tighter, annoyed that there might be an element of truth to that. “So? That doesn’t mean I can’t also enjoy culture.”
Edward’s lips twitch, which I do not appreciate.
“I love going to the Notting Hill market and looking at the brick-a-bracks and cute paintings. That’s art even if it’s not your snobby art.” I cock a brow. “You just don’t want me to go, do you? Maybe you don’t want people to know you’re dating someone who watches reality TV and occasionally gets their art museums confused.”
“That’s not the issue,” he says, which is exactly what someone says when it is the issue. “But we haven’t exactly defined what this is yet. If I turn up with you on my arm, people will talk. And my entire bloody social circle thrives on gossip—every move scrutinized, every decision picked apart. Neither of us needs that kind of spectacle right now.”
I swallow, throat tight.
People will talk and they’d have a lot to talk about.
That’s what he means, but he’s not saying it outright.
And the worst part? He’s not wrong.
People in his world would talk—Edward Cavendish, shacked up with his brother’s ex-fling. The Bidet Meme girl. It’s like dating the saucy intern.
But this? The Tate? That’s not some high-stakes work event where I might embarrass him in front of colleagues. It’s an art exhibition. A public space.
I can understand why he wouldn’t want me meeting all his work friends just yet, but he doesn’t even want to be seen with me in public?
That feels personal.
“I thought we agreed to keep this under wraps for a while, for the sake of Sophia’s wedding?” he asks.
I purse my lips. “It’s not like she’s going to randomly spring up at the Tate, is she?”
He sighs. “You are more than welcome to come to the Tate with me.”
“Fine,” I declare, summoning great dignity. “I shall accompany you to this Hogswash exhibition.”
“Hogarth.”
“Whatever.”
Silence settles, thick and prickly. We sip our drinks, avoiding eye contact. On his ginormous TV, my show drones on—Jez is sobbing again.
Edward flips open his laptop beside me, typing with the most obnoxious keystrokes I’ve ever heard in my life.
Well. That was officially our first fight.
It’s just a stupid argument. We’re fine.
But still, something gnaws at me.
Edward isn’t Charlie—I know that.
But maybe he has his own way of making me a dirty little secret.