Chapter 18 #2
I lift my hand into her hair and guide her face back.
“No hiding.”
Her eyes open.
“You’re bossy in bed too?”
“Only when you need it.”
“I do not need it.”
I brush my thumb over her nipple, then close my mouth over her again.
Daisy loses the argument on a gasp.
I take my time because I need to. Because she deserves to be touched like I’m paying attention.
Because Daisy, with her lists and jokes and bright little deflections, has spent too much of her life making herself useful enough to keep, and I want her useless with pleasure.
I want her selfish. I want her undone and safe at the same time.
“You feel that?” I murmur against her skin.
She nods.
“Say it.”
Her laugh comes out shaky. “I feel it.”
“Tell me if it’s too much.”
“It’s not.”
“Tell me if you want more.”
Her eyes find mine.
For a moment, the room holds still around us.
Then Daisy says, “I want more.”
So I give her more.
My mouth moves over her slowly, worshiping her.
It’s heat without rushing her past herself.
I kiss the soft curve of her breast, the slope of her ribs, the tender place below.
Every time she tries to turn away, I bring her back with my mouth, with my hand at her hip, with her name spoken low enough that it belongs only to us.
“Daisy.”
Her knees draw up around me.
“That,” she whispers.
I do it again.
Her hand flies to my shoulder, nails digging in, and the sound she makes goes straight through what’s left of my restraint.
I lift my head.
She looks dazed. Beautiful. Angry about both.
“You’re going to be a problem,” she says.
“I already am.”
“No, you’re a problem with follow-through.”
“That’s worse?”
“Yes.” Her breath shakes when my hand slides down her side. “Much worse. Highly inconvenient. Possibly disastrous for my long-term emotional budgeting.”
I kiss the spot beneath her ribs. “You budget emotions?”
“I try. They keep over drafting.”
That almost makes me smile.
Then she touches my face again, and it stops being funny.
Her thumb moves along my cheek, softer than she has any right to be. “Forrest.”
I go still.
She doesn’t ask me to stop. She doesn’t ask me to continue.
She just says my name like she’s checking whether I’m still here.
I am.
I kiss her palm, then her wrist, then the inside of her elbow. Her body follows each touch, honest despite herself, and I feel something in me give way. Not control. Not caution.
Distance.
I’m too close now to pretend I’m only attracted to her. Too close to pretend this is simple. Daisy is all heat and nerves and humor with bruised places underneath, and every part of me that knows better wants to protect her from me.
Every other part wants to stay.
Her gaze locks on mine.
For a second, I think she might make another joke. One more little shield between her and what she’s asking for. Then she breathes in and gives me the truth.
“I’ll tell you.”
I undo the button.
Her stomach moves with a silent inhale.
The zipper comes down slowly, tooth by tooth, loud in the room because neither of us is talking now. Daisy’s hands curl into the pillow above her head. She watches my hands like they’re a decision she can’t believe she gets to make.
I slide my fingers beneath the waistband and pause.
Her hips lift.
Not much.
Enough.
“Impatient,” I murmur.
“Observant,” she shoots back, breathless. “How inconvenient for everyone.”
I pull her jeans down an inch.
Then another.
She presses her lips together.
I stop. “Daisy.”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Her eyes lift to mine, and for once she looks openly caught. Wanting. Unsure. Brave in a way that makes me want to touch her slower, not faster.
“I’m okay,” she says. “I’m just . . . trying not to combust in my childhood bedroom like a very tragic candle.”
That almost breaks my control.
I lower my mouth to the skin just beneath her navel and kiss her there.
Her entire body goes still.
Then she lets out a sound so soft I feel it more than hear it.
“Still with me?” I ask.
She nods.
“Words.”
Her laugh comes out strained. “You are obsessed with language for a man who mostly communicates by glaring at furniture.”
“Words.”
“Yes,” she whispers. “I’m with you.”
I draw her jeans down her hips.
Slowly.
Not because I’m trying to torture her, though the flush spreading across her skin makes that a tempting thought.
I do it slowly because I need every second to remind myself she’s not a game I’m trying to win.
She’s not a bad idea I’m giving in to. She’s Daisy, who trusted me enough to stay.
Daisy, who makes jokes when the feeling gets too close.
Daisy, who is watching me strip away one more layer and trying not to ask if I’ll look at her differently when I do.
I won’t.
I already know I won’t.
The denim slides down her thighs, past her knees, over her ankles. I toss it aside without looking away from her.
Daisy lies there in her panties, her arms still above her head, her hair spread over the pillows, her breathing shallow enough to give her away.
I run my hands up her calves, over her knees, along the outside of her thighs.
She shivers.
“You okay?” I ask.
Her eyes narrow. “Forrest.”
“What?”
“I swear, if you ask me that every seven seconds, I’m going to start charging you per reassurance.”
I lean down and kiss her thigh. “I can afford it.”
“That was unfortunately attractive.”
“Good.”
“No, not good. You being financially and sexually competent is terrible news for my nervous system.”
I kiss higher.
Her words stop.
Just stop.
That silence does more to me than the jokes.
I look up and find her staring at the ceiling, lips parted, hands gripping the pillow like she’s trying to remain a civilized woman through sheer civic duty.
“Look at me,” I say.
Her gaze drops to mine.
There’s humor there still, but it’s thin now. Heat has burned through most of it. Underneath is want. Underneath that, fear. Not of me. Of being seen this clearly. Of needing something she can’t organize, charm, or outwork.
I press my mouth to the inside of her thigh. Her eyes flutter closed.
Then I hook my fingers in the sides of her panties.
She stops breathing.
I stop moving.
Her eyes open.
The whole room narrows to that one look.
I don’t ask with my mouth this time. She knows the question. I can see that she knows it. I let her have the space to answer without me filling it for her.
Daisy’s throat moves.
I pull her panties down.
Slowly.
Her hips lift for me again, a little less shy this time, and the trust in that small movement nearly takes me out at the knees. I draw the fabric over her thighs, down her legs, past her feet, and drop it with her jeans.
Then I look at her, really look at her. Open,
Daisy tries to hold my gaze. She almost manages it. Then her nerve breaks, and she covers her face with both hands.
“I want to see you,” I say.
I keep her waiting on purpose, kiss trailing down her stomach, down to the edge of her thighs, and pause.
Always pause. Daisy hates it but she loves it more, the anticipation, how I make her hold her breath for that first touch like it’s a question she’s not sure I’ll answer.
My hands are on her knees. I like her naked but I love her when she’s still mostly dressed, shirt bunched under her arms, sleeves tangled around her wrists, her hair flattened to the pillow and her cheeks so pink it looks like bruising.
She’s open for me, legs wide, feet flexed, and I don’t give her what she wants yet.
Instead, I mouth at her thigh, teeth just barely catching skin.