16. Daisy
16
Daisy
I close the door to the guest room, locking it behind me. I’m restless and hot, but it’s not from being out in the sun all day. It’s from the way Weston looked at me back in that meadow. The way his hands felt on my waist as he spun me around. The way his cheek felt, rough with stubble under my lips.
The fact that he removed his wedding band.
I feel alive and energized in a way I never have, my body pulsing with energy that has nowhere to go, and I know I shouldn’t, not when Jess lay in the room beside me only a few days ago, but… I can’t help it. I need to. I never felt this need with Jess, not once. But now it’s beyond my control.
I lay back on the bed, tugging my dress up and slipping a hand into my panties. I’d rather I had my trusty vibrator, but it’s lost in the back of my nightstand at home, untouched for months. It doesn’t matter. I’m already wet with need, remembering how dark Weston’s eyes were after I pressed my mouth to his cheek. The way his fingertips curled around my waist, digging into my flesh. He might not have realized that’s what he was doing, but I felt it. I felt the electric current pass through his hands into my core, sparking life into all the parts of me that have lain dormant recently.
I think again of those hands; the first time I’ve seen them bare, without that ring, large, strong, firm on my waist. What if, instead of setting me down on my feet, he’d laid me down in that meadow? What if he’d pushed my dress up my trembling thighs and let his fingertips drift between them?
I shiver at the thought, stroking my own fingers through my wetness, wishing it was him instead. Wondering what his kiss would feel like on my mouth, I let the fantasy take over.
“Daisy,” he rasps above me, his head obscuring the sun so he’s lit from behind like a gift from God. Because that’s what he damn well is.
It’s only me and him, alone in that meadow, and I reach for him, drawing his mouth down. His lips brush mine, tenderly at first, and heat floods my core when his tongue flicks into my mouth. I moan under his touch as his hand strokes my already-damp panties.
“You want this, don’t you?” he murmurs against my lips, hand pushing my panties aside. When his fingertips come into contact with my aching flesh, I arch against his hand.
“I need this, Weston. I’ve needed it since the moment I met you.”
He growls, rising to his knees to strip my panties down my legs, parting my thighs to look at me. His dark and dangerous eyes fix on that spot between my legs, and I whimper with need.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself now, my soft curse echoing off the walls of the guest room. The thought of Wes between my thighs almost makes me come right now, but I want to draw this out, because I don’t only need him to look at me, I need him inside me.
Wes strips off his shorts and climbs over me. His thick cock pulses with heat as he drags it through my wetness, and I mimic the motion with my fingertips. When he slowly enters me, I push two fingers inside myself, aching with the need to feel him.
“Fuck, Daisy,” he mutters as he sinks into me. “You feel just like I imagined you would.”
“Good?” I ask, wrapping my legs around him, inviting him deeper. Every thrust sends ecstasy rocketing through me, and I press my mouth to his neck, sucking on his hot skin.
“So fucking good, babygirl.”
Oh, God .
I’ve never wanted to be called “babygirl” in my entire life. It seems so infantilizing, but there’s something about hearing that word from Wes’s lips… Fuck . I’d give anything to hear him call me his babygirl. What is happening to me?
He raises himself to his knees, gripping my hips as he thrusts hard, his eyes watching every sensation play out on my face.
“I want you to come,” he grits out. I know he’s not bossy like this, but fantasy Wes is a man who knows what he wants, and takes it. “Come for me, Daisy. I want to feel my babygirl come.”
Oh, fuck .
Pleasure crashes through me, and I writhe on the bed, fingers pressing into my center, riding the wave.
I lie there with my eyes closed as I catch my breath, wishing that hadn’t been a fantasy. Wishing it had been Weston making me come, instead of my own hand. Wishing it had been him filling me, instead of leaving me empty.
When I open my eyes to gaze at the ceiling, my heart is heavy, because I know a fantasy is all I can ever have.
Weston avoids me for the next two days, almost as if he knows what I did alone in my room when we returned from the meadow. His car is gone most of the time, and if it wasn’t for seeing him in the surf, swimming his laps every morning, I’d think he’d gone back to the city.
Not that he would ever do that. He wouldn’t abandon me to figure things out for myself, like Jess did. No matter how uncomfortable he might be.
I know I shouldn’t watch him swim. I shouldn’t sneak into Jesse’s room, where he can’t see me, to get a better view of him on the beach as he towels off. And I definitely shouldn’t slink back to my room to touch myself, thinking of his solid, wet body and what it might feel like on top of me.
He’s gone during the day, though, and I get used to having the place to myself. It’s nice, in a way, if a little lonely. I listen to Steely Dan on the record player. I take the Nikon and venture to the meadow to shoot another roll, and it’s even more beautiful than the first time we went. Every flower, every butterfly, every tree calls to me. All these details and tiny worlds I missed when I was there before. I shoot an entire roll on the intricacies I find there, when I take the time to look.
And wow, it feels good.
But my vacation has to end. I can’t live inside this bubble at Weston’s beach house, avoiding my life forever. Wes clearly needs space from me, and I need to go back to the city and figure out how to move forward with my life. I need to figure out what I want.
On our last night, I settle onto the sofa and flick through the TV channels aimlessly. A nature documentary catches my eye, and I set the remote aside, captivated by the cinematography. The close-ups are breathtaking. They remind me, like the daisies and the butterflies, that there’s so much beauty out there, if we only stop to look for it. Was it only yesterday that I shot that roll of film in the meadow?
A sound from the kitchen breaks me from my reverie. I’m surprised to see Weston placing pizza boxes on the counter. I didn’t even hear him come in.
“Hungry?” he asks, not glancing up. I haven’t seen him for two days, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s talking to me.
“I… yes.”
“I got pizza.” He flips the lid open, pulling a couple plates from the cupboard and loading a few slices onto one.
I hover in the living room, wondering if he wants me to wait until he’s done, but he finally lifts his gaze to me. His eyes are tired, but when they meet mine, a weary smile touches his mouth. He sighs, turning to the wine rack.
“Red again?”
I blink. Is he asking me to join him?
“Uh, sure.”
I head into the kitchen and take the glass he pours for me without letting it breathe, like he usually does. There’s a sort of defeated, fuck-it attitude about him tonight. He pours himself a large glass and takes a long drink, before carrying his pizza through to the living room and collapsing onto the sofa. I snatch a couple slices of pizza, then take my glass of wine and join him.
We eat in silence for a while, watching the documentary, and I pretend to care about the details the narrator shares about Loggerhead Sea Turtles, but I’m too distracted by Wes to care. He’s here again, beside me, and he seems… off. He’s already slugged half his wine, which is unlike him; usually he takes his time, appreciating it.
“Are you okay?” I ask during the commercial break.
Wes blinks over at me as if coming out of a trance. “Sure.” The rings under his eyes tell me he’s anything but okay.
I swallow, setting my empty plate on the table. It was the kiss, I know it. I crossed a line, and he’s so uneasy he can barely look at me now.
I take a deep breath. “If I’ve done something to make you feel uncomfortable, I’m sorry.”
A groove sinks between his brows. “What?”
Heat inches up my neck, but I press on. “The other day, in the meadow. I’m sorry if… if I crossed a line, kissing you. I was just so excited about shooting again.”
His eyes soften as they move over my face. “I know you were, and I’m so glad you did.” I’m not sure if he means he’s glad that I picked up the camera again or that I kissed him. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Daisy.”
God, his face is so hard to read. Those blue eyes bore into mine, but something hides in there I can’t get to. His scruff has grown into a short beard now, thick and silver with the odd fleck of chestnut brown, lighter than his hair. It suits him, but he doesn’t look like the Wes I know. It makes him look a little rough, a little dangerous, and I can’t deny the flicker of heat I feel looking at this version of him. Who knew he could get even more attractive?
I drop my gaze to his ring finger again. It’s still bare. My heart thuds hopefully, but I tear my eyes away, reaching for my wine.
“I shot another roll, too. I hope that’s okay.”
Weston’s breath rushes out, and when I look back at him, his expression has transformed. “Of course. That’s great.” He’s wearing that smile again, the one I love, the one that tells me how happy he is for me. His gaze lingers on mine for a beat, heavy and filled with all the things he isn’t saying, then he drains his wine and rises to grab the bottle from the kitchen. He pours himself another glass, but I’ve barely touched mine, so I wave him away. Then we settle back in to watch the documentary. The narrator is still talking about Loggerhead Sea Turtles, and I try to be interested.
And then, suddenly, I am.
“The male approaches the female, gently biting her neck and flippers,” the male voice-over explains. “This is typical mating behavior for sea turtles.”
My face heats as I realize what we’re about to see. I itch to reach for the remote, but that will be way too obvious. Instead, Wes and I sit side-by-side, eyes glued to the screen as the narrator continues.
“The male mounts the female, penetrating her roughly.”
Jesus. Even the turtles are having more sex than me.
My cheeks blaze as we watch the screen, and I don’t dare look at Weston, who’s become extremely still. I’m acutely aware of every breath he takes, of how my skin feels hot, the way the air is charged with electricity and neither of us wants to move in case we get shocked.
But that’s exactly what I want. I want to know what it would feel like to be shocked by him. What his hands, his mouth—his passion —would feel like. His size, his weight, his roughness and tenderness. I want to be shocked back to life by Weston.
The show ends and the credits roll, and Wes rises from the sofa, not meeting my gaze.
“How about some Steely Dan?”
“Sure,” I mutter, but really, I’m not in the mood. I push up from the sofa in frustration, grabbing my wineglass and stepping through the open glass sliding door to sit on the deck. The sky is a bruised purple, the first hint of stars winking from the heavens, and as I sink onto an Adirondack chair, my heart twists.
I know what I want. I’ve wanted it for a year now, and that desire hasn’t faded. It’s only grown stronger with time.
What I want is Weston, and I think he wants me too. The only question is, will he let himself have that?