23. Daisy
23
Daisy
M y breath stutters. “What?”
Did he really just say what I think he did? Is it possible I misheard him?
His fingertips trail down to sweep my hair back from my shoulder, his touch igniting fireworks across my skin. Instead of answering right away, he lowers his mouth to my collarbone, brushing his lips over the freckles there, and heat sparks low in my belly.
“I want you,” he repeats, drawing back to meet my eyes. Then he slides his hand into my hair to cradle my face, stroking my cheek softly. “Daisy…” My name comes rushing out on an exhale. “I’ve wanted you for months.”
I raise a trembling hand to touch his chest through the Yankees hoodie— his Yankees hoodie. It’s so much softer than I remember. An image of Jess flashes through my mind, and I hesitate. When I stop to think about it, I know getting together with his father would hurt him, and I don’t like that, but he didn’t think twice about bringing some random woman home at the beach house, did he?
Still, I’m not the only one who needs to worry about Jesse here, and I’d hate myself if Wes did something he’d later regret.
“What about Jess?” I ask, almost afraid to say his name. Afraid it will snap Weston out of this and he’ll step away again.
“I don’t care.” His gaze falls away, and he gives a firm shake of his head, as if to emphasize his point.
But I need to be sure. “I don’t want to come between—”
“There’s nothing to come between. He won’t speak to me, no matter how hard I try. He doesn’t want a relationship with me. He refuses to grow up, and I’m sick of fighting everything. With him, with you… I won’t deny myself a chance at happiness anymore.” Weston’s gaze comes back to mine, just as the word “happiness” leaves his lips.
That’s all the confirmation I need.
I slide my hand around the back of his neck, fingers gliding across his soft, warm skin, and tug his mouth to mine.
When our lips finally meet, every fiber of my being sighs in relief. Every worry, every fear, every reservation evaporates from my mind as our lips touch. It’s tentative at first, as if neither of us is sure how to proceed, but that only lasts a second. I feel the moment he gives in, and I melt against his solid form, gripping his sweatshirt. His rich, warm cologne floods my senses, the press of his mouth on mine enough to make me combust.
But I want more. I want so much more of him.
I graze my tongue along his bottom lip, whimpering as he parts his lips to let me in. My body becomes electric, charged with months of longing, with all the things I feel for this man in front of me. And when he meets my tongue with his, his moan makes heat pool hot between my thighs.
“Daisy…” The word is a breathy rasp between kisses as his mouth trails along my jaw, my neck. “I want to take this further, but I don’t want to rush you…”
I take his face in my hands and force him to meet my gaze. “I’ve wanted you since you first walked through the door at Joe’s, Wes. I’m beyond ready. I want all of you. I want everything.”
“God,” he mutters, his eyes falling closed as if savoring my words. “I want that too.”
My heart leaps and cartwheels in my chest, and suddenly, after a lifetime of waiting, I’m so glad I didn’t rush this. So glad I get to do this with Weston.
Our lips collide again as he presses himself against me, hands tangling in my hair. The scratch of his beard on my cheek makes me whimper with need. His hips pin me against the kitchen island, and I’ve never felt so happy to be trapped. He can hold me down and do whatever he wants to me.
My hands stray down his firm torso, sliding around to grip his butt. I need to pull him tight against me, to feel the ridge of his erection on my belly. He’s so hard, and I can’t believe it’s for me.
Fuck .
I want to tug his sweats down, to dig my hands into his underwear and take hold of that hardness, but I don’t want to stop him from grinding it against the apex of my thighs like that. I don’t want to stop shamelessly rubbing myself against him.
His mouth devours mine in a wet, dirty kiss, tongues tangling and teeth crashing as he finally takes what he wants from me, but the way he does it feels more like a need than a want. Like I’m oxygen and he’s been underwater for too long. Like he’ll die if he doesn’t get enough.
I know the feeling.
Suddenly Wes’s hands grip my waist, hoisting me onto the kitchen counter, and the image of us in the darkroom flashes through my mind. My legs wind around his hips, pulling him between them, right where I want him. I don’t care if he wants to have sex here and now on his kitchen counter. I’d let him.
Instead of freeing himself from his sweats so he can bury himself inside me, he works his mouth across my shoulder, sliding the straps of my dress until they fall, exposing my lemon-yellow bra. If I’d known tonight would go this way, I’d have worn something a little sexier, but he doesn’t seem to care. His breath rushes out in appreciation as he presses his lips to my collarbone, then my chest, where he hovers, hands gently caressing the sides of my breasts through the lace of my bra. My nipples are stiff, aching peaks against the fabric, begging for his touch, and when he finally slides my bra straps down, they harden even more as they’re exposed to the cool air. Weston’s eyes are hooded as he draws one into his mouth, gently lapping at the tip with his tongue. A surge of lust rockets through me, right to my toes. It’s a heady sensation I’m not used to. I feel like I’m flying.
“Oh, fuck,” I murmur, hands threading into the waves of his hair as he works his tongue over my nipple. He cradles my other breast in his hand, thumb stroking the peak. My thighs clamp against him, hips lifting off the counter, restless with need. I’ve never had a man touch me with such expert precision, had his tongue know just how to flick me right there, to the point that I can feel the heat building between my thighs. He’s not touching me below the waist, but somehow the sensation on my nipples shocks me to my core. Is it possible to come just from this?
Before I can find out, he straightens up, arms encircling my bare waist to pull me close, into the heat of his embrace. He buries his face in my hair and holds me tight, while a deep sigh shudders from his chest. It’s like he’s forcing himself to slow down, like he’s stopping to savor it, and my heart beats harder at the thought.
With another sigh, he pulls away to gaze at me sitting on his kitchen counter, and panic flashes through me at his hesitation. If he stops now, I might cry.
“You are so fucking perfect,” he grits out.
Before I can respond, his mouth is on mine again, and his large, warm hands slide up my thighs. I shiver with anticipation, my body throbbing with the need to feel him inside me. I’ve never been so turned on, felt so needy, so desperate for a man to touch me. I spread my legs wider, inviting him in, as his thumbs nudge the edge of my panties.
“Yes,” I whimper helplessly, even though he hasn’t done anything yet, because I need him to touch me right there. I’ll burn up if he doesn’t.
His thumbs advance gently, brushing my clit through the fabric of my panties. The moan I emit is loud enough for the neighbors to hear, but he doesn’t care. If anything, his strokes slow, deliberately drawing out the pleasure.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, drawing back to gaze at me. His eyes are black pools of lust as his thumb brushes my throbbing clit again. “You’re fucking soaked.”
I squirm on the counter, trying to get more friction from his touch, but he frustratingly refuses to give it to me.
“Because I need this, Wes. I need you . I’ve never needed anyone like I need you.”
Fuck, why did I say that? All I’m doing is reminding him of my inexperience.
I brace myself, waiting for him to pull away and tell me we need to stop, but his nostrils flare as he growls in a low voice, “Then let me fucking give it to you.”
Oh, God. Yes, please .
I reach for the waistband of his sweats, but before I can make contact, he drops to his knees on the kitchen floor. I blink in confusion until he grabs me by the hips and drags me right to the edge of the counter, hooking my legs over his shoulders and shoving my dress up to my waist.
I fall back to my elbows on the cool marble countertop, gazing at his salt-and-pepper head between my legs. His eyes are fastened to my panties, and I watch as he leans forward and drags his nose over my seam, inhaling my scent.
“Fuck,” he mutters to himself. The raw, animal edge to his voice makes my heart hammer against my ribs. He wants me just as much as I want him, and I’m dizzy at the thought.
In one swift motion, he tugs my panties aside and swipes his tongue through my slickness. His touch sends a shockwave of pleasure through me, and I let out a strangled sound that can only be described as a mewl.
How on earth am I going to survive this?
Wes’s head pops up from between my legs, concern etched into his brow. “You okay, baby?”
I reach out to stroke his bearded cheek, caressing the coarse hair. “Not really.” A breathless laugh escapes me as his brows slash together. He starts to rise, but I hook my heels together behind his head, keeping him in place as I laugh again. “I mean, yes, I’m fine. Good. Better than good.” Another awkward laugh. “This is just… the first time a guy has ever… you know.”
Goddammit. I grimace as understanding dawns in Weston’s eyes. Yet another mark in the “inexperienced” column.
“Daisy, if you don’t want—”
“Please don’t stop,” I beg. “I really want this with you.”
His deep, gravelly laugh sends a shiver through me. “Good, because I want to be the first man to do this to you .”
I breathe a relieved laugh, thinking of Violet’s words as we talked about my inexperience: He probably likes it . Is it possible she was right?
His tongue meets my center again, flicking over my clit before dipping inside me. “You taste so damn sweet,” he murmurs against my swollen flesh, tasting me once more. “So fucking good.”
I can hardly hear his words as he works his tongue over me. The way he nips and sucks at my clit sends me to another dimension, and when he gently pushes a finger into me, followed by another, I swear I float off the kitchen island. He has to hold me down, mouth and hands working in tandem as I thrash and buck, gripping his hair, lost in sensation.
He doesn’t let up until I’m slack with pleasure, until I’m boneless with release. I stare at the ceiling, blinking the stars from my vision as my pulse slows, my jaw hanging open in disbelief. I had no idea a man could make that happen.
When Weston rises from between my thighs, he looks like he’s been mauled. His hair sticks up at all angles and his cheeks are flushed, his beard glistening with my arousal, but he looks as satisfied as I feel. There’s a glassy sheen to his eyes and his mouth curves in a drowsy smile as he drags the back of his hand across it, cleaning himself up.
I laugh, trying to sit up on the marble, my body still twitching with aftershocks. “Wow. That was…”
“Yeah?” There’s a flash of vulnerability in his eyes, like he wants to be sure it was good.
“Uh, yeah . I’ve never, um…” I want to tell him, want him to know what a big deal this is, but I don’t want to further underscore my lack of experience. As he studies me, waiting so patiently, I know I can’t not tell him. “No one has made me come before,” I admit. “Only me.”
“Fuck,” he mutters quietly. I expect he’ll kiss me again, that I’ll get to return the favor or we might go to the bedroom, but instead, he sighs and pulls me into his arms, tight against his chest.
I’m too limp to argue. I burrow my head into his shoulder, breathing him in, letting my eyes close. I’m tired after an early start at work, an afternoon of baking, and, I let myself admit as Wes strokes my back, trying to convince myself I wasn’t hoping he’d be happy to see me.
Well, I don’t have to convince myself anymore.
I go to kiss him, to get back to what we were doing, when my stomach emits a loud rumble.
Wes chuckles, drawing back. “Have you had dinner?”
“No.” I smile shyly. “I was too busy baking, and was so nervous about seeing you…”
His fingers brush my cheek, eyes a darker blue than usual. “You never have to be nervous around me, Daisy.”
My heart sighs. I could never have imagined how nice it would be to have him look at me this way, to have him touch me with such affection.
And believe me, I’ve tried.
I lean into his touch, letting my eyes flutter closed, and my stomach protests again.
“Alright.” Wes grins, reaching for a pizza box on the counter. “It’s probably a little cold now, but I’m more than happy to share my birthday dinner with you.”
I rearrange my dress, covering myself up as Wes hoists himself onto the island beside me and lifts the lid on the box. I examine the contents, frowning. He deserves better than cold pizza for his birthday.
“I wish I could cook for you,” I say, reaching for a slice and chewing thoughtfully.
Wes is quiet as he downs a slice of pizza and reaches for another, apparently ravenous. “I can’t remember the last time someone cooked for me,” he murmurs at last.
My chest hurts at this revelation. He’s so kind, so caring, so generous. He deserves so much, and there’s no one to give it to him.
I really hope he’ll let me be the person who can.
“What are you doing tomorrow night?” I ask, polishing off my pizza and wiping my hands on a napkin.
Weston’s eyes sparkle as they move over my face. “I don’t have any plans.”
“Then let me cook for you.”
“I’d love that.” His hand finds mine on the counter and squeezes.
“Will you come to my place? My roommate is out of town for a couple days visiting her sister.” I’d anticipated some quiet time at home alone, binge-watching something on Netflix, but that was before… well… this. “It’s not fancy,” I add hastily, glancing at the huge, six-burner stove and marble countertops in Weston’s kitchen. “And my room isn’t—”
“It sounds perfect.” The warmth in his eyes tells me he means it. “I can’t wait.”
I grin, grabbing another slice of pizza, wondering what I’ll cook as I chew. Wes wipes his face with a napkin, sliding the pizza box away when we’re done. He eyes the lemon cake, and I smile.
“Go on. Have some.”
I watch as he removes the candles from the frosting, then cuts us each a slice, but I can’t eat until I know he likes it. As his lips close around the cake and he lets out a little moan of satisfaction, I finally let myself take a bite.
“This might be the best lemon cake I’ve ever had,” he murmurs, almost to himself. It feels like there’s a meaning to his words I don’t quite understand, and I lean my head on his shoulder as he eats. He sighs. “Thank you, Daisy.”
“You’re welcome.”
We finish our cake, then he tugs me into his side, our legs dangling off the kitchen island. I close my eyes, my belly full, my body sleepy and satisfied. I desperately want to continue what we started before dinner, but as I glance at the blackness outside the kitchen windows, a yawn sneaks from my mouth. It must be late.
Wes presses a kiss to my forehead. “Let me order you an Uber.”
I furrow my brow, glancing away. He’s trying to get rid of me?
“I know you’ve had a long day,” he murmurs, gently tilting my chin back to him. “I have too.”
I sigh. He’s right, but I can’t deny that I’d hoped he’d ask me to stay, that now he’s finally given in to this, we’d go up to his bed and make love.
But as Weston removes his arm from me to pull out his phone, I know that won’t be happening.
And even though I know it’s not logical, a tiny part of me wonders if I did something wrong.
I reluctantly slide from the counter, avoiding his gaze as he walks me to the front door. I’m not sure if I should kiss him goodbye, but he pulls me close and brushes his mouth across mine, lingering.
“Thanks for the pizza,” I say when we part.
He smiles sleepily. “Thank you for making my birthday so much better than I could have imagined. I’m looking forward to tomorrow night.”
“Me too.”
I climb into the Uber and watch the streets pass as it winds through Brooklyn, telling myself that tomorrow night it will happen.