24. Daisy
24
Daisy
I don’t know what I was thinking, inviting Weston to my apartment. It seemed like the right thing to do in the moment, a gesture to show him how much I care for him, but as I pull our chipped plates from the cupboard and survey the mess I’ve made in our tiny kitchen, I can’t help but think it was a mistake.
The only godsend is that Denise is out of town. If she saw the tomato sauce splattered on the counter, she’d flip her lid. And I’d have to spend the evening arguing with her, instead of losing my V-card to Weston.
The buzzer sounds, and I wipe my hands on a dish towel, removing the stained apron from my waist and quickly checking my hair. I’m wearing my favorite black dress with the white and yellow daisy print, because I always feel confident in it. Plus, I saw the way he looked at me in this last time.
I let Weston into the building, and a moment later there’s a knock at the door. My heart flutters wildly as I glance one last time around the apartment, making sure I haven’t left dirty underwear on the floor, or tampon wrappers in the bathroom, or something else that might freak him out. But it’s not just that; suddenly the entire apartment feels too small, too messy, too run down. I think of Weston’s grand house on Fruit Street and grimace. What if he takes one look at this place and leaves?
His knock comes again, and I force a deep breath, shaking the thought from my head.
“Hi,” I say, pinning on a smile as I tug open the door.
“Hello.” His eyes are a bright blue shimmer as they meet mine, sweeping over my dress before landing back on my face. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
I let my gaze drink him in too. Jeans and a white linen button-down, sleeves rolled casually to the elbows. The undone top button exposes a small V at his throat that gives me a peek of salt-and-pepper chest hair, and the sight sends heat zipping through me. If I’m lucky, I’ll get to tear that shirt off and kiss every inch of him later.
I swallow, dragging my gaze back to his face. “You look, uh…” Unbelievably fuckable . “Nice, too.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle, and he pulls a hand from behind his back. “For you.”
I glance down to find a bunch of daisies wrapped in cellophane, their happy faces upturned to me. My heart skips at the thoughtful gesture.
“I love them. Thank you.”
“I also brought this,” Wes says, handing me a bottle of merlot. “I’m not sure what you’re cooking, but hopefully…”
“It’s perfect.” I grin, taking the bottle. Then we stand in the doorway, smiling at each other but not moving, as if neither of us knows what to do next. Is it possible he’s nervous too?
I clutch the flowers and wine, unsure of what to say. I want to kiss him, but I don’t have the guts to do it. Less than a day has passed since we last saw each other—since he had his head between my legs, for Christ’s sake—but having him here at my apartment makes everything feel different. Maybe I should have—
“I need to kiss you,” Weston says thickly, interrupting my thoughts. “Is that okay?”
Oh, thank fuck .
“Yes. Please.”
His mouth curls in a relieved grin as he steps over the threshold and takes my face in his hands, lowering his mouth to mine. Everything feels right again in the world the moment our lips connect. Warmth melts through me, softening the nervous tension in my body, drawing me closer to him. I still hold the flowers and wine, so I can’t press my body to his like I want to, can’t grab his ass and grind myself shamelessly against him, but it’s probably for the best. I have a meal bubbling on the stove, and I’m not sure how he’d respond if I mauled him before he even got through the doorway.
“Come in,” I say, catching my breath as we part.
He closes the door behind himself, letting his gaze wander around the apartment. The living room is a mix of off-white and rose gold, with faux fur on the cushions and a chrome and glass coffee table I’m perpetually terrified I’m going to shatter, making it hard to relax out here. The space is entirely decorated by Denise, despite that I pay half the rent, but I’ve made my peace with it.
At least, that’s what I’ve told myself over the years, but as I glance around at the space I’ve never felt quite at home in, I can’t help but frown. Why have I put up with her bullshit for so long?
I lead Wes into the kitchen, where I put the daisies in some water, and he slides onto a stool at the breakfast bar.
“This is a great place,” Weston says as I open the wine.
I snort a laugh. “It’s not really, but it’ll do for now.” I pour the wine into two mismatched glasses, handing him one. “I can’t, um, decant it, or whatever, because I don’t have…”
“It’s great as it is.” His eyes twinkle as he clinks his glass to mine.
I take a long sip of wine, letting the alcohol warm my veins. Weston sips his merlot as I turn the stove off and strain the pasta, trying not to feel self-conscious with him here, watching me. He’s so nicely dressed, and I can smell his spicy bergamot cologne. I picture his Audi sitting outside on the street and wonder if he feels as out of place as he looks. I sense his eyes on me as I dish up our food onto chipped plates, wishing I’d had the forethought to at least buy some new dishes for the evening.
Placing a serving of spaghetti in front of Wes, I slide onto the other stool to join him. “I’m sorry the plates aren’t great and the wineglasses don’t match,” I mumble, taking another long sip of wine to calm the anxiety rippling through my stomach. “My roommate—”
“Daisy.”
Wes takes my wineglass from my trembling hand and sets it on the counter, scooting closer to me. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, letting his fingers brush my cheek. It’s the lightest touch, but goosebumps dot my skin. His gaze moves slowly over my face, as if mapping every freckle, as if trying to memorize the blush staining my cheeks. His breath comes out on a long sigh, and he leans forward to press his mouth to mine.
“Everything is perfect,” he whispers against my lips. “I love seeing where you live.”
You never have to be nervous around me, Daisy.
I remember his words from last night and touch my mouth to his again. What am I thinking? I know Wes, and I know he doesn’t care about any of this stuff. He cares about me .
I smile as I draw away and return to our meal. Weston picks up his fork with a grin, tucking into the spaghetti.
“Fuck,” he mutters around a mouthful of pasta. “This is so good.” He slurps up a strand, his eyes closed in pleasure, and, relieved, I finally let myself take a bite. “You’d better be careful, or I’ll ask you to cook like this for me every night,” Wes jokes.
Yes, please .
I huff a laugh as I eat, trying not to let him see how much I want that. To come home to Weston after work and drink wine in the kitchen, listening to his records while I cook for us. I can’t think of anything better.
We eat in silence, savoring the food, and when he’s finished, Wes turns to me with a huge grin. “That was delicious.” He wipes his mouth with his napkin, eyes dancing as they move over my face. “So you’re both a photographer and a chef,” he muses, and I laugh.
“Hardly.”
My gaze falls to a drop of tomato sauce on his shirt and I frown. “Shit. That will stain if we let it.”
Weston follows my gaze, chuckling. “Typical. I’m the worst with spaghetti. Lydia always used to tease me about it.” He’s wistful for a moment, then glances at me, shrugging. “It doesn’t matter.”
I shake my head, pushing to my feet. “Take it off, and I’ll clean it up.”
His eyebrows rise playfully. “You want me to take my shirt off?”
Warmth singes my cheeks. “I mean, I can get the sauce out if you do, but if you don’t feel comfortable, I understand.”
But he’s already moving his hands slowly down the buttons, releasing each one, eyes glinting as he does. When the shirt falls open and he tugs it right off, my mouth goes dry.
Oh, fuck. I am not prepared for this.
I mean, I knew he had a good body, because I’d watched him on the beach like the little perv I am, but up close he’s divine . I could stare at him for hours, taking in his sheer masculine beauty, the solid presence of him. Olive shoulders and pecs, sculpted and firm from hours carving through the water, salt-and-pepper hair dusting his chest, trailing down his trim waist and disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. Heat rolls through me like a wave, starting at my toes and building between my legs. I itch to put my hands on him, to feel every contour of his muscles, to lick my way down his stomach and get into those jeans.
He holds the shirt out to me, amusement flickering in his eyes as I peel my gaze from him and force myself to focus on cleaning the stain. It only takes me a few moments, but I give myself an extra minute to lean over the sink, catching my breath. I’m restless and antsy with need, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, desperate to get him into bed.
I don’t notice Weston come up behind me, until his arms slide around my waist, the heat of him pressing to my back.
“Thank you for dinner,” he murmurs into my ear, sweeping my hair to one side so he can drag his mouth over my neck.
My knees give way, and I grip the counter harder, the movement of his lips igniting fire in my belly. I try to play it cool but I can’t hold out any longer.
Spinning around, I let my hands land on his pecs as I stare up into his eyes. They’re dark pools of desire, the blue swallowed up by the black of his blown-out pupils, and I push up onto my toes to press my lips to his. He eagerly obliges, slanting his mouth across mine. The first lick of his tongue sends lust spiraling to my core, my greedy hands roaming his exposed top half, loving the feel of his hot skin under my fingertips. He groans when I grab his ass and pull him tight against me, aching to feel that hardness I felt last night. The minute it presses into my belly, I lose all sense of reason.
“I need you,” I rasp between kisses. “Wes, I need you so badly.”
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, mouth moving along my jaw before he reluctantly draws himself away. He adjusts the erection straining against his zipper, catching his breath. I don’t wait for him to say anything more before taking his hand and leading him through the living room into my space. I draw back the curtain to reveal the tiny alcove, my twin bed, the chair where I read and look out over the street. It occurs to me it would probably be far nicer to do this at his house, but I don’t have the patience to wait another night.
Weston wanders through the room, taking in every detail, and I drop onto the edge of my bed, my gaze glued to his movements. I’ve never felt so physically turned on by a man like this before. Interested? Occasionally. Attracted? Sure. But not at his mercy like this, where the low timbre of his voice, his musky, masculine scent, or even just his proximity is enough to make me feel electric. I’m hyper-aware of his every movement, the rhythm of his breath, where his eyes rest.
Wes stands above me at the foot of my bed. I expect he’ll climb on beside me, but instead he says, “So this is where you sleep.”
I nod, unable to fight the way my gaze strays to his bare torso, at eye-level like this. My hands tingle at my sides, eager to reach out and touch him again.
He takes my chin in his hand, tilting my face up to his. “Have you ever touched yourself here while thinking of me?”
His question sends a bolt of heat through my veins. I’ve touched myself a hundred times in this bed while thinking of him, but I never imagined I’d actually get him here.
“I…” I glance away, my cheeks hot with embarrassment.
“You have, haven’t you?”
I gulp as Weston gently lifts my chin so I’m forced to look at him again. “Yes,” I whisper.
His eyes flare with heat, darkening as they move over me, pinning me helplessly to the bed. “Show me.”
What?
I huff a laugh. “I can’t…”
“Show me, Daisy.”
Holy shit .
I’ve never heard him so bossy, but it’s really working for me. The stern, demanding tone of his voice is the opposite of his usual calm, kind nature. Is this what he’ll be like when we have sex? God, I hope so. The thought of taking orders from Weston in bed has me squirming, delirious with need.
And before I know what I’m doing, I answer, “Okay.”