Chapter 13 Daisy - What’s my name, Daisy darling?
The Journal of Daisy D. Stiles - Thirteen years ago
August loves the color yellow, and he’s never seen the movie Forest Gump.
He asks what I’m writing about daily, and every day I say the same thing: Just stuff.
The truth of the matter is, if I ever actually let it slip out that I’ve hyper fixated on each little thing he utters to me over the course of our days in Merrymount High’s guidance office, I might never see him again.
That would crush me.
So I pocket whatever fact he decides to bestow on me and reply with numerous follow-up questions. Sometimes he answers. Sometimes he doesn’t.
I couldn’t tell you what got him to start talking, especially to me. One day it was the usual silence. The next, curiosity—or something—got the best of him. And now we’re here.
I don’t have his phone number. He’s never offered it or asked for mine. Maybe that’s a line for him. It’s sort of pathetic how okay I am to just take what I can get.
But despite all of that, I’ve decided we’re friends now. Even if it’s only within these bland walls.
August looks up at me with hooded eyes, and I already know I’ll agree with just about anything he’s going to say with the way his gaze is turning over hot coals in my core.
“You gonna let me eat your pussy?” he asks unabashedly, continuing to guide the long fabric of my skirt up my body, until the purple lace of my impractical underwear is exposed. He separates my thighs, and he looks at me for a long while. I fight the urge to tremble beneath his gaze.
“Do you want to eat my pussy?” I taunt him. Because while I know I'm ultimately giving in, I still have to play with him. Keep him on his toes.
“More than I want air to breathe, Daze.”
My mouth falls open in the shape of a big ole O. August’s face hovers low over me, close but absolutely not touching. So close the only piece of himself he’s offering is his breath. It tickles my exposed skin, and I have to stop myself from writhing on this seat.
Where is he even finding the space for this?
“Daisy darling,” he says low while keeping his eyes on mine.
I avert my gaze down. His left hand lowers, smoothing over my thigh.
His hand covers so much of my skin. The tip of his thumb brushes towards the inside, just hitting the sensitive part, and I jump.
His hand continues its journey up until it reaches the crease of my hip.
My eyes snap back to his when his grip tightens on me. “I asked you a question.”
“Oh.” Right. He did do that. “You’re waiting for me to answer?” Is my brain broken?
His tone is serious and absolute. “Your body, your rules, Daisy. I need to hear a resounding yes before I make you see fucking stars with my tongue.”
“Yes,” I half-cry. “Yes, please.” I throw my head back when he wastes no time pushing my thong aside to devour me. I don’t know when consent and absolutely justified cockiness became my kinks, or if I’m broken and only get this worked up for August Burton now. But either way, I’m fucked.
His right hand mirrors his left, gripping my hip. He pulls me into him, lifting my ass off the seat to get a better angle. His tongue swirls while he sucks, and I’m lost to the feeling immediately.
For every gasp of pleasure, Gus meets me with a satisfied moan into my core.
I’ve never met a man who treats going down on a woman like it’s his last meal the way Gus apparently can. It’s like gasoline on the fire inside me.
It’s almost as if his face was crafted just for this, just so he could fit perfectly between my thighs and unravel me with his tongue while his eyes refuse to leave mine, eliciting every feeling—both physical and mental—from me without my permission.
“You taste so good, Daze,” he mumbles between strokes of his tongue. I gasp when his teeth graze my clit.
“Fuck, that’s nice,” I pant. My head hits the glass of the window behind me.
Gus pauses, and a fucking whimper escapes me.
“Are you okay?”
“You stopped,” I breathe.
“Your head,” he counters.
“My head is fine, August.”
His mouth is back on my pussy without a second thought. His teeth graze my clit again, and my hips buck in answer.
“Fuck,” I exhale.
Gus’s tongue continues to lap at me, switching to a torturously slow pace that has me writhing in his grasp. I feel myself getting wetter with every second, the build-up becoming too much. And yet at the same time…“Gus,” I attempt to get out in between gulps of air.
“What did I tell you, Daze? It’s August.” His right hand releases my hip. He smacks my pussy, jolting the lower half of my body into the air.
“Did you just—”
“What’s my name, Daisy darling?” He leaves light kisses everywhere except where I need them. His finger starts to toy with my entrance, giving me centimeters instead of filling me like he knows I want. Like I need.
“August, I want to come. Please make me come,” I beg.
It’s pathetic, and right now, I don’t fucking care.
Right now, I get to forget everything—my mother, the flower shop, my brothers, my issues with my miserable fucking life, everything.
I get to just enjoy the company of someone who so easily knows what works.
I’m going to selfishly bask in that for however long I’m granted the privilege.
Even if it is because of August Burton.
Forgoing the ruse of working up towards anything, August’s eyes darken. The last thing I see is his wicked grin before he thrusts two fingers deep inside me, fucking me, while his tongue once again paints a fucking portrait on my clit.
I reach up and find the grab handle, letting myself ride August’s face through my orgasm. He doesn’t stop—not until I’m panting and begging and squirming from how sensitive I am.
August lowers me back onto the seat and shamelessly wipes his mouth, my release practically glistening there, with the back of his hand. I know without confirmation that I’m blushing.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he says.
“Like what?” I stupidly ask, readjusting my clothes and myself.
“Sated. Taken care of. C’mon, let’s go make dinner.
” August reaches down, grabbing my notebook and bag, taking them both with him when he exits the truck.
My body hasn’t caught up to the rest of me by the time he makes it around to my side, tapping on the window so when he opens the door, I don’t fall out.
For some reason, though, I think he’d catch me.
I gather my wits and let August open the door for me to step out. An eerie sense of familiarity wraps around me as we walk side by side up the path leading to his porch.
Once inside, August makes good on his earlier promise, giving me a full, extremely detailed and extensive tour of his house—basement with spider webs and potential mice included—until we arrive back at the front door.
“Good to stay?” he asks.
“Yes?” I answer with a laugh. “Didn’t I say that earlier?”
“Doesn’t mean you couldn’t have changed your mind,” he answers. He hangs my tote bag up on the coat rack beside the door and then holds his arm out, gesturing for me to lead the way into what I now know is his kitchen.
“Your house is beautiful, by the way. I forgot to mention that while you were showing me around,” I tell Gus, and I mean it.
Sure, it’s lacking some decor. The walls could use, well, just about anything on them. But every piece of furniture looks like it was chosen very purposefully. Everything screams August. Dark wood, deep maroons, and juniper throughout.
A sheepish look crosses his face. He rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks. It’s not much but—”
“Shut up, August. It’s a home.” I don’t like him downplaying something he clearly has put a lot of time and effort in over the years. August has never been bashful or self-conscious.
His eyes widen slightly, but he shakes off his surprise in the next second. “Yeah, I…I really like having a place to call my own.”
God, when he speaks candidly like that, I feel so much like we’re our old selves.
I make myself comfy in the breakfast nook that overlooks the backyard.
Fallen leaves have already been sorted into piles.
There’s a fire pit with a couple chairs around it and a few logs stacked nearby, presumably ready for whenever Gus decides to have himself a night by said fire.
I find myself halfway hoping I might be included in that kind of night.
Which is silly, because well—actually, I guess I don’t have much of a reason to assume it’d be silly to want that now when I’ve already waded into friendly waters with August.
He gets started on dinner and declines my offer to help. I go and retrieve my headphones from my bag. But right before I place them over my ears, Gus turns from the stove to face me.
“What are you planning on listening to?” he asks.
“Audiobook,” I tell him. “I have like thirty percent left of this one, and everything’s gone to shit in the story. I’ve been dying to finish it.”
He walks over to me, mixing bowl of whatever he’s putting together in one hand, and plucks the headphones from me with the other.
“Connect to that thing.” Gus gestures to the little sphere speaker with an owl design that’s perched on his counter. “But wait, before you hit play, catch me up, so I can follow along with you.”
“It’s a romance,” I attempt to warn him.
“And?” Gus questions, heading back to his workspace next to the oven.
“Aaaaand,” I drag out. “I don’t know. I’d assume you wouldn’t be into that sort of thing.”
He doesn’t turn around again, letting me take in the sight of his back muscles stretching the thin material of his shirt as he starts pounding the chicken with a meat cleaver. Damn, he just got me off in the truck no less than a half an hour ago, and I’m ready for round two.
Once he finishes with the first chicken breast, he pauses. A quick chuckle escapes him.
“You say that like I didn’t spend a significant amount of time listening to you recap every smutty book you got your hands on in high school. This isn’t new to me, Daze. Let it rip.”