26. Daisy
26
DAISY
I ’m relieved that Harrison is sick, as terrible as that is, because the things I was thinking before he admitted it were so much worse.
It all felt a bit too much like the end with Christian. Things were fine during that trip in November, and then suddenly something flipped, and I was never sure what it was. Did he dislike that I’d asked him what he was doing for Thanksgiving? It’s not as if I’d hoped he’d invite me to meet his parents. Was it that I was a little stressed about finals? I’d spent so much time letting him treat me like a sex toy that I’d been ignoring my schoolwork, so my final exams mattered a lot more than they should have. I hadn’t blamed him for it, but maybe he thought I had. I’ll never know. But given that I saw him with his girlfriend a few weeks later, the one he swore he was done with, it stands to reason that I wasn’t enough, and she was.
And as devastated as I was when he dumped me, having Harrison ask me to move out would be a thousand times worse.
He’s already lounging on the king-size bed when I walk through the door he left ajar, huddled beneath the blankets with the menu in hand .
I strip off my sweatshirt and climb in beside him, though he hardly seems to know I’m here. We put on The King’s Man , which has violence for him and Aaron Taylor-Johnson for me, and I deal with room service when it arrives and bring Harrison his food, begging him to eat a little bit.
He falls asleep sitting up, his food untouched, before I’ve even finished half my risotto. I move his food to the floor and watch the movie alone, but it has far less Aaron Taylor-Johnson than the trailer implied.
I curl up beside him. “I’ll just close my eyes for a second,” I promise. I sort of mean this, and I sort of, just once in my life, want the experience of sleeping curled up beside Harrison, smelling his shampoo, memorizing his even inhales and exhales. I’m asleep before I’ve memorized nearly enough of them.
I’m not sure when I wake but the TV is off and he’s whispering my name in the darkness. I assume, at first, that he’s telling me to leave. But no…he’s whispering my name as if he’s asking a question.
As if he’s asking permission .
He rolls me beneath him before I can reply, his body heavy and solid atop mine. The only thing he’s got on is a pair of boxer briefs, and I was pretty sure I knew what question he was asking, but those fitted boxer briefs leave no doubt whatsoever about what it was. He’s hard as nails and every bit as deliciously oversized as I suspected he was.
His lips move to the point where my neck meets my shoulder, and the heat of his breath has me arching before his mouth has even begun to graze my skin. He uses a knee to spread my thighs, and while it seems like the kind of thing we should discuss and the kind of thing he in particular would discuss to death—ground rules like “your uncle can never know” and “this won’t happen again”—it’s been a long time, and I want this, and if he’s not going to insist on ground rules, why should I?
He lifts my tank and his lips move up and up over my rib cage while he wrenches my shorts down.
It’s hot, how assertive he’s being, but I’m still thrown by how unexpected it is. When does Harrison ever just take what he wants? He’s tugging off his boxers, and he hasn’t even asked if this is okay, hasn’t even asked if I’m on birth control. And when did he strip down to his boxers in the first place?
He palms my breasts and I arch, reflexively, seeking more. His cock grazes my clit and his teeth latch onto a nipple—a pulse of pleasure-pain that stabs me while his groan drives every intelligent thought from my head.
Yes, whatever. Who cares that he doesn’t want to discuss it? Yes.
“Those fucking blue yoga pants,” he mumbles, sliding a forearm under each thigh to spread me open wide.
I’m meeting his thrusts—now separated only by my panties—even as the first flicker of true concern pinches me.
“Yoga pants?” I ask. I peer up at him in the darkness. His eyes are closed. Wait. Fuck.
Does this make sense? No. Nothing about this makes sense. Harrison would never, ever, just try to fuck me without a conversation first.
“Harrison?”
He doesn’t seem to hear me. He’s in his own little world, apparently. One in which I’m wearing the blue yoga pants, and he’s just removed them. I reach a hand to his forehead—his skin is burning to the touch.
“God, those pants make me crazy,” he mumbles. “I’ve wanted this for so fucking long.”
He’s positioned between my legs, his erection a deliciously heavy press, and I’m already soaked for it. But he doesn’t even know it’s happening .
I want to go back to five minutes ago, when I was an innocent party in all this. His fingers slip beneath my panties—a light, teasing touch that I’d kill to have him continue.
But I can’t. Goddammit. He’d hate this so much if he was aware of it.
“Harrison, stop,” I say, forcefully. I push him hard, and after a moment he rolls to the side, collapsing on the pillow beside mine. My body is on fire—and it’s not with fever—and my clit is so swollen that even lying here is a form of torture. His hand lands on my stomach and starts to creep toward my panties. I’ve got to get the hell away before I allow him to do something he’d never forgive me for.
I firmly place his hand on the mattress between us and force myself out of the bed, going to the bathroom for a wet washcloth. I grab ibuprofen from his travel kit and return, holding the pills to his mouth.
“Daisy,” he mumbles, “what’s going on?”
“I think you’re sick, baby. Take these.”
He follows my directions obediently and even drinks a little of the water I offer him before he collapses back to the pillow.
I place the washcloth on his forehead. He grabs my hand. “Will you stay?”
I lie down beside him, placing my hand on his chest. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” His shoulders settle with my words, as if half his illness was simply worry about me, and he falls into a deep sleep while I lie awake with my heart beating hard.
If he remembers this in the morning, he’ll feel guilty about it—perhaps so guilty he’ll finally insist that I leave. And he’ll also be aware that I was going to let him do it.
God, was I ever going to let him.
I can feel his weight on top of me, that long, thick cock heavy against my abdomen, and the way he stripped my shorts off like he’d die if he wasn’t inside me. I can feel the warning press of him between my legs, the fullness of it .
It’s embarrassing that I thought it was genuine on his part. It’s embarrassing that I could have believed Harrison would ever just fuck me without a word of conversation about it first.
And yet…he very clearly knew it was me beneath him. The words coming out of his mouth sounded like ones he’d said a hundred times before.
So, how do I get him to say them again?