CHAPTER 10 – A SHOPPING EXPEDITION
Daisy
Iwake to light—so much light that I’m momentarily blinded.
For a second, I believe that I’m back on stage, nude and lush, exposed to a sea of male eyes, but it’s just the sunrise, slanting through the penthouse’s fifteen-foot windows, painting the white sheets with streaks of gold.
I’m alone in Hunter’s king bed, the silk comforter half off, my bare skin tingling from the chill.
No, not chill, exactly; the sheets are still warm with his scent, and there’s a trace of last night’s sex on my thighs, sticky and sweet.
I curl up, letting myself enjoy the memory because it was so wrong.
Hunter inserted his fingers into my asshole, and then had me suck on them afterwards.
I could taste my own musk, sour and sweet at once, and it turned me on.
Is that wrong? I try to ignore the tiny voice in my head whispering about dirty girls, about what this means.
I stay like that, wrapped up, until I hear a faint clink from the kitchen.
It takes me forever to untangle myself from the sheets, and even longer to find something to put on because none of the clothes in the closet feel right at the moment.
I end up in one of Hunter’s dress shirts, white and crisp, buttoned just enough to be legal.
I wander barefoot through the penthouse, amazed at how quickly it’s become familiar, like I’ve always belonged here. There’s a view of the city from every room—snow on the rooftops, the sunlight ribboning through the towers, all of it so clean and shiny it almost looks fake.
Hunter’s at the kitchen island, reading something on his tablet. He’s already showered and dressed: black tee, navy joggers, hair still damp, and impossibly handsome. He looks up, sees me, and gives the world’s most knowing smile.
“Morning, Daisy.”
“Morning.” I feel shy, almost like I’m meeting him for the first time. “Is this real coffee, or the kind from the machine in my suite?”
He grins. “Here? Only the real thing.”
He pours me a mug, and I savor the smell, rich and bitter, even as I clutch it like a lifeline.
“You sleep okay?” he asks.
I nod, and then remember the way I’d fallen asleep: curled in his arms, exhausted, ruined, and for the first time in forever, not even a little scared.
“Yes,” I say. “I think I could get used to it.”
He lifts an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment. Instead, he pushes a bowl of berries my way, along with a gold spoon that weighs more than a cell phone. “You eat, then get dressed,” he instructs. “We’ve got a day planned.”
I dig into the berries, and watch him over the rim of my mug. “What kind of day?”
“A fun one. You’re going shopping.”
I nearly drop the mug. “What?”
He grins, like he’s just dropped a kitten into my lap. “Clothes, Daisy. You need more than just what’s in the closet. I have meetings, but I’ll take you myself.”
The idea makes me nervous and giddy at once. “Are you sure that’s a good use of your time?”
He gives me the look—the one that says, Are you really going to argue with me on this? “You’re mine for the month,” he says with a shrug of those broad shoulders. “You need to look the part.”
I don’t argue. I just finish the berries and say, “I guess I should try on something besides your shirt.”
Hunter’s smile deepens. “Don’t, actually. I like you in my shirt.”
The first stop is a store called LUNA on Nicollet, and I don’t know how to describe it except that the mannequins are better dressed than anyone I’ve ever met.
The whole space smells like exclusivity and pink peonies, and the lighting is so good it makes you look airbrushed.
Hunter walks in first, all CEO-casual, and the staff materialize instantly, swarming him with the precision of trained dolphins.
He gestures for me to follow. “This is Daisy,” he says to the manager, a tall woman in black with a platinum bob. “She’s getting a new wardrobe. Whatever she wants.”
The woman glances at me, then at the shirt, then at my legs, and then just beams. “We’ll take care of her,” she purrs. “Would you like a drink while you wait, Mr. McCarren?”
He declines, of course, but the staff still show him to a lounge area, all velvet and leather, and he sits back with his phone, pretending to work but watching me the entire time.
I follow the manager to the back, where they hand me a flute of something pink and bubbly and start plucking dresses from the racks.
They don’t even ask my size; somehow, every single thing fits perfectly, clinging to my body like it was made for me.
It’s a blur of textures: velvet, silk, sequins, leather, the kind of fabric you want to handle because it’s so exquisite and fine.
Every time I put on something new, I’m sent out to model for Hunter. The first dress is navy, tight, the neckline one hair away from a wardrobe malfunction. He raises an eyebrow, then nods. “Keep.”
The next is a white sheath, pure and innocent except for the slit up to my hip. He doesn’t blink, just says, “Keep.”
Then a red one, so thin it’s basically lingerie. I step out, cheeks burning, but he doesn’t even flinch. “Keep,” he says, voice low. I wonder if he’s even seeing the dresses, or if he’s just undressing me with his eyes.
The manager brings out shoes, with heels higher than skyscrapers. Hunter picks a pair of black stilettos with crystal straps. “Walk for me,” he commands, and I do, my ass swaying, the entire staff turning away politely.
It’s all a little unreal. By the time we get to accessories, I’m half-drunk from the champagne and the attention. I try on a necklace, heavy as a shackle, and Hunter comes over to fasten it himself. His fingers are cool against my neck, but the way he looks at me makes me feel hot, almost feverish.
“You look perfect,” he whispers, voice barely above the music. “This is like a collar. It makes people know that you belong to me.”
My pulse hammers. “But does it mean I get to keep you, too?”
He laughs, and for a second, the CEO mask slips and he’s just a guy, amused and maybe a little undone.
“Try on a few more items for me,” he says. “Please.”
I do. I try on everything they bring, dresses so short they’re practically belts, a pantsuit that makes me look like a dominatrix, even a floor-length ball gown, pale pink and covered in glittering beads. Every time I come out, he just nods, “Keep. Keep. Keep.”
When it’s done, the staff starts bagging up the haul—three racks, at least. I can’t help but ask, “Are you sure about all of this?”
He nods, blue eyes fixed on mine. “Absolutely. You deserve nice things, Daisy. Get used to it.”
I watch him, the way his jaw flexes when he says it, and I get this weird twist in my gut. Like maybe this is more than a game.
Maybe Hunter actually cares.
But why? Therein lies the mystery of this gorgeous, arresting man.
The next stop is a lingerie store called La Coquette, and from the second we walk in, I know it’s trouble.
The air is sweet with perfume and something else—leather, maybe, or the scent of secrets. The space is lush, all dark velvet and gold trim, and the displays are decadent. It’s the only word for it, with mannequins in lacy bras, silk tap shorts, corsets with boning that turn girls into hourglasses.
The salesgirl greets us at the door, eyes wide as she recognizes Hunter. “Mr. McCarren, welcome back.”
“Just browsing today,” he says, but then he turns to me and his gaze gets dangerous. “Daisy needs some pieces for her new wardrobe.”
The salesgirl—maybe twenty-five, with a blonde bob and bright pink lips—gives me a quick once-over. “Absolutely,” she breathes. “Follow me.”
She leads us to the back, where the lighting is soft, the music is pure vibrato. There are racks of lingerie, some so tiny they’re basically dental floss. Hunter walks beside me, and every time I touch a fabric, he leans in, making suggestions.
“Try this,” he says, plucking a bralette made of sheer black mesh.
“What about this one?” I tease, holding up a pink demi-cup with matching garters.
He grins. “All of them.”
The salesgirl brings over a handful of boxes and urges me into the dressing room. It’s huge—mirrored on three sides, with a velvet chaise and a thick curtain for privacy. She closes me in, and I stare at the armful of lingerie, not sure where to begin.
I start with the black mesh. It barely covers my nipples, and the matching thong is see-through, too. I look in the mirror, and it’s like seeing myself for the first time. Blonde hair down over one shoulder, a mysterious look to my eyes. I’m sexy, confident, and a little wicked.
I step out, cheeks hot, but determined.
Hunter is waiting, hands in his pockets, looking like he might eat me alive.
“What do you think?” I say, twirling.
He doesn’t answer, just gestures for me to come closer.
I do, and he pulls me into the dressing room, tugging the curtain closed behind us.
For a second, we just stand there, breathing each other in. Then he kisses me, deep and hard, his hands on my ass, squeezing through the mesh.
“You’re perfect,” he says, voice rough.
I laugh, but it’s shaky. “You’re just saying that because I look like a porn star.”
He shakes his head. “I mean it, Daisy. You’re absolutely—” He cuts himself off, buries his face in my neck, then runs a hand down my curved spine.
His touch is electric.
He spins me to face the mirror, and I watch as he traces the line of my side, then cups my breasts from behind. His hands are huge; they make me feel tiny, breakable. But also safe.
He slides a finger under the waistband of the thong and snaps it, making me gasp. “You like this?” he murmurs.
I nod.
“Good.”
He pushes me gently against the mirror, the cold glass a shock on my skin, and slides his hands up under the bralette. He pinches my nipples, rolling them between his fingers until I moan.
“Shh,” he says, grinning. “Don’t want to get caught, do you?”
But I kind of do.