CHAPTER 10 – A SHOPPING EXPEDITION #2
He kneels and spreads my legs. The thong is so small it’s pointless, and he licks me through the fabric, then peels it down and goes straight for my pussy. His tongue is hot, fast, relentless.
“Oh god,” I whisper, my forehead pressed to the mirror.
“Quiet,” he says, but then he sucks on my clit and I nearly lose my mind.
He eats me out, slow at first, then rougher, his hands gripping my hips so tight there’ll be marks tomorrow. I catch a glimpse of us in the mirror: me, big breasts shaking, and him, eyes closed, devouring me like I’m his last meal.
Then he surprises me.
He moves up, pulling my butt cheeks apart and licks at my asshole, tongue swirling, teasing, making me squirm.
“Hunter,” I gasp, but he just growls and keeps going.
His blue eyes find mine in the glass, and he holds the stare as he slides a finger inside my pussy, then another, working me open as his tongue circles my ass.
I want to scream, but I bite my lip instead.
He keeps going until I’m shaking, legs about to give out, then he stands and pulls me flush against him, his hard cock pressed to my ass through his pants.
He kisses my neck, biting hard enough to sting, then whispers, “You’re going to come for me, Daisy. Right here, right now.”
I nod, breathless.
He bends me over, two fingers in my asshole, thumb on my clit, and fucks me with his hand until I come so hard I sob, my face pressed to the mirror, tears streaming down.
“Oh Hunter,” I moan breathlessly, big boobs shaking as he vibrates his fingers in my bottom. “Oh yes yes yes.”
He holds me through it, letting me ride the wave until I collapse against the glass, legs trembling.
For a long moment, we just breathe.
Then he helps me up, straightens the bralette, and wipes my face with his thumb.
“You did so good,” he says.
I just nod, still dazed.
He hands me a pile of lingerie. “Try the rest on, but don’t be surprised if I like the first one best.”
He slips out of the dressing room, and I sink onto the velvet chaise, my heart still racing.
For the rest of the visit, I can’t look at myself in the mirror without blushing. But I feel beautiful, alive, wanted.
And the next time I step out to show him a new set, big breasts bouncing and with that just-kissed look, I don’t care who sees.
We leave La Coquette with three huge bags and a heady sense of satisfaction.
I can’t stop smiling. Neither can Hunter.
We walk to the car, and he opens the door for me, ever the gentleman.
As we drive, I lean back and let my mind drift, replaying the day: the champagne, the dresses, the lingerie, the way his hands felt on my skin and in my dirty spot.
I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, or the day after.
But for the first time since waking up in a strange city with a new name and no past, I’m not scared.
I’m happy.
And that’s enough.
We’re twenty minutes into the post-shopping comedown, driving through downtown with bags stacked in the backseat like stolen treasure, when Hunter takes a hard right and pulls into a parking space in front of the Walker Art Center. I stare at the sign, then at him.
“We’re going to the museum?”
He shakes his head, lips twitching. “The garden. It’s the best spot in the city this time of year. Fresh air. Sculptural art. You can show off your new boots.”
I grin down at my feet—black leather, three-inch heel, the kind that make my legs look twice as long. “You just want to parade me around in public.”
His eyes flick sideways. “Yeah. I do.”
For a guy who could buy the world and have it delivered to his penthouse, Hunter is weirdly obsessed with being outside, walking, acting like a normal person.
We stroll through the entrance, past a pack of bundled-up school kids and a pair of old men in matching wool hats.
The garden is dusted with snow, every sculpture topped with a white dome or scarfed in ice.
I feel tall and elegant, a real person for the first time in ages.
Hunter’s hand is warm at the small of my back, steadying, but also claiming.
The place is so pretty it almost hurts: iron beams twisted into impossible shapes, a row of silver trees with real birds sitting in the branches, and at the center, a big blue rooster that looks like it’s ready to take over the city.
I want to make a joke, but then we pass a fountain, frozen mid-spurt, and I stop dead in my tracks.
It’s just a circle of stone, nothing special, but something in the way the sunlight hits the ice makes my chest seize up.
I see myself, small, just a child, running around a backyard in bare feet, chasing a dark-haired young man with a blue plastic bucket.
He dumps the water over my head, and I scream, laughing, the water so cold it’s almost pain.
Then there’s a woman’s voice, calling us for lunch.
Is that his mom? Or my mom? I can smell cut grass, hear the buzz of a lawnmower. It’s so clear I almost collapse.
“Daisy?” Hunter’s voice slices through it. His hand is on my shoulder, gentle but firm.
I blink, and the world snaps back. The memory is gone, but my heart’s beating like I’ve just run a marathon.
“Sorry,” I say, trying to laugh. “Got dizzy for a second.”
He’s studying me, blue eyes sharp and worried. “Did you remember something?”
I shake my head. “Not really. Maybe? It was just a flash. I’m fine, really.” I give him my best I’m-totally-not-freaking-out smile, but he doesn’t look convinced.
He squeezes my arm. “Tell me if it happens again, okay?”
I nod, but in my head, I’m still in the grass, still soaked and shivering, with that young man’s hand in mine.
The fresh air does something to my appetite, so when we get to Bellisimo, I’m starving. The restaurant is insane—white tablecloths, glass chandeliers, servers gliding around in black vests. Every surface gleams, and the wine glasses are so thin I’m afraid to breathe near them.
The hostess seats us in a little alcove by the window, private but not hidden. Hunter orders for both of us, fluent in Italian, and the server bows and disappears.
“You could’ve at least let me try to pronounce it,” I tease.
He gives me a look. “I know you hate being put on the spot.”
I shrug. “Maybe, but I did do the auction, after all. I like to surprise you.”
He tilts his head, considering. “You already do, sweetheart.”
The conversation is easy at first—food, the ridiculous shopping haul, chitchat about Veronique and Sophia. The meal comes and it’s perfect: burrata with grilled bread, then pasta with lobster and so much butter I want to bathe in it.
Halfway through the meal, a guy in a server’s jacket comes over with a fresh bottle of wine. He’s younger than the other staff, maybe college-aged, with curly hair and a dimple in his cheek. He fills Hunter’s glass, then turns to me and freezes.
For a second, he just stares.
Then he says, “Tara? Oh my god, is that you?”
I blink, fork halfway to my mouth. “I’m sorry, what?”
The guy’s face goes red. “Sorry, you just—never mind. I thought you were someone I knew.”
Hunter’s jaw tightens. “She’s Daisy,” he says, polite but with an edge.
The waiter backpedals, “Sorry, my bad. You just look exactly like this girl I used to know. She was a barista, but quit her job unexpectedly. Sorry, sorry.” He hurries away, almost tripping over the chair leg.
I stare at Hunter, the name echoing in my skull like a bell. Tara.
He covers my hand with his own. “You okay?”
I nod, but the food tastes different now, metallic and cold.
Hunter changes the subject, asking about the sculptures, the shopping, anything to keep me distracted. I let him, because I don’t want to admit that the name makes my skin itch, that I want to chase after the waiter and demand he tell me everything about this Tara.
But I don’t. I just smile, eat, and let Hunter keep my hand in his.
For the rest of the meal, I watch the windows, watching the snow start to fall. The city looks different with a dusting of white, softer, almost magic. But inside, I’m all knots, trying to hold myself together.
When the check comes, Hunter signs it without looking. He takes my hand as we leave, his grip tighter than before.
We walk through the restaurant in silence, the world outside muffled by snow.
We’re almost to the car when I say, “Hunter?”
He looks at me, and for the first time, I see it—the worry, the calculation, the way he’s always watching me, waiting for me to remember.
“If I used to be someone else,” I say, “what happens when I remember her?”
He’s quiet for a long time, then says, “You get to choose who you want to be, Daisy. That’s all that matters.”
I believe him. Or at least, I want to.
He starts the car, heaters blasting, and we drive through the city in silence.
As we cross the bridge over the river, I look out at the lights and the snow and wonder which one is really me.
The girl in the memory, chasing water and laughter.
Or the one here now, in the dark, beside a man who both terrifies and thrills me.
I have no idea.
But I want to find out.
The minute we get home, I feel the tension snap like an elastic.
I drop the shopping bags in the foyer, collapse onto the couch, and let myself flop boneless for the first time in hours.
Hunter sets the wine on the counter and starts looking through the fridge, humming under his breath.
The city is dark and cold beyond the glass, but the penthouse is all warm light, gold and blue, so rich it feels like a spa for your brain.
I pull one bag over, start peeling back tissue paper, and take out the dresses, one by one, letting the fabric run through my fingers.
I press a sleeve of silk to my cheek; it’s soft as the inside of a rose.
The red one is even better than I remembered—obscene in all the right places, screaming look at me.
The black mesh bralette from La Coquette is so transparent I can see the faint pink of my palm through it.
“Want to do a fashion show for me?” Hunter calls, voice growly and commanding.