Daisy #3
“I—” I start, stupidly, reflexively, like I can explain my way out of a kiss. Maybe I can distract him enough so I don’t have to admit that I didn’t take the job because I didn’t want to leave him. That I made a decision about my career, because of him.
But he doesn’t need me to say it out loud. He knows the truth. Grizz’s gaze softens, and then his hand comes up and cradles my face.
Not stopping me. Holding me. Then he kisses me and this one is a claim.
His mouth is hotter, hungrier, and the sound I make is embarrassing—this small, involuntary inhale that turns into a soft noise against his lips.
He stands, pushing up from the chair with one decisive movement, and I stumble back a half step as he rises into me, all height and strength and intention.
His hand drifts from my cheek to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, tilting my head just right.
The other hand braces at my waist, and then he’s pulling me closer, closer, until there’s no space left and my whole body is lit up with him—his heat, his solidity, the hard line of his chest against mine.
He’s finally letting himself touch something fragile without flinching.
I kiss him back, desperately, because the fear in me is still there, buzzing. I need reassurance in the only language that feels real right now. I need to feel him choose me again.
And he does it with his mouth, his hands, the way he inhales like I’m his oxygen.
“Bedroom,” he murmurs against my lips.
I nod, but I don’t get another second to respond because his arms scoop around me—one under my thighs, one around my back—and suddenly I’m not standing anymore.
My breath leaves in a startled laugh that turns into a gasp when he lifts me easily, like this is what he was built for and he’s owning it. My arms go around his neck, clinging, and he walks, carrying me down the hall with his steady, purposeful stride.
The world tilts. The lights blur. The dining room disappears behind us.
“Grizz,” I whisper, half warning, half plea.
He makes a sound low in his throat that feels like agreement and don’t you stop me.
His lips find mine again as he walks, the kiss deeper now, messier. My head knocks lightly against his shoulder and I don’t care. My whole body is vibrating with the thrill of being taken somewhere—of not having to decide what comes next.
His bedroom door is already open. The room is dim, the sheets dark, rumpled. The bed remembers us.
He sets me down on the edge of the mattress, hands still on me, like he doesn’t trust himself to let go. For a beat, he just looks at me, breathing hard, eyes blown wide and dark.
I feel exposed, fully clothed and still somehow bare under that stare.
His fingers go to the hem of my sweater and he lifts it over my head with care, unwrapping a precious gift, not stripping me down.
Cool air kisses my skin, and I shiver. His gaze tracks every inch that appears—my collarbone, the line of my throat, the slope of my shoulder—and something in his expression softens in a way that makes my heart ache.
My hands go to him too. I tug at the apron strings first—because it’s there, because it’s absurd, because I need to touch him—and he huffs a short laugh into my mouth when I pull him in for another kiss. The apron comes off and drops somewhere on the floor, forgotten.
I slide my fingers up his chest, finding the buttons of his shirt. He stills as I undo the first one, then the second, watching my hands like they’re doing something holy.
“Okay?” he asks, voice rough.
It guts me—this check-in—because it’s not like him, and it is too. He’s always been careful with me in the ways that count, even when he pretends he isn’t.
I swallow. “Yeah.”
I peel his shirt open, palms skimming over warm skin, the hard planes of muscle beneath. He exhales when my fingers drag over his stomach, a little tremor through him.
But I see it.
He leans down and kisses the inside of my wrist. My heartbeat quickens.
“Daisy,” he murmurs again.
He eases me backward onto the bed, following me down, bracing himself on one elbow so he doesn’t crush me. His other hand slides along my ribs, up to my breast, unhurried, exploratory, just learning, mapping me once more.
Every touch feels amplified. Every breath. The brush of his lips at my jaw, the slow drag of his nose along my throat, the heat of his palm on my skin.
It isn’t the animal, hungry thing we’ve done before—those nights where our bodies took over and we let them, where the world narrowed into friction and relief.
This is different.
It’s charged.
Every time his mouth finds mine, I feel it all the way down to my bones. Every time his fingers skim along my waist, my stomach tightens. Every time he pauses—just to look at me, to breathe me in—it feels like he’s saying the most important truths without words.
I reach for him again, hands sliding up his back, feeling the muscles shift under my fingers. I pull him closer, and he comes willingly, a soft sound in his throat as his skin meets mine.
He kisses me, slower now, deeper, and my fear finally dissolves into a warm ache that’s almost unbearable.
Desire gives way to relief because he hasn’t pulled away.
He’s only pulled me closer.