Page 19 of The Rogue and His Flower

“You touched me because you were angry with me?”

“Yes.”

I nod, my heart clenching at his honesty. Why do I always end up with men who want to hurt me? Am I really that unloveable?

“And I chose Tomasz to give me a massage because I was angry with you. So I guess we’re even,” I sneer, shoring up my defences.

“You still haven’t answered my question, Daisy. Tell me what you meant about this being complicated. If you want me to touch you, I will touch you.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“So you want me to touch you again?” he persists, swiping a hand through his hair in frustration, pointedly ignoring the fact that I’ve made it clear that I will never have sex with him.

“Stop putting words in my mouth. I meant what I said, I will never sleep with you, Dalton. I still hate you.”

“But you’ll let a man you hate give you a massage?”

“It was a mistake,” I whisper, hating how my stomach coils with anxiety, how tears prick my eyes once more.

It’s not that I wanted Dalton’s touch per-se, it’s just that in the moment itfeltgood. In that moment it felt like the exact opposite to everything I ever experienced as a child from my abusive parents who loved nothing more than to punch and kickme, to be cruel. I crave human contact. It’s why I’ve forgiven so many men for their shitty behaviour. I overlook their flaws, desperate for their affection. So rightly or wrongly, for a few minutes I foolishly let myself submit to Dalton’s touch, to his firm but gentle caress, and when he left the room I was so worked up I made myself orgasm, knowing it was wrong even when it felt right.

“The only mistake was me walking out of that room and not making you come,” Dalton snaps, as he pushes up from his seat and rounds the table, settling down beside me.

“What are you doing?” I whisper as he rests his hand on my thigh.

“Finishing what I started.”

“You can’t.”

“I can.”

“I don’t want you too,” I say, my chest heaving as his fingers drift towards the hem of my dress, slowly dragging it up my thigh.

“Then stop me,” he replies, his lips brushing against my cheek, the heat of his touch burning into my thigh. “Stop me like you should’ve stopped me yesterday.”

“Please, don’t do this,” I whisper, my voice cracking as I fight that part of me who craves human affection, knowing that this is just some twisted game to Dalton, a power-play on his part.

“You want this,” he persists, his fingers edging higher, crackles of electricity erupting between us from his touch.

“You have no idea what I want,” I whisper, my breath catching as his fingers reach the top of my stocking.

“Fuck, Daisy, are those stockings you’re wearing?” he asks, the gravelly timber of his voice making me shudder.

“Get your hands off me,” I insist, hating that my request sounds so feeble.

“If you don’t want my hand on you, remove it then,” he rasps, his fingers slipping higher.

“I don’t wantthis,” I whisper, all the while parting my legs.

“Tell me what you want then,” he persists, the tip of his nose nudging against that sensitive spot just below my ear as his fingers draw teasing, soft circles so close to my core that I’m left panting.

My eyes drift shut at his touch, and I know,I knowthis shouldn’t be happening, but I can’t seem to stop him as his fingers graze higher, tantalising close to the apex of my thighs. His lips burn against my skin, lighting me up in a way I wish he wouldn’t.

I don’t want this. I don’t want him… Do I?

“Daisy…” he laments, and the catch in his voice, theneed, it sends me spiralling.

In this moment I know that the decision I make will determine not just our future, but my own sense of self-worth. I could do what I’ve always done and ignore the red flags and let him touch me or I could stand up for myself and put an end to this toxic cycle I always seem to find myself in. With a surge of determination, I push Dalton away.

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