Page 9 of The Heiress

Then I open my eyes and see her determined look turn into that smirk I despise so much.

“Shit,” I whimper, embarrassed that I said anything at all. To her chagrin, I crawl out of her lap and momentarily curl up on the edge of her bed. My eyes catch a glimpse of her hard nippleshanging on her palm-sized breasts. Do you know what I want to do to them? Go on. Take a guess. Obviously, it has to do with unleashing herrealpower. “This isn’t supposed to happen.” I was supposed to give her a piece of my mind… not my ass.

She follows me off the bed and attempts to take my hand. She fails.

“I should go.” Where is my purse? Right. On the floor in the main room. I go there now, fixing my blouse along the way. I hazily take in the apartment around me. Clean. Detailed. Definitely a designer’s work, but it’s been well cared for. A tasteful painting of a half-naked woman in the living room reminds me of what almost happened.

I need to leave before I make a huge mistake that I’ll regret.

“Scared?” comes Lorde’s voice from the bedroom doorway. “One kiss, and you bail? I take off my bra and you dry up? Didn’t think I was that frightening.”

I try to ignore her as I pick up my purse and finish straightening out my clothes. Am I decent? I have to be decent when I leave her place. It’s bad enough I’m still thinking of the way she kissed me. Owned me for those brief seconds. I clear my throat. Shake my head. Anything to make the images go away. I refuse to carry them with me on the way out of here.

Lorde approaches, but it only makes me move faster. I don’t want her hearing the erratic pounding of my heart.

“Bye,” I say, putting my hand on the front doorknob. I glance over my shoulder and see her looking anything but pleased. Sure, she thought I would end up in her bed, ass up in the air and begging her to fuck me until I couldn’t scream anymore. Even so, I told her I wanted her to fuck me… but at least I kept some dignity.

She’s behind me. Not trying to touch me, but an easy distance from me. “Bye, Daze.” She looks away. “I’m sorry about the magazine. Really.”

I slightly turn, taking in her half-naked body and the somber expression on her face. Is she really sorry? This is the most mature I’ve seen her. Lorde Sheen’s reputation for being an unrepentant player in the queer scene is unprecedented. Nevertheless, I reach up and lightly kiss her on the cheek.

A small gesture. God, I’m a wreck.

I rush out after that, not wanting to take my chances around her again. As I fly down the stairs, I realize I could have easily turned that situation back there into something way more…more.

Never. I can never let that happen. Not only for my reputation but for the sake of my poor daddy’s heart. I’ve disappointed him enough so far this year. Falling for a girl like Lorde would kill him.

Chapter 5

Lorde

The door slams shut. I stand here, totally gobsmacked over what happened.

I had her. Right there, panting in my bed, begging for my touch and kiss in a way that seemed too good to be true. Apparently, it was. Right when I thought I was going to fuck the girl of my dreams, she bailed on me with hardly an explanation.

For the second time, Daisy DeMonte has left me hot and bothered with no one to take care of me. I swear, she’s going to drive me to extremes.

After another – cold – shower, I attempt to go about my day. First, I hit up the grocery store, instantly reminded of Daisy when I see the lobsters. Not just because she pinches like the devil, either, or because she gets lobster red when she’s furious. It’s what she ordered on our double date, not that she stayed long enough to enjoy it.

Then I have an appointment at the queer-owned salon I quickly discovered when I moved back into town. I listen to the chatter of the dykes and dolls around me, congratulating one another on either their most recent “wins” or the trips they’re taking with their current lovers. When the full-on-drag-queen doing my hair asks about my recent dating life, having already read my interview, I simply say that things are heating up. What I wish I could say is that I scored with someone like Daisy DeMonte. For some reason, I’d feel bad about mentioning her name. I’ve done enough damage already. Irreparable? Fuck me. I think so.

I can’t stop thinking about her no matter where I go. I replay what happened in my bedroom. The way she straddled my hips, teasing me with her poor pussy trapped in clothing. Does she know she left a wet spot on my jeans? That was almost hotter than my fantasies.

Her breasts had rubbed against my chest. Her lips were as eager as mine to kiss and suck. They wanted punishment. Everything begged to be punished with my body.

My whole week is like this. Every day I wake up thinking of Daisy. Not just her body or how she felt against me, but the sound of her voice, whether she’s giving me a piece of her mind or laughing at something Ashleigh said. Her smile when she thinks I’m not looking. The fact that she’s so fiercely protective of who she is. That woman has a ton of confidence for someone raised to be a spoiled princess. I’m not used to that. I’m used to girls like Ashleigh, or girls whothinkthey’re confident.

So consumed are my pathetic thoughts that I don’t fool around with another girl. I’m given plenty of opportunities. I could call one up from my address book. Or I could nail a waitress behind a restaurant. Maybe that hottie at the bar Angus and I go to for a few beers. I bump into a supermodel at my mother’s apartment.She’s older than me, but I can tell she’s ready to teach me a few things. I decline.

Angus invites me to a club, which would almost ensure getting laid with a star-struck girl. I don’t go. If my goal isn’t to get laid, I find little appealing about the clubs.

All I do is mope like a loser. I haunt social media on my phone, trying to see Daisy’s private profiles which I’ve sent friend requests to. (She never responds.) Staring at her photo doesn’t help me much. It only makes me crazy to see her again.

The lowest I sink is buying a local fashion magazine so I can check out pictures of her. The only ones I find are some candid shots of her having lunch with Ashleigh, wearing a vintage floral dress and those big cat-eye sunglasses. She looks so perfect, even when she’s not posing. For once her lips aren’t pouty. They’re smiling widely.

Daisy probably hates this photo, because it shows a more realistic side of her. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Daisy, it’s that she wants to be nothing but picture-perfect. She’s building a brand with her image. What she’s doing with it, I have no idea. I don’t pretend to understand the scrutiny girls like her are under. I took a very different path in life as the daughter of someone rich and famous.

One night, while I’m staring at these photos like a stalker, I get a call from my mother.

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