Page 7 of Chaining Daisy
Daisy’s fingers tighten on the fitted sheet and she tenses up her legs. Her movement rucks her shirt up, exposing a tiny sliver of her black panties where they disappear between her thighs.
Goddamn.
I want to take a photograph of this moment. I try to burn into my brain the way it feels to perch on top of Daisy’s crisp white fitted sheet as she lets out a string of unladylike curses and Itskat her.
“Do you want to be humiliated screaming for mercyandfill up the swear jar in a single morning? You’ll be footing my coffee bill for a long time if you keep it up.”
“I’m not a fucking child!”
“Of course you aren’t. Swearing has nothing to do with that.”
“Then what the fuck is the point?”
“Control,” I mutter, as much for myself as to answer her question. “Self-control.”
“You can’t control me.” Her voice pitches low and, I want to believe, sultry.
Oh, how much I’m going to enjoy proving her wrong. My hand descends all the way to her middle, cutting off any other argument. My fingers dig in right under her ribs and I relish the way she squirms, accidentally moving closer when she kicks out and screeches. God, she’s fucking adorable.
I try to ignore the way her shirt bunches and keep my eyes trained on her face. On how she’s actually laughing and the darkness that’s been in her eyes for months, since we knew that the end was approaching, has retreated momentarily.
Her little giggles and snorts and the growls as she latches onto my forearm and tries to yank it away from her torso are the real thing. And God, does it make me feel good to see that.
Because as much as I want to fuck her, I also just want to make her happy.
My sentimentality is my downfall because Daisy effectively yanks my hand aside and I go toppling down on top of her. My torso smashes against hers and I hear a huff of breath on impact.
I scramble to get her hands off my arm so that I can lift myself up. I don’t want to crush her, the girl’s only half my size. But she takes every one of my motions as an attempt at fighting. She locks down harder on my arm and even raises a leg, trying to dig her knee into my side. And suddenly the knee digging into my side is shifting … becoming a calf wrapped around my back.
Holy shit.
This position. I try to look at her face, but her upper half is still fighting me, even as her legs start to clamp suggestively around me.
She can’t mean it. It’s just a coincidence.
I double down on attacking her with my fingers, which means I give up propping myself up with one hand and just let myself sink on top of her so I can use the hand that was holding myself as my new weapon. I plunder her underarm, wiggling my fingers, noting how my palm skates so deliciously close to the side of her breast.
“Gah! No!” She writhes underneath me and the deviant part of my brain, the broken portion, rearranges her movements inside my head. It becomes dirty.
When her hands come up and her nails rake down my back … it becomes downright obscene.
God, I have to stop this. Right? I have to. We can’t just … devolve like this. No. I have plans. Dates. We have to have a discussion … my needs are very … distinct.She might not even want to handle them, but I think … I think she will. I saw something in her bratty eyes the moment we met. Something that makes me believe she’d love all the kinky things I want to do to her.
When she lets go of one of my arms to reach for the other, I see an opening. I snatch both her wrists and pin her hands above her head. Originally, I just meant to hold her still long enough to climb off of her. But we end up staring at one another, her out of breath, me hardly breathing. Because this is exactly how I’d want to hold her the first time I fuck—
No. Nope.I raise my leg and try to move, but her hand snakes out of my grasp like she’s an expert criminal slipping out of cuffs. She moves fast and gets my side, trying to tickle me back. I have to counter her attack with a quick swivel of my fingers over her ribs. I hit a spot that makes her howl.
I watch her toss her head side to side as the demon inside me whispers,That’s exactly what she’d be doing if I was fucking her hard and deep right now.
“OKAY! OKAY! I give!” she pants. “Uncle! Uncle!”
I give her a victory smirk, the thrill of winning and of her surrender coursing through me as I carefully pull my hand away from her ribcage, pushing myself up. I don’t release my hold on her remaining hand, because it’s so perfect that I can’t bring myself to let go before I absolutely have to. My own breathing is as ragged as hers, but for entirely different reasons. But she’s not ready. I need to ease her into this. Still, I can’t stop the words, “I’m not uncle.”
Pinned beneath my body, with her face flushed, and shirt still rucked up deliciously, she glances down my torso before peering up at me from under her lashes. “That’s right. You’re Daddy.”
All the air leaves the room as we stare at each other, the connection I’ve been hoping for and dreaming about for so long rising up between us, crashing over us. It raises all the hair on my arms, and fills my chest with something warm and bright. That’s the first time she’s called me that since our first meeting. God, it does things to me.
Then she blushes and ducks her head, a little embarrassed by her own audacity, and the potent moment is broken.
