Page 22 of Chaining Daisy
But, just as quickly as he started, he pulls away, dropping my chin and stepping back.
After a moment spent collecting my wits, I blink up at him, worried I did something wrong.
“I’m going to shower. You make popcorn and pick a movie for us to watch.”
Wait. What? What is happening? My eyes trail after him as he strides toward the front hall. I’m literally a panting, soaking wet mess right now.
He turns in the archway and glances back at me, a cold smile crossing his face. “Rule number one: don’t touch yourself. Daddy will know.”
As he disappears, I press my thighs together. Fuck. As if him saying that didn’t just make me goddamned hotter.What did I just agree to?I squeeze my thighs together where I stand. It’s torture.But delicious torture,I remind myself,and so much better than what you’ve been doing to yourself for the last year.
I drift into the kitchen, still wading through this new reality that I can’t quite believe as I grab a bag of popcorn and stuff it into the microwave.
I start to anticipate the way Gunnar will look when he comes back down. Will he bother tossing new boxers on? Or will he just yell down the stairs for me to come up? Will I get to see him with water droplets sticking to his chest, dripping from the tips of his dark hair? Or will he dry off and stroke himself, staring in the mirror, before he comes back down to me?
Bed? Or couch? He did say movie night, but I don’t really believe him. Movies mean dark rooms and wandering hands, which will definitely turn into more. The question is whether he can make it all the way downstairs first and wait for me to press play. I fucking hope not.
The scent of buttered popcorn fills the kitchen as the microwave finishes up, dinging. I cut some strawberries at the island butcher block table to go with the popcorn because Gunnar always likes some sweet with his salty, but he won’t do processed sugar. I also pour us each a glass of water.
I bring everything to the coffee table and set it out before flipping on the TV to settle on a show. I pick an action flick that I have zero interest in because I won’t mind missing it. I get it all set up to play, and when I glance over toward the open archway to check for Gunnar, I see my broken phone on the ground. I walk over and pick it up. The screen is cracked and not just a little. There’s a whole lot of nothing on the screen. It’s a goner.
“I’m sorry about that. I ordered you a new one. Should get delivered tomorrow.” Gunnar’s voice makes me spin around.
He doesn’t look like any of my naughty fantasy predictions. He’s not naked, his massive biceps and chest on display for me. He’s not in just a towel so I can peek at his happy trail. He’s dressed in a loose t-shirt and pajama pants, just like he wears to bed every winter night.
He didn’t shave, so his chiseled, dimpled chin is lined with the dark, delicious scruff I’ve come to love seeing every night. But his hair is slicked back, and everything about him looks so disappointingly … normal.
“Thanks,” I mumble around the disappointment sitting like a marble inside my mouth. It’s hard to care about a phone when all you want is to be thrown down and deflowered. Why is he dressed?
“What’d you pick? Oh, nice choice. Come on, sweetie. Sit next to me.” He casually plops down on the couch and reaches for a slice of strawberry, popping it into his mouth.
I swear I could knit a sweater out of the nerves unraveling inside me right now. I debate whether I should be acting innocent or sultry to put him in the mood and I swear I just glitch out and end up awkward. “Okay!” I bound over far too enthusiastically.
I see him suppress a smile, trying not to laugh at me. He knows I have no clue what I’m doing though, what does he expect?
Embarrassed, I end up sitting too far away.
“I don’t bite,” he jokes, and I scoot over until he wraps his arm around my shoulder.
I can’t even begin to describe how that feels. That classic moment from every romance movie ever, where the guy stretches his arm around the girl, casually claiming her. It helps the fretful embarrassment ease, and I snuggle next to him as he presses play.
I pay absolutely no mind to the movie. All of my attention is on Gunnar’s left hand, which strokes my shoulder, then plays with my hair, then slowly skates up and down my arm.
What is he doing? Is he making this like a movie date? Where are all the ravaging kisses from before?
Part of me wants to make a move, but after the practically-skipping-to-the-couch debacle, I don’t want to fuck up the mood further. So I bite my lip and sit patiently, attempting to enjoy each little touch.
Slowly, I realize what I think he’s doing. He’s playing sneaky. Fuck. God. Why is that hot? Playing forbidden? I mean, we’re already about as forbidden as it gets in society’s eyes, but the fact that he’s trying to be so subtle, to build this sensual suspense … I might burst into flame.
It feels like it takes an eternity before he finally caresses the side of my breast. At first, it’s so slight that it seems accidental, but over time, his fingertips drag up and down over my shirt more deliberately. They get closer and closer to my nipple, but don’t quite touch it.
Fuck. It must be forty-five minutes into the movie and he’s still barely playing. I think he’s trying to kill me.
Anticipation coils inside of me and I dig my fingers into the couch cushion as his forefinger and thumb finally move to pinch my stiff nipple through my sleep shirt. The effect is immediate. Like a final railroad spike that finishes off the tracks that have already been laid, the simple tug he gives makes me pant and arch. More, I need more.
I turn toward him and bring my lips to his neck, but he pulls back, his face turning away from the movie he’s been pretending to watch in order to glare down at me. “Rule two: Daddy initiates play time.”
Fuck. Was this not initiated? What counts as initiated? But he’s already turned back to the movie, his fingers still pinching my nipple through my shirt and tugging rhythmically. It feels so good but … it’s not enough. It's a lit match when I want a fucking campfire.
