Page 37 of Pushing Daisy
Daisy uses the edge of her thumb to wipe the frosting off. Sloan’s eyes follow her hand as Daisy brings her thumb to her mouth and licks the icing off. If she’s not mistaken, she hears Sloan’s breath hitch.
“Thanks. These are divine.” Taking another large bite and with a still partially full mouth, she responds, “Goddess, I fucking love cupcakes.” Daisy licks more icing from her fingers, and there’s an audible swallow from Sloan.
“Glad…Glad you like them,” Sloan responds, her voice shaky. She moves to her bag, picking out a change of clothes. “I’m going to, um, clean up.”
Daisy gives her a thumbs-up, smiling around a mouth full of a second cupcake as her eyes roll into the back of her head. Seriously, these baked goods have no business being this delicious. The icing is perfectly sweet and practically melts on her tongue, while the cake is so fluffy it might as well be unicorn poop.
When Sloan emerges again, Daisy is definitely not stuffing the end of a tart into her mouth, and she certainly doesn’t nearly choke when she glances at Sloan.
Holy fucking Hecate. She’s a smoke show. Frankly, she always has been—perhaps one of the reasons Daisy hated her growing up. It’s hard to feel good about yourself when you feel like the hook-nosed bog witch next to Miss Perfect. But damn. Her dark trousers hug every curve and cling to her in all the right places. And the sheer white top with the black bra underneath. Daisy sucks in a breath, trying to compose herself and stop the tingling sensation working its way from her toes to her core. Try as she might to hate her, Daisy wonders if this weekend has proven that Sloan may be more than she thought all these years. However, even if that’s true, it doesn’t mean she has to like what’s happening to her insides.
Can she be friends with the enemy? Maybe. If only to get through this project.
Should she want the enemy? Fuck. No. Does she? Maybe. A little.
“You’ve got some…” Sloan says, running her thumb across Daisy’s lips, removing the remaining crumbs. The barest touch causes her knees to tremble. If she weren’t already sitting, they would most certainly be buckling underneath her, making her swoon like a Victorian lady touched for the first time. Both of them stop, rooted to their spots. Frozen in time as they absorb what has happened.
Daisy raises her eyes and finds herself captured in Sloan’s. Sounds beyond the room fall away, and it’s… just them. Here. Now. The sound of their breath and Daisy’s racing heart are the only things that make sense. Sloan’s eyes soften as they gaze back at her, silently asking a question Daisy is too afraid to ask and too scared to answer. Sloan answers for her by sliding her hand from Daisy’s mouth around her cheek, cupping the back of her neck, and pulling Daisy up to meet her. Daisy doesn’t resist.
Sloan’s lips meet Daisy’s softly, tentatively. She moans gently in response, her hands taking on a mind of their own and landing on Sloan’s backside. Sloan must take this as a fervent yes because her soft kiss morphs into passion and heat personified. Her hand grips Daisy’s hair at the back of her head, angling her how she wants, and Daisy’s mouth opens further, inviting her in. Their tongues clash as if this is their one and only chance. The sweetness from the baked goods dances between them as their tongues dance upon each other, hungrily seeking and plunging for more.
“Daisy,” Sloan groans into her mouth, and holy shit, hearing her name on Sloan’s lips melts her insides. Heat pools inside her, igniting a part she felt had long been burnt out. She’s dated and fucked others, but if she’s honest with herself, that’s all it’s ever been. This kind of visceral response and connection was never there. As it stands right now, Sloan could ask anything of her, and she would do it. She would burn the town down if she asked so that they could be the last two standing.
What is it about this woman that does this? How can she swing from hating her and wanting to burn her to the ground to now being willing to burn for her? These confusing thoughts circle in her brain as she walks backward toward the bed. Sloan guides her down, following her as she positions herself over Daisy. The weight of Sloan on top of her is comforting.
Sloan’s arms surround her head as her legs spread to position Daisy’s heated center beneath hers. Being caged in by Sloan as she moves to kiss Daisy’s neck is hot as fuck. Daisy cocks her head to the side, allowing better access. The brush of Sloan’s lips on her sensitive collarbone sends tingles down her spine to her toes.
Daisy whimpers as she battles the desire to run her hands through Sloan’s hair and the foreboding sense that this is bad and needs to be stopped. Her brain chants to stop, that whatever this is can only bring bad news. That she and Sloan can’t let this go any further. But the hollow in her chest screams louder, cheering for her to plow ahead, because something that feels this fucking good can’t be wrong.
“Daisy,” Sloan rasps, her voice husky and filled with desire. The sound flows into her, begging and pleading for more. For Daisy to choose. To choose her. It works its way into her chest, nestling in as it finds a new home. “Daisy,” she repeats, seeking permission. “Tell me to stop.” She kisses across Daisy’s collarbone, licking at the hollow of her neck before continuing up the other side and nipping at her earlobe. Daisy’s hips rise of their own accord. Sloan grinds into her in response. “Tell me to stop.”
Daisy’s hands grip tightly onto Sloan’s hips, pulling her closer. “I’m not sure I can,” she responds wantonly. Sloan’s core pushes against her, grinding and creating the most delicious friction.
“Tell me what you want, cupcake.”
“Cupcake? Really?” Daisy questions, running a hand over Sloan’s ass and squeezing it.
“Yes. That icing on your nose, then your lip—” Sloan groans into the crook of Daisy’s neck, sending vibrating chills straight to her throbbing pussy. “Goddess, it took everything in me not to come and lick it off.”
“Okay. Cupcake.”
Sloan brings her hands to Daisy’s chest, copping a feel as she pushes herself back. “Daisy,” She says, gazing into her soul. “I can hear the wheels turning in your head.”
“You cannot.”
“I can. If you don’t want to continue, I’m okay with stopping. As much as I’ve been dying to devour you all day, I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do. But I need you to tell me. I need you to tell me you want this,” she says, motioning between them, “to happen.”
“I…” Daisy starts. She pauses, unsure of what to do or say. She’s never had anyone really care about her opinion or want explicit consent. Even her best experiences with partners have always come down to implied consent. They were both feeling it. Things got hot and heavy. And they went with it. No outright agreement. But this. Asking for permission—no, asking for explicit consent—is different. It’s new. And scary. But also… hot? To be given a choice. To be asked for that decision. Knowing that she’s continuing because she wants to, not because it’s expected. It’s fucking hot as a boiling cauldron, and it’s rapidly melting her hardened walls. “I don’t know what I want. I’ve strangely enjoyed these past couple of days with you.”
“Thank you?”
“Well, mostly. You aren’t completely terrible, and you seem to actually want to be involved in this whole shindig,” Daisy says.
“But?”
“But you’re, well, you. And I’m me. We aren’t the same. We don’t fit.”
Sloan looks down at her hands. She lifts one and makes a pointing gesture with two fingers. “I don’t know. I think I could make it fit,” she says, quirking an eyebrow suggestively.
