Chapter 12

chapter

twelve

Daisy

Do I trust Owen enough to blurt out my secret?

I mean, look at him. Look at what he’s already proven to me. He’s persistent, but accepted my offer of friendship without sulking or acting entitled. He stayed with me and took care of me while I was drunk, and didn’t run away when I acted a fool.

“I’ve never had an orgasm.”

There. It’s out there. And his utterly unreadable expression in reaction to that is somehow a relief. I go on, “Not with a man, anyway. And I don’t think that I’ll ever be able to.”

Owen makes a throaty noise of acknowledgment that vibrates into me, sending a wave of heat down to my core, making me slick with need.

He pulls away just a little, and I bite back a frustrated whine at the loss of his heat.

“Baby, I don’t want you to worry about that. Fake it, don’t fake it. I don’t give a fuck. But I do take that as a challenge.”

Owen’s jaw tics, his face a storm of emotions I don’t know if I’m ready for.

“You do?”

“Whoever made you feel like you can’t, didn’t know what he was doing.”

From the look in his blue eyes, with their pupils blown out with arousal, I can see that I’m in for it.

The hand at my neck moves down and tugs on the back of the bathrobe, letting me easily shrug it off my arms completely. I then shed my tee shirt.

I’m now fully exposed except for the few desperately wet inches hiding behind the fabric between my legs. I reach for him, ready for whatever comes next.

Owen goes still and rigid for a moment. I don’t make a move, though I would love to hitch him forward with my hands that rest on his ribs, to urge him on, to go back to the kissing and the nuzzling. I fucking love the nuzzling.

“Look at my girl. Look at how pretty she is.”

I feel objectified with my tits hanging out in the middle of my kitchen. This man is obsessed with my breasts. And I freaking love that.

Owen’s face dips low and he takes one nipple into his mouth.

Electricity arcs through me at the touch of his lips there. Him sucking, kissing, teasing out my nipple, might be my new favorite thing. My tiny, restrained moans make him suck harder, grazing his teeth over that tight bud. I grow impossibly wetter at that.

He switches to the opposite nipple, while his hand cups the one he just finished suckling. He runs the pad of his thumb over the tight tip, wringing out more and more from me, making me so damn heated I could scream.

Instead, I bite my bottom lip, basking in the pleasure of his mouth, his tongue, his sandpapery fingertips doing magical things to my skin, to my nipple.

I’m fighting this moan of pleasure that keeps bubbling up. I am the picture of control, until he switches back to the other nipple, this time taking more of my breast into his mouth.

That’s when I feel his teeth graze over the excited tip once again, which pushes out a gurgling, desperate noise from my mouth.

I half expect him to chuckle about it, but Owen answers with a rough, hot growl.

“Daisy, you’re fucking beautiful.”

“Owen…I…oh god…”

He releases my breast but he’s far from finished. Owen’s head dips so low he can no longer stay upright. Sitting down on the adjacent barstool, he pulls me onto his lap.

I’m forced to grip his waist with my thighs.

My hands go to the back of the barstool, which swivels slightly under our jerky movements.

He plants one hand on my thigh, holding me steady, while the opposite hand lifts one of my breasts, letting him lick the underside of it.

This new sensation has me twitching, then grinding down against Owen’s lap.

I’ve never in my life had someone’s tongue slide over that hidden spot, and it feels so damn good I could cry.

He repeats this with the other underboob and switches back and forth, all the while gently kneading and teasing my tits with those rough fingers.

“Owen,” I whisper, sounding more whiny than I intended. “I need…”

“I got you, Daisy,” he murmurs against my skin.

He does have me. I believe he knows what he’s doing. He has my trust and takes control without me having to ask for what I want.

He pushes my hips up just a touch, giving enough room for him to reach between us, pulling aside the thong that’s in the way.

The soft sound of his jeans unzipping follows this, and I swallow hard. This is happening.

I stare in wonder as he hefts his cock out of the confines of the boxer briefs.

Eye contact is almost too much. Carefully, I ease forward and plant kisses along his neck, behind his ear, my eyes noticing how crispy the bacon is, how perfectly he sliced the watermelon and the cantaloupe, and marveling at the sheer amount of food he prepared for two people. It’s laughable.

But then my mind goes somewhere else, and I think that maybe he did all this to take care of me later today, tonight, and the next night.

So thoughtful.

And so fucking fuckable, I think, as he adjusts me how he wants me, pulling me back down on his lap so there’s no distance between us.

“I’m ready, Owen.”

The way he smiles up at me nearly rips me in two. I feel so ready, it hurts.

“Let me watch you come first.”

Oh no. Didn’t he hear what I said?

“How?”

He smiles, though his face is tight with need.

“You’ve made yourself come before, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” I say in a half-whisper.

“Use me, Daisy. Any way you want to. And let me watch you get yourself off.”

I’m not sure how that’s going to work, but I just want to feel him everywhere.

I roll my hips forward, sliding up the underside of that thick, hard length.

My cheeks bloom with heat. I’ve never done anything like this before.

“I—am I doing this right?” I ask.

“Does it feel good?”

The way his ridges are hitting me feels better than anything in this world.

“Yes,” I say on a gasp.

“Then do that. Grind on me and let me see your face when you use me to make yourself come, baby.”

I don’t know why, but his saying that turns me on so fucking much.

I let go of the back of the chair as I rock my hips on him again, this time with more pressure. I keep going, then adjust, holding on to his shoulders instead, anchoring myself to his steady, rugged frame.

“That’s it. Just like that,” he rumbles.

Every bit of him touches me in that perfect spot.

I’ve never felt this wet before.

Which might pose another challenge for him that he hasn’t realized yet.

He sees the hesitation on my face even as I continue to grind and push.

“What is it, baby? Talk to me. Don’t be shy.”

Letting go of my bottom lip, I rasp, “I’m so wet, Owen. I’m making a mess on you.”

He growls, catching one breast with his mouth as it jiggles close to his face with my movements.

“Fuck that, baby. You don’t think I want your sweet scent all fucking over me? You think I haven’t been dreaming of having the memory of us in my clothes, in my hair, on my beard? You don’t think I’ve been fantasizing about exactly that?”

Holy fricking crap.

My hips find their rhythm. Our gazes lock onto each other.

The friction is intoxicating.

But there’s one and only one hangover cure for this type of feeling.

The ridge of Owen’s mushroom tip rubs against my clit one more time, then two, then three, and then I lose count.

I’ve never been this close to coming without a toy. Or by touching myself. Is this really happening?

He sees me overthinking it.

“Just keep doing what you’re doing, baby. Don’t try to rush it. Don’t think about it. Just take what you need.”

Stop thinking. Thinking is the only thing in this life I know how to do really, really well.

How does one stop thinking?

For one, taking in that blue gaze of Owen’s.

The way he looks at me. I’m not an authority at this moment. I’m not someone he needs parenting advice from. I’m not the person everyone puts on a pedestal.

I’m just Daisy. I’m just a woman taking care of her own needs.

A woman who is desired and pursued and lusted after.

It feels incredible to be an object of lust for once in my life.

“Sweetheart,” he rumbles.

That word.

It’s too much. It’s a very thinly veiled code for “love.”

And it’s exactly what I need.

The ache in my lower half reaches a crescendo, and my orgasm smashes everything I thought I knew into a million pieces.

I cry out. “Owen!”

His rough hands on my thighs slide up under my ass, dragging me forward, impossibly closer. He squeezes my damp cheeks as I tremble.

He must feel the twitch down there. He has to.

“Good girl.”

My back arches as I come and come, tightening and releasing. He did it. He did this to me.

Owen does the last thing I expect, now that I’ve achieved something I never thought was achievable for me. Owen reaches around to my front and slips one thumb between our bodies, running that rough pad over my sensitive clit, making this rattling orgasm intensify into a thunderstorm of pleasure.

His touch rips me in half, prolonging my shattering release.

I didn’t think I had any more in me, but Owen is proving me wrong repeatedly, in the best way possible.

“Look at that. Look at us,” he orders.

I do as he says. Below my heaving chest, I make out the shape of Owen’s ripe pink cock, glistening with my essence.

Suddenly, Owen’s body seizes under me. His jaw tightens, and his eyes roll back in his head.

That gorgeous face reddens. The cords of his neck bulge.

“Fuck! Fucking hell…” he rasps.

I press my mouth against his tight jaw, tasting the salty scruff, savoring the ripple of those tiny muscles.

Owen explodes.

He comes in hot, pulsating streams, releasing his spend between us, and onto his abdomen.

It’s the craziest, sexiest thing I’ve ever felt, seen or done. This may be pretty tame to some people, but for buttoned-up Dr. Daisy Allen from Gold Hill, it’s pretty fucking wild.

I’m so fascinated by Owen that I barely notice the way his hands have moved, planting me in place. Each hand spans a whole section of my ribs, from the tip of his pinky to the tip of his thumb. Holding me still.

At five foot ten inches and 145 pounds, I feel like a giraffe on roller skates most days. But in Owen’s arms, I’m just Daisy.

A pretty, petite flower. Protected. But not fragile.

“What’s on your mind, Daisy?” Owen asks once his color turns back to his normal hue and the cords of his throat relax.

“I was just thinking. It’s been a minute since you kissed me.”

He blinks and casts his gaze down to my breasts. “I kissed you plenty this morning.”

“On the lips.”

“Well, you said you weren’t so sure about your breath.”

I gasp in horror, as he trembles beneath me, shaking in laughter.

“That was a joke. I’m messing with you, Daisy girl.”

I don’t know whether to slap him or kiss him. I don’t have to make that choice, though, because Owen’s hands next cup my jaw and draw me down, slanting my head to the side to take my mouth with his.

His kiss is magical. Slow and tender at first. Dry, but warm and comfortable. We kiss just like that, tenderly, until he reaches around possessively. One hand bites into my hair, and the other grips my neck.

I let out a tiny moan as he traces the tip of his tongue along the seam of my mouth.

I open to accept his tongue, slicking mine against his in a heated kiss.

And I’ll say this for tongue kissing after an orgasm—it’s better than salted caramel and bourbon all day long.

I don’t know how long we stay like this and kiss. It could be five minutes or five hours.

My stomach rumbles, prompting Owen to pull away, the concern on his face touching. The microwave clock tells me it’s been less than forty-five minutes since I padded into my kitchen this morning.

“You need to eat,” Owen says, fixing me on his lap so my legs dangle off the side, while he feeds me.

First a strawberry, then a grape, then some pineapple.

“Watching you eat fruit is making me hard again.”

I scoff, then accept another bite of grapes. There’s no way he could go again. Could he?

But the way he’s staring at my mouth as I suck on a piece of pineapple, the way a quiet growl rumbles in his chest, I think maybe he’s not exaggerating.

Could I go again? Hell, yes. I may be addicted to this man. The way he made me use his body, I’m sure that my body is now sexually imprinted on his body, and only his. Emotionally, I’m even further gone.

“Well, I know many ways to address that. As your doctor,” I say with a smirk.

“How’s that?” he asks, watching my mouth.

“Well, first, I’d?—”

My words get cut off when Owen receives a notification on his phone.

“Crap,” he says. “That’s my mom.”

Reality comes crashing back down, and it’s all I can do to not pout at him.

Of course, he’d have a unique text tone for his mother, the woman who babysits for him.

And of course, when he hears that, he has to take it.

A parent does not have the luxury of silencing their phone when they’re messing around in the kitchen with a hot date.

Carefully, I slide off his lap so he can stand and go to the counter, where his phone is perched upright in the charger. Geez, it’s like he already fits into my life.

But does he?

Feeling like the happy, dirty little hussy I am this morning, I shrug back into my robe and make myself a proper breakfast plate.

Gosh, I’m starving.

I nibble on eggs and bacon while Owen reads his text and follows up with a call to his mom.

“Hey, Mom… OK…yeah, no, I totally get it…how’d he sleep? …Oh shit, I’m sorry to hear that…yeah I’ll come right now…thanks so much.”

Guilt rushes through me. I set down a biscuit I’ve just taken a bite of, and secure the knot in my robe.

He hangs up and stuffs his phone in his back pocket. His face is a cloud of regret as he curses.

I turn toward him and cross my legs self-consciously as I nibble on strawberry, noticing the twinge and the tingle between my thighs.

“Sounds like they had a rough night,” I say, wincing.

He nods, and rubs a hand over his face.

I push a plate toward him. “Here, take some food home for later, and for your mom, and for Graham. This is too much for me to eat.”

He must sense a tone in me. “Daisy.”

“What?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t go all chirpy when you’re trying to put distance between us,” he says, closing in on me.

“But you have to go,” I point out. “Plus, the kid needs to eat. And so you do.”

And then, he’s right in front of me again, leaning in for a kiss.

He rests his head against my forehead. “Listen. I know things are complicated. But it’s not that complicated. You’re my girl. Do you understand that?”

I nod, even though I don’t see how it could work. With our schedules, and the way he seems so averse to using strangers to babysit, I just don’t see how our schedules will meet up regularly enough to maintain an exclusive relationship.

He needs to focus on himself and his little boy.

“OK,” I say anyway, nodding and giving him a smile.

Judging by his expression, I know he can see right through my brave smile.

“I gotta go relieve Mom and then I gotta take a crabby Graham to work.”

“Got it,” I say.

A firm hand brushes the hair from my face and tucks it behind my ear.

“But I’ll text you tonight. OK?”

I nod. “OK.”

He kisses my forehead, and then, he’s gone.

And I know in my heart that this thing between us might not work in the long run. Not because he’s a patient, or a client, or whatever he is to me professionally. I’ve come to terms with what Ursula said. Lines will be blurred.

The breakfast bar still has more food than I can eat in three days—so much, it’s comical.

He’s just so giving.

Being with him feels like healing.

Owen fixed my little problem. Helped me fix myself, to be precise.

I don’t know what I can give him in return as a partner.

He doesn’t seem to have any breaks that need fixing.

But then again…maybe he does.