Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Love Boat

Daisy

I sat with my bare feet up on a chair in the dressing room at Smithie’s, a cold Fat Tire beer in my hand.

The beer was not my choice. It was Wynter’s birthday. She wanted a tub filled with Fat Tire, so Smithie left one for us in the dressing room. Though it wasn’t my choice, it was the first time I’d ever had it and that beer was yum.

My contribution was a big birthday sheet cake practically covered with huge frosting roses.

Oh, and the cake also had the words Happy Birthday, Wynter! and the whole thing was covered in edible glitter dust.

I was sipping and grinning at Chardonnay, who was telling a story.

“So then I was all, ‘What’s your problem?’ And she was all, ‘I don’t have a problem. What’s your problem?’ And I was all, ‘Do you see me talking to this guy?” And she was all, ‘Whatever.’ And I was all, ‘Not whatever. You just came up to him while I was talking to him and shoved your tits in his face.’ And she was all, ‘I did not do that.’ And I was all, ‘I got eyes in my head, don’t I?’ And then the guy says, ‘You did do that. And it was not cool. I’m talking to her.’” Her face got dreamy and so did her voice when she finished, “His name was Dylan, and he was fine.”

Then she gave me big eyes.

“How fine, sugar bunch?” I asked.

She lifted her hands and held her pointed fingers out at least ten inches. “Fine.”

That was when my eyes got big. “That is fine.”

“So what happened with this chick?” Ashlynn asked.

“She bitchslapped her,” Paris put in. “I was there. It was fucking aces.”

“Good for you,” I said to Chardonnay.

“You got that right, sister,” Chardonnay replied.

We giggled.

“Know this chick,” Paris said into our giggles, grabbing up a handful of the cashews that Ashlynn brought, which, as far as I was concerned, seriously classed up a birthday party in a stripper dressing room. Then again, cashews classed up anything. “Her name is Dawn. She’s so good spreadin’ her bitch around, think she’s goin’ for the world record of bitchdom.”

Then she threw back the cashews.

“Dawn?” China sidled up, pulling out her own Fat Tire and reaching for the opener. “I think I know her. She went after my girl Bethany’s man. He is hot.” Her face got distracted. “Though I think she’s just a booty call. His name is Hawk. And that night when that Dawn chick made her move was the only time he’s been seen with her in public and that’s only because he was pickin’ her up from this party so he could have his booty call.”

“This dude’s name is Hawk?” Chardonnay asked.

China nodded.

“Who’s called Hawk?” Chardonnay went on.

“I’d call him whatever he wanted me to call him, he’s just that hot,” China replied.

“Now, sugar,” I began to advise, “this guy could be hot but she’s givin’ him some and he’s been seen with her in public once?”

I left it at that but shook my head slowly.

“Daisy, serious,” China said. “I was at that party. I saw him. And Bethany has talked about him. A lot. So even if half the shit she said is true, just getting a load of him, I’d not only call him whatever he wanted me to call him, I wouldn’t care if we saw the light of day, just as long as he kept the lights on when he was doin’ me. Because, I’ll repeat, he’s just that hot.”

“Well then,” I murmured on a grin, “there you go.”

There was a knock on the door and Wynter called out, “Decent.”

Smithie swung in with the door, just his torso, his hand still on the knob, his scowl already set.

“Any a’ you bitches feel like doin’ somethin’ other than sittin’ around throwin’ back a few beers, like, I don’t know, dancing?”

“Is it time?” Chardonnay asked.

Smithie’s gaze cut to the big clock on the wall that said yes, the day girls were done, the night girls were on seven minutes ago.

He didn’t use those words. He just returned his scowl to the room.

The day girls didn’t leave the stage until the night girls scooted out.

So it was definitely time for them to hit it.

“Right, we better go,” Ashlynn said, setting her beer aside.

“Thanks for the cake. I can’t wait to try some during your first set,” Wynter added, shooting me a smile.

I gave her a smile back.

“Knock ’em dead, sugars!” I called after them.

Smithie didn’t move, glowering at them as they filed out in front of him.

After China, the last of them, cleared the room, his eyes came to me.

“Sloan’s booth is empty and the place is already packed. I need the space if he ain’t gonna show. He comin’ tonight?”

I nodded, feeling my heart squeeze and not in a good way.

I’d been back at work for over five weeks.

If I was working, most nights, at some point during the night, Marcus slid into the semi-circular booth at the very end on the north side of the club. A booth that had become his. No one sat at it because, first, it was Marcus Sloan’s and second, Smithie put a red velvet rope in front of it until he showed.

Sometimes I’d watch from the dancers’ hall, and when I did, I’d see that he didn’t watch the dancers (though I noticed his eyes never left me when I was onstage). He would either be on his phone, talking to one of his men, or going over papers he had on the table while he sipped his bourbon and branch.

Whether Marcus showed or not, Brady stood outside the dressing room door if I was in it. If I was onstage, he stood just offstage, eyes on the club.

Yes, Marcus gave me his bodyguard.

After the night was done, if Marcus was there, Brady escorted me out the back door and into Marcus’s limo. If he wasn’t, Brady escorted me to my Porsche then followed me wherever I went after and then escorted me behind closed doors once I got there.

That there usually being Marcus’s place, sometimes my place, though that was rarely.

If I had a day off and it wasn’t a weekend (and I was a headliner and weekends were big for Smithie’s, so it was rare I had time off on the weekends), I’d do my thing, Marcus would do his, but we’d meet for dinner.

The majority of the time he took me to fancy places. The other times, I made him let me cook for him (yes, I’d horned in on his kitchen). Twice, he got takeout but it wasn’t from Twin Dragon or alternate goodness like that. It was always from swanky places that didn’t even do takeout (except for men like Marcus).

In the beginning, I slept in his big bed, him in his guest room, or the times we were at my place, he insisted on sleeping on the couch.

Giving me hope, about two weeks ago, I got him to messing around in his bed, and even though he stopped the good stuff, he didn’t leave. He got on his pajama bottoms (silk, drawstring, navy-blue, f-i-n-e, fine) and joined me there.

And from then on, we slept together.

Without, it was important to add, sleepingtogether.

He held me when we slept. Or he didn’t move all night if I cuddled up to him.

That was good.

But I will repeat, we slept together without sleeping together.

That was bad.

He’d slid into second base repeatedly. And he was good at that in a big way. And once (giving me more hope), with his fingers over my panties, he’d given me the very good stuff.

But only once and that was it.

Mostly, he stopped the festivities before they got too heated, turned me into his arms or let me snuggle into him, gave me a soft kiss on my nose or forehead, and then we went to sleep.

And I’ll repeat something else.

That was it.

For over five weeks.

We’d had conversations about this. Twelve of them to be exact. (Yes, I was counting.)

And I was getting nowhere except to know really well Marcus thought we should “take it slow.”

I hadn’t had a drama since my first time eating at his dining room table. I’d never had another nightmare. Not to mention, he knew I was no fragile flower. And I was giving him every indication I was ready to move us forward.

I understood why he wanted to take it slow and that was sweet.

But this wasn’t slow.

This was alarming.

Because, see, shit like this messed with a girl’s head.

A man doesn’t want down her pants, that speaks volumes.

Or, more to the point, it makes a girl ask a lot of questions that might not seem logical to some, but to a girl, they were as logical as it could get.

For me, these questions were two in particular.

The first, was I the damsel in distress in place of the sister he’d wished he could save? And part B of that question, was he in denial about that, thinking he was doing the right thing when he was not?

Or second, was I a kind of employee he was looking after to keep safe while they kept looking for the guy who did what he’d done to me?

And no one had said anything, so I reckoned he was still out there. Detective Jimmy Marker had called at least ten times to share that he was disappointed with the progress of the case, but he had no intention of giving up so they were still looking.

Sure, the illogical part in all of this was that it had been way more than five weeks where Marcus had been sweet to me, kind, thoughtful, attentive, gentlemanly, generous, and even sexy. That should speak volumes too.

But, I mean, in my life, one of the many things I’d learned was that if a guy wants it, it’s offered, he takes it. Especially if it’s offered repeatedly.

So Marcus not taking it had to mean he didn’t want it.

Now he’d seen me doing my thing on the stage and he’d seen it a lot. He was sweet as usual when I got in his limo with him after work. Complimentary. Touchy. Kissy. Nice. He hadn’t acted, not once, like watching me do my gig made him think I was skeevy. Not even close.

In fact, it was the opposite.

It could not be said when he first started coming to the club it didn’t make me feel all kinds of special, not only that he’d come, but that his eyes never left me when I was onstage, like he was transfixed, spellbound.

And not just in the beginning, that kept right on going, in actions and words, he gave me the sense he was proud of me. Proud that, at the end of the night, the woman he was watching onstage was going to be escorted to his limousine and she’d be spending the night in his bed (even if they didn’t do much there).

But he was total class. He had a penthouse. He belonged to a country club (one he had not taken me to, by the way). He worked a lot and said things into his phone like “dividends” and “shift those investments around” and “the rate of return on that is not what I’d hoped, let’s consider alternatives.”

And I was, well, a stripper.

I had a Porsche but I didn’t have a limo or a penthouse, and even though I raked it in (with him paying me, but I could have done it my own damned self if he hadn’t taken off a set, a song on each set, and the lap dances), I’d never have that. I’d never belong to a country club. I’d never tame my hair, ease up on the eyeliner, and trade my platforms for Valentino’s Rockstud in order to fit in with that set.

So maybe in the throes of the situation he’d gotten himself into a spot—being a gentleman and being the kind of gentleman Marcus Sloan was—a spot he couldn’t get out of, dumping the chick who’d recently been raped after realizing she didn’t quite fit at his side.

I didn’t need that shit.

I needed to start looking for houses, dining room tables, and checking out china patterns.

And I didn’t need to do it with a broken heart (though, I wasn’t letting myself go there, but I had a strong feeling that ship had sailed).

Because even without the good stuff, everything else was good stuff with Marcus Sloan. And I was not talking about the fancy restaurants, the penthouse, the limo.

I was talking about his sweet. His attention that, even the times he was on the phone, he still made it clear if I was in his sphere, it was always on me. His touchy. His kissy. His arms around me while I slept. His warm, hard body the perfection it was to cuddle into. The easy way that came often that I could make him laugh. The beautiful way he looked at me every time he gave me the same.

So I’d let my heart get in it. He’d put that effort in but everyone had to take responsibility for their lives and I’d let him in when I knew I shouldn’t. I knew he was too good for me. I knew it just wasn’t my lot to get my something special.

And although most of his behavior indicated he wanted to be in, there was that one important way it did not. The intimacy we would share to make all the rest of it concrete in my head. To understand irrevocably that he wanted all of me. Not to save me. Not to take care of me. Not to go that extra mile because he was the man he was to look after an employee, or just some woman that occupied a fringe of his life, who had the worst done to her that could happen.

No, not any of that.

To have me.

Daisy.

“Woman?”

I focused on Smithie to see he was very focused on me.

“You good?” he asked.

I nodded, throwing him a dazzling smile.

He wasn’t dazzled.

His eyes narrowed.

“Everything good with Sloan?” he pressed.

“Peachy,” I lied.

It was good. It was just that everything wasn’t good.

“You need me, I’m here,” he stated and my heart that had started to go cold again warmed up a bit. “And if you gotta talk about guy stuff, LaTeesha is there.”

I giggled a little bit and that made some of the concern drift out of Smithie’s face.

“I need you or LaTeesha, I know where to find you,” I told him.

He jerked up his chin.

Then he swung out.

I took another sip of my beer.

Then I turned to the mirror and picked up my teasing comb.

I was on in less than an hour. I needed to get ready.

* * * *

I slid down the pole upright, only one arm and one leg wrapped around it. My other arm was thrown out, my other leg extended up, my back arched, my head hanging back, my hair dangling.

When I got close to the bottom, I arched back further, put one hand then the other to the stage, did a layout but ended it dropping and tucking into a backward, one and a half somersault.

I ended that on my back, my hips twisted to the side, knees bent, legs tucked tight.

I straightened my legs and swung them wide, up and over, letting them take my body with them until I was on my forearms and knees.

I stuck my booty toward the end of the stage and felt the bills stuffed into my strings.

I was singing with the song that was playing—Lil’ Kim, Christina Aguilera, Pink, and Mya’s version of “Lady Marmalade”—but I stopped just to give one of the men who’d tipped me an air kiss before I popped up, legs straight and wide, head hanging down between them.

I slapped my hands to the stage and lifted up, throwing my hair back in a dramatic toss, turning and strutting down the stage in time to the song, swaying my hips.

I made the end, turned, and swung my ass out, feeling the cash flutter at my feet. I stuck the tip of my finger between my glossed lips, looked over my shoulder, gave a wink to no one, then ran back up the stage.

I launched myself at a pole, swung around it with body out, legs wide, through the ending of the song, finishing it on the floor in a front split, bent over, bared tits pressed toward the stage, head thrown back, mouth open.

Before the lights went black, I slid my eyes sideways.

Beyond the men standing up and cheering, I saw Marcus sitting in his booth, eyes on me, forearm on the table, fingers wrapped around his forgotten bourbon.

His lips were curved up in a smile that through the dark, even when my heart was breaking, I felt in my coochie.

He disappeared as the lights went out.

The crowd shouted but I pushed up and quickly exited the stage.

Holding out my robe for me, Brady gave me the grin that he always gave me when I left the stage, not leering and creepy, just appreciative.

Once he helped me on with my robe, he followed me, close to my back, to the dressing room as the girls rushed by, Chardonnay and China giving me high fives as they went.

I hit the dressing room door and turned back to Brady.

“I’ll be out in about fifteen, sugar.”

“All right, Daisy.”

He opened the door for me, swept the room with his eyes, and closed the door after I went in.

I stood staring at the door, breathing heavy, and not just from the dance.

My eyes felt weirdly too dry.

And I was wondering how I was going to do what I needed to do next.

That was, get to Marcus’s place.

And then let him off the hook.

In other words…

I was going to break up with him.

* * * *

In my ice-blue Juicy Couture tracksuit with its decal on the back of the hoodie that had peach and blue hibiscus flowers around a gold, interlaced “JC,” the same flowers on the front hip of the pants, I slid out of the cold Denver air into the warmth of the limo beside Marcus.

I did this grinning up at Brady.

“Thanks, darlin’.”

He grinned back. “Not a problem, Daisy.”

He closed the door and I tried to look at Marcus, but I had to do it quickly looking through Marcus.

What I saw was that he was still in his suit, like he was always still in his suit when he came to see me dance, except on the weekends. This telling me he didn’t waste time going home to change.

He came right to me.

I wished I could believe the reasons behind what that seemed to mean were real.

“Hey,” I greeted him quickly, then looked to the front, into the sunglassed eyes I saw in the rearview mirror. “Hey, Ronald.”

“Yo,” he grunted.

That was usually the most I got out of Ronald and that was all I got out of him then as he started us moving along the back of Smithie’s.

I kept my eyes there, thanking the Lord my Porsche was in the parking spot closest to the elevators in Marcus’s garage (a spot Marcus insisted I parked in the minute he gave me the remote to his garage). That would make it (slightly) easier to get away once I did what I had to do.

This was my thought until the side of Marcus’s forefinger and his thumb took gentle hold of my chin and he turned my head to face him.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey,” I repeated my earlier greeting.

“Everything okay?”

I gave him the lie I gave Smithie. He’d learn it was a lie in about fifteen minutes, but whatever.

I’d get this done.

And I was Daisy.

So no matter how much it tore me apart, I’d then move on.

Which meant Marcus would be able to move on to a woman that suited him.

That woman obviously not being me.

That lie was, “Peachy.”

He didn’t let my chin go, and in the streetlights that illuminated the interior of the car, he studied me.

“You sure?” he asked.

God, I hated that he could read me.

I nodded, still held in his light grip. “Yep.”

It took him another couple of moments to let me go. When he did, I looked to my knees.

“You were great tonight,” he stated.

“Thanks, sugar,” I muttered.

“You’re always great.”

“Thanks,” I repeated.

“Party go okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Your friend like her cake?”

I looked out the windshield and nodded.

“Good,” Marcus murmured, sounding distracted.

I drew in a breath.

I let it go.

Marcus fell silent.

I did not fill that void.

Ronald drove us to Marcus’s penthouse and he rode up with us and stood in the vestibule as Marcus let us in.

“Thank you, Ronald,” Marcus said to him as I scooted in the door Marcus pushed open for me.

Ronald had no reply.

I looked out the windows at the lights of the city, the shadowed grandeur of the Front Range, hating it that was the last time I’d see that view and wishing in that moment something that gorgeous had never been given to me.

Wishing that so I wouldn’t wish the same about other, more important things.

I heard the door close behind me.

I turned to Marcus.

“Ready for bed?” he asked.

“I’m leaving,” I blurted.

That wasn’t how I’d wanted to start it.

Then again, that was as good a way to start as any.

His body in the subdued lighting of elegant sconces glowing low on their dimmers visibly tightened.

“I’m sorry?” he asked quietly.

“I’m leaving,” I repeated.

“You’re…leaving,” he said slowly.

“I…uh, yeah.”

“Why?”

I didn’t answer that.

I said, “It’d be nice if you texted me a time when I could come back and get my stuff and arrange for someone to let me into your penthouse.”

The air in the room changed.

I ignored it.

“Why?” he repeated, sounding more terse, in other words, demanding.

“I just really need to go. Now,” I told him.

“Without telling me why?” he pushed.

I knew it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

But I guessed I didn’t have in me what I needed to have in me to do this fair and right.

Not even for Marcus.

Because I was leaving Marcus.

“Can we just please make this easy?” I requested.

“You wish to come back and get your stuff. This indicates you’re leaving and not coming back. Except to collect your things.”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Why?”

I swallowed.

“Did something happen?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Then why?”

“Marcus, please.”

“Tell me…”

And then I jumped when he completely lost it and I’d never seen Marcus lose it, not ever, and definitely not with me.

He did this leaning toward me and shouting, “Why?”

“You don’t want me,” I returned.

His torso reared back.

“Are you insane?” he asked.

“You won’t sleep with me,” I replied.

“I’ve been sleeping with you for weeks.”

“Right,” I bit out, losing it myself. “I’ll say it different. You won’t fuck me.”

“No, Daisy, I’ll never fuck you.”

My head jerked like he’d slapped me.

“I’ll never fuck you,” he repeated and went on, “You aren’t that woman to me.”

“Right.” It came out weak, broken, pained. “So, now can I leave?”

“Christ, you don’t get it,” he clipped.

“You’re right,” I returned. “I’m not gettin’ it.”

“Daisy, we need to take this slow,” he informed me, sounding like he was seeking patience.

“And that’s been your excuse since the beginning,” I shot back.

His voice was low and dangerous when he asked, “Excuse?”

“A man wants a piece of ass, it’s on offer, he has it, and it’s been on offer, Marcus, for weeks. So, you see, you not takin’ it tells me you don’t want it.”

“You are insane,” he said softly, like he wasn’t even talking to me.

“No. I’m not. I’m a woman falling in love with a man who doesn’t want me.”

I watched his body jerk in surprise.

“Daisy—”

Honestly?

I could take no more.

And who could fucking, fucking blame me?

“Fuck this!” I exploded, the emotion coursing through me taking control so I couldn’t stop myself lifting my hands in fists over my head and shaking them. I dropped them and shouted, “Just let me fucking leave!”

“You called me, terrified.”

Hunh?

“What?” I asked.

“That night. That night you called me and you were terrified. I’ve never seen anything like the state of you when I got to you. I arrived in your room, Daisy, you were curled into a corner, awake, but lost in a nightmare. Did you even know I was there?”

“Of course I knew,” I snapped.

“Do you know what you said to me?”

That I didn’t remember, seeing as he was right. I was lost in a nightmare. Though I was worried I’d babbled on about building my castles.

To cover that, I hissed, “I know you were there.”

“Right,” he whispered, totally seeing through me. Then he declared, “He scraped your ass raw on that asphalt.”

I winced and looked away.

Marcus kept at me.

“He did not fuck you. He did not bang you. He did not have sex with you. He raped you. Do you get the difference?”

“Yeah,” I bit out sarcastically, turning back to him with squinty eyes, my face hard. “I was there, darlin’. I get it a fuckuva lot better than you.”

“But he was inside you.”

Oh God.

I started shaking.

“Stop talkin’,” I demanded.

He did not stop talking.

Oh no.

He did not.

“And I’m the man who has to come after that. How do I do that, Daisy? How do I do that and make sure you don’t go back there? How do I do that and make sure it’s good for you? Make sure I take you where I want us to be? Give you that at the same time keeping you safe? Give you what I want you to get from me? Make you understand what being inside you means to me?”

I stood still, staring at him, frozen, but I did it still trembling.

Though now for a different reason.

“How, Daisy?” he pushed.

I kept staring, trembling, unable to speak.

Marcus was able to speak.

“I talked with a woman called Bex who’s worked for years at a rape crisis center. She told me to be watchful, communicative, patient, and give it time. We need to give it time so I can be certain to give you what you deserve when I give you me.”

“You don’t wanna fuck me,” I whispered.

“No, I don’t want to fuck you,” he bit off.

“You want to make love to me.”

“Yes, that’s what I want to do and that’s what I need you to feel when I do it.”

Oh my God.

I was in love with this man.

And he was in love with me.

He was in love with me.

“Marcus?”

“What?” he clipped.

“Please make love to me.”

We stood staring at each other in the dim lights in his fabulous entryway.

But all of a sudden I had my hand in his and was being dragged up an elegant winding staircase.

I tripped.

Marcus stopped, jerked my arm, and then I was flying through the air.

I settled in his arms like a bride carried by her groom as he stalked up the rest of the steps and prowled down the hall to his room.

“Seriously, really, truly,” I whispered to his hard jaw. “If you’re carryin’ me in this way to your bedroom, honey bunches of love, somethin’ needs to come to fruition.”

He looked down at me when he cleared the doorway then he walked me across his room and slid me down his body so I could take my feet when he made it to the side of the bed.

He bent to the side to switch on a light but straightened in front of me, right in my space.

“Are you leaving me?” he asked.

“Never,” I answered.

That was when he kissed me.

We fell back to the bed when Marcus pressed into me.

I immediately went after his suit jacket.

He went after the zip of my hoodie.

He let me win and I shoved the jacket down his shoulders.

He threw it off and then took down the zip.

I yanked his shirt out of his trousers and dove in at the back.

God, not for the first time I encountered skin that felt amazing.

Through all this, Marcus kissed me.

Suddenly, he rolled so he was on his back, I was on top, and he sat up, so I was forced to straddle him.

My coochie liked the kissing.

It liked the straddling better.

“Baby,” I whispered.

He pushed the hoodie down my shoulders.

I tossed it away.

His eyes holding mine, he went after the back clasp of my bra.

His fingers there, and that was it.

He needed me to give him permission. To let him know where I was at. To show him I was with him, only him, this was only him and me.

God.

Marcus Sloan.

“Please,” I breathed.

It came loose then the bra was gone.

He looked at me exposed to him in his bed for the first time, not on a stage, and he whispered, “So beautiful.”

God.

Marcus Sloan.

“Kiss me, honey,” I begged.

His hands went up my back, into my hair, pulling my face to his, and he kissed me.

He did a lot of kissing. In fact, he kept my mouth occupied with his lips and tongue the whole time it took him to get my clothes off, his clothes off (but he let me help with that part). And he kissed me the whole time he touched me, no, caressed me, his hands roaming, slow, gentle, sweet, over every inch of me.

Finally, finally, he bent and took my nipple in his mouth.

That shot so hot up my coochie, I slid my fingers in his hair, my neck twisting to the side, and I gasped, “Yes.”

He worked me there just like he always worked me with his kisses these past weeks and everything he’d done that night.

Slow. Gentle. Sweet.

And just the same way, as his lips moved to my other nipple, his hand slid over my hip, over my belly and down.

I opened my legs for him.

His fingers slid through me.

My lips parted, my hips lifted, his mouth went away, and I righted my head to catch his gaze.

Watching me, his face dark and beautiful, he stroked a finger inside.

And when he did, his face got darker, more beautiful.

And hungry.

My hands darted out and clutched his arms, my eyes drifting closed, I whimpered, “Marcus.”

His thumb hit me, my body jolted, my eyes shot open, and I saw he was still watching me.

“Inside,” I gasped.

“In a minute, baby.”

“Inside,” I pleaded.

“Daisy—”

I lifted my hands to wrap them around either side of his neck, moaned as his thumb put on more pressure, and then I demanded huskily, “I need you inside, honey.”

He was Marcus.

He didn’t make me ask again.

He rolled between my legs. I felt his hand leave me but right after something hard and silky started gliding, sliding.

And then…

Then…

Eyes locked to mine, slow, gentle, sweet, Marcus Sloan, my man, the man every step of my life had been leading me to, slid inside me.

“Now, this…” I breathed. “This is where I was always meant to be.”

Beauty scored through his expression before his head dropped, he shoved his face in my neck and he groaned, “Daisy.”

I turned so I had my mouth to his ear. “Take what’s yours, baby.”

He did.

Pulling his face out of my neck, taking my mouth, he moved inside me and he took what was his.

Giving himself to me.

And a whole lot more.

I cried the intensity of my orgasm down his throat, clutching him with everything I had, limbs wrapped around, fingers gripping his hair, body shuddering.

He returned the beauty when his head snapped back, he buried himself inside me, his body bucked into mine, and I received it gratefully (still shuddering).

When he was done, he dropped to me but only for a breath before he rolled us but kept us connected and held me tight on top of him.

My forehead pressed to the side of his neck, I didn’t bother trying to steady my breathing. I just let each breath rush out against his skin as I committed every second of the last twenty minutes to memory.

Every second.

It was only when I felt his fingertips drawing patterns on my hip that I realized both our breaths were steady.

His fingers clenched into my flesh suddenly and his voice was thick and astounding when he asked, “You’re falling in love with me?”

I drew in breath.

Then I lifted my head and looked down at him.

God, he wasn’t handsome.

He was everything.

“I was,” I answered.

His sated gaze went guarded.

“You were?”

“That ship has sailed, sugar. And I’m on it. It’s called,” I drawled out my last, “the Love Boat.”

And I grinned when, under me and all around, I heard, saw, and felt my man burst out laughing.