Page 39 of I Saw Her First

I’ve never wanted to be called “babygirl” in my entire life. It seems so infantilizing, but there’s something about hearing that word from Wes’s lips…Fuck. I’d give anything to hear him call me his babygirl. What is happening to me?

He raises himself to his knees, gripping my hips as he thrusts hard, his eyes watching every sensation play out on my face.

“I want you to come,” he grits out. I know he’s not bossy like this, but fantasy Wes is a man who knows what he wants, and takes it. “Come for me, Daisy. I want to feel my babygirl come.”

Oh, fuck.

Pleasure crashes through me, and I writhe on the bed, fingers pressing into my center, riding the wave.

I lie there with my eyes closed as I catch my breath, wishing that hadn’t been a fantasy. Wishing it had been Weston making me come, instead of my own hand. Wishing it had been him filling me, instead of leaving me empty.

When I open my eyes to gaze at the ceiling, my heart is heavy, because I know a fantasy is all I can ever have.

Weston avoidsme for the next two days, almost as if he knows what I did alone in my room when we returned from themeadow. His car is gone most of the time, and if it wasn’t for seeing him in the surf, swimming his laps every morning, I’d think he’d gone back to the city.

Not that he would ever do that. He wouldn’t abandon me to figure things out for myself, like Jess did. No matter how uncomfortable he might be.

I know I shouldn’t watch him swim. I shouldn’t sneak into Jesse’s room, where he can’t see me, to get a better view of him on the beach as he towels off. And I definitely shouldn’t slink back to my room to touch myself, thinking of his solid, wet body and what it might feel like on top of me.

He’s gone during the day, though, and I get used to having the place to myself. It’s nice, in a way, if a little lonely. I listen to Steely Dan on the record player. I take the Nikon and venture to the meadow to shoot another roll, and it’s even more beautiful than the first time we went. Every flower, every butterfly, every tree calls to me. All these details and tiny worlds I missed when I was there before. I shoot an entire roll on the intricacies I find there, when I take the time to look.

And wow, it feels good.

But my vacation has to end. I can’t live inside this bubble at Weston’s beach house, avoiding my life forever. Wes clearly needs space from me, and I need to go back to the city and figure out how to move forward with my life. I need to figure out what I want.

On our last night, I settle onto the sofa and flick through the TV channels aimlessly. A nature documentary catches my eye, and I set the remote aside, captivated by the cinematography. The close-ups are breathtaking. They remind me, like the daisies and the butterflies, that there’s so much beauty out there, if we only stop to look for it. Was it only yesterday that I shot that roll of film in the meadow?

A sound from the kitchen breaks me from my reverie. I’m surprised to see Weston placing pizza boxes on the counter. I didn’t even hear him come in.

“Hungry?” he asks, not glancing up. I haven’t seen him for two days, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s talking to me.

“I… yes.”

“I got pizza.” He flips the lid open, pulling a couple plates from the cupboard and loading a few slices onto one.

I hover in the living room, wondering if he wants me to wait until he’s done, but he finally lifts his gaze to me. His eyes are tired, but when they meet mine, a weary smile touches his mouth. He sighs, turning to the wine rack.

“Red again?”

I blink. Is he asking me to join him?

“Uh, sure.”

I head into the kitchen and take the glass he pours for me without letting it breathe, like he usually does. There’s a sort of defeated, fuck-it attitude about him tonight. He pours himself a large glass and takes a long drink, before carrying his pizza through to the living room and collapsing onto the sofa. I snatch a couple slices of pizza, then take my glass of wine and join him.

We eat in silence for a while, watching the documentary, and I pretend to care about the details the narrator shares about Loggerhead Sea Turtles, but I’m too distracted by Wes to care. He’s here again, beside me, and he seems… off. He’s already slugged half his wine, which is unlike him; usually he takes his time, appreciating it.

“Are you okay?” I ask during the commercial break.

Wes blinks over at me as if coming out of a trance. “Sure.” The rings under his eyes tell me he’s anything but okay.

I swallow, setting my empty plate on the table. It was the kiss, I know it. I crossed a line, and he’s so uneasy he can barely look at me now.

I take a deep breath. “If I’ve done something to make you feel uncomfortable, I’m sorry.”

A groove sinks between his brows. “What?”

Heat inches up my neck, but I press on. “The other day, in the meadow. I’m sorry if… if I crossed a line, kissing you. I was just so excited about shooting again.”

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