Page 47 of The Summer I First Saw You
“Two rooms, Daisy,” I growl. “Please.”
She directs me to a very pretty hotel in Pismo Beach. I get us checked in, but I’m barely clinging to life as we reach our doors.
“I guess you’re going straight to sleep?” she asks.
I’d like to. But there’s also a selfish piece of me that doesn’t want to say goodnight to her yet, plus I’m worried she’ll freak out about the cost of room service and skip dinner if she’s left to her own devices.
“Now that we’re out of the car, I’m feeling better. Why don’t you drop your stuff off and come to my room? We can order dinner and watch a movie.”
I regret that offer the moment I make it. I’ve got one bed and Daisy will think nothing of climbing in beside me, stripping down to the little she’s got on under her sweatshirt, and making some comment about blowing me in exchange for dessert—one I won’t be certain is a joke.
Tonight, I lack the will to resist any offer she makes, joking or not.
26
DAISY
I’mrelievedthat Harrison is sick, as terrible as that is, because the things I was thinking before he admitted it were so much worse.
It all felt a bit too much like the end with Christian. Things were fine during that trip in November, and then suddenly something flipped, and I was never sure what it was. Did he dislike that I’d asked him what he was doing for Thanksgiving? It’s not as if I’d hoped he’d invite me to meet his parents. Was it that I was a little stressed about finals? I’d spent so much time letting him treat me like a sex toy that I’d been ignoring my schoolwork, so my final exams mattered a lot more than they should have. I hadn’t blamed him for it, but maybe he thought I had. I’ll never know. But given that I saw him with his girlfriend a few weeks later, the one he swore he was done with, it stands to reason that I wasn’t enough, and she was.
And as devastated as I was when he dumped me, having Harrison ask me to move out would be a thousand times worse.
He’s already lounging on the king-size bed when I walk through the door he left ajar, huddled beneath the blankets with the menu in hand.
I strip off my sweatshirt and climb in beside him, though he hardly seems to know I’m here. We put onThe King’s Man, which has violence for him and Aaron Taylor-Johnson for me, and I deal with room service when it arrives and bring Harrison his food, begging him to eat a little bit.
He falls asleep sitting up, his food untouched, before I’ve even finished half my risotto. I move his food to the floor and watch the movie alone, but it has far less Aaron Taylor-Johnson than the trailer implied.
I curl up beside him. “I’ll just close my eyes for a second,” I promise. I sort of mean this, and I sort of, just once in my life, want the experience of sleeping curled up beside Harrison, smelling his shampoo, memorizing his even inhales and exhales. I’m asleep before I’ve memorized nearly enough of them.
I’m not sure when I wake but the TV is off and he’s whispering my name in the darkness. I assume, at first, that he’s telling me to leave. But no…he’s whispering my name as if he’s asking a question.
As if he’s askingpermission.
He rolls me beneath him before I can reply, his body heavy and solid atop mine. The only thing he’s got on is a pair of boxer briefs, and I was pretty sure I knew what question he was asking, but those fitted boxer briefs leave no doubt whatsoever about what it was. He’s hard as nails and every bit as deliciously oversized as I suspected he was.
His lips move to the point where my neck meets my shoulder, and the heat of his breath has me arching before his mouth has even begun to graze my skin. He uses a knee to spread my thighs, and while it seems like the kind of thing we should discuss and the kind of thing he in particular would discuss to death—ground rules like “your uncle can never know” and “this won’t happen again”—it’s been a long time, and I wantthis, and if he’s not going to insist on ground rules, why should I?
He lifts my tank and his lips move up and up over my rib cage while he wrenches my shorts down.
It’s hot, how assertive he’s being, but I’m still thrown by how unexpected it is. When does Harrisoneverjust take what he wants? He’s tugging off his boxers, and he hasn’t even asked if this is okay, hasn’t even asked if I’m on birth control. And when did he strip down to his boxers in the first place?
He palms my breasts and I arch, reflexively, seeking more. His cock grazes my clit and his teeth latch onto a nipple—a pulse of pleasure-pain that stabs me while his groan drives every intelligent thought from my head.
Yes, whatever. Who cares that he doesn’t want to discuss it? Yes.
“Those fucking blue yoga pants,” he mumbles, sliding a forearm under each thigh to spread me open wide.
I’m meeting his thrusts—now separated only by my panties—even as the first flicker of true concern pinches me.
“Yoga pants?” I ask. I peer up at him in the darkness. His eyes are closed.Wait. Fuck.
Does this make sense? No.Nothingabout this makes sense. Harrison would never, ever, just try to fuck me without aconversationfirst.
“Harrison?”
He doesn’t seem to hear me. He’s in his own little world, apparently. One in which I’m wearing the blue yoga pants, and he’s just removed them. I reach a hand to his forehead—his skin is burning to the touch.
