Page 48 of The Summer I First Saw You
“God, those pants make me crazy,” he mumbles. “I’ve wanted this for so fucking long.”
He’s positioned between my legs, his erection a deliciously heavy press, and I’m already soaked for it. But he doesn’t even know it’shappening.
I want to go back to five minutes ago, when I was aninnocent party in all this. His fingers slip beneath my panties—a light, teasing touch that I’d kill to have him continue.
But I can’t. Goddammit. He’d hate this so much if he was aware of it.
“Harrison, stop,” I say, forcefully. I push him hard, and after a moment he rolls to the side, collapsing on the pillow beside mine. My body is on fire—and it’snotwith fever—and my clit is so swollen that even lying here is a form of torture. His hand lands on my stomach and starts to creep toward my panties. I’ve got to get the hell away before I allow him to do something he’d never forgive me for.
I firmly place his hand on the mattress between us and force myself out of the bed, going to the bathroom for a wet washcloth. I grab ibuprofen from his travel kit and return, holding the pills to his mouth.
“Daisy,” he mumbles, “what’s going on?”
“I think you’re sick, baby. Take these.”
He follows my directions obediently and even drinks a little of the water I offer him before he collapses back to the pillow.
I place the washcloth on his forehead. He grabs my hand. “Will you stay?”
I lie down beside him, placing my hand on his chest. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” His shoulders settle with my words, as if half his illness was simply worry about me, and he falls into a deep sleep while I lie awake with my heart beating hard.
If he remembers this in the morning, he’ll feel guilty about it—perhaps so guilty he’ll finally insist that I leave. And he’ll also be aware that I was going to let him do it.
God,was I ever going to let him.
I can feel his weight on top of me, that long, thick cock heavy against my abdomen, and the way he stripped my shorts off like he’d die if he wasn’t inside me. I can feel the warning press of him between my legs, the fullness of it.
It’s embarrassing that I thought it was genuine on his part. It’s embarrassing that I could have believed Harrison would ever just fuck me without a word of conversation about it first.
And yet…he very clearly knew it wasmebeneath him. The words coming out of his mouth sounded like ones he’d said a hundred times before.
So, how do I get him to say them again?
27
HARRISON
The sun is pouring into an unfamiliar room, and Daisy is curled up beside me with her hand on my chest. Based on the bare legs twined with mine, she appears to be wearing very little aside from a camisole. And I have no fucking idea where we are, why she’s in my room, or what godawful thing I might have done last night to allow this to happen.
I remember saying goodbye to Oliver and how pissed I was that he was whispering to her. I remember her not at all funny joke about giving him a hand job, and the way I wondered if it was possible to make yourselfsickwith desire for someone. I think I told her we needed to stop for the night. There’s really not much beyond that.
I pull a washcloth off my forehead, and she starts to rouse.
“Hey,” she says sleepily. “Let me get that for you. You need a new one.”
She sits up, pushing messy curls out of her face, looking decadently flushed and pouty and disheveled, the way I imagine she’d look if she’d spent the whole night letting me have my way with her.
I was already hard, and that thought doesn’t help. I reach down to adjust myself and discover I don’t have a stitch of clothing on.
“Daisy,” I rasp, “why am I naked?”
“The roofies I put in your dinner worked better than I could have hoped.” She climbs from the bed, taking the washcloth with her, wearing nothing but a camisole and the tiniest shorts as she walks toward the bathroom.Jesus. “You gave me the night of my life.”
I grip myself tight beneath the covers and will away my body’s reaction.
She emerges a moment later with a wet washcloth and places it on my head. “You were burning up. I think you probably shed your clothes in the middle of the night. I stayed to keep an eye on you because you were a thousand degrees.”
She leans over me to glance at the clock on the nightstand. Her breast is brushing against my chest. One tight nipple grazes my skin, and I have to hold myself rigid not to react. “It’s nearly eight,” she says. “What do you want to do? My shift isn’t until one. I can get someone to cover me pretty easily if you’re not ready to go home.”
