My hand on the wall turns into a fist.
And then the image of those big tits and large ass morph as soon as my brain remembers those cries again. Ahhh…ahhh…ahhhhh…Ryke, Ryke! They turn into that delicate face, the one that bursts into a breathtaking smile, the one that can light up a city. Her lips part as she moans, and she smiles with each one.
Stop imagining her. I pause, my hand freezing in place. I can’t f**king do this. I grab a magazine from the tile floor, some of the pages crinkled from being wet with shower water. It’s a fashion magazine, and I have a hard time finding a girl without a ton of makeup on. I keep flipping, and then I land on a seven-page spread.
Of Daisy.
In black-laced lingerie.
Her small br**sts look bigger, pushed up by the cups of her bra. She wears a thong that shows off her round ass, her shape slender. Her smoky-shadowed eyes only say come f**k me, which isn’t helping. “Fucking A.” Is the world against me tonight or what?
I toss the magazine aside, and I shut my eyes again, exhaling loudly. Fuck this. It’s not like imagining her is a sin I can’t live with. It’s a line I’ve crossed before but not often, and it may force me a step closer to crossing another one.
I convince myself enough, and my hand resumes its natural course. Ahh..ahhhh…Ryke! A groan catches in my throat. Fuck me. I pulse my h*ps with the movement of my hand, picturing myself thrusting in between Daisy’s thighs, her back permanently arched, in a constant state of pleasure that she can’t contain.
It’s an image that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to let go. I am so wound up, needing this release f**king hours prior to now. I hear her cries in my ears. I see her cl**ax wash over her face. And her body is all mine, protected within my f**king hands, my long c**k fitting entirely inside of her. All of it drives me to a new, intense place, giving me the biggest head rush of my life.
I come. If a simple f**king image is this good, it makes me wonder what the real f**king thing would be like. Can’t happen.
Yeah, I know.
9
DAISY CALLOWAY
It takes a full minute to orient myself. I touch my temple, a little confused about where I am. I reach out and feel my comforter. My bed. Okay, I must be waking up, but I’m already in a sitting position. My limbs hurt like I thrashed all night. I rub my scratchy eyes and pat the mattress beside me. The sheets are tangled and twisted, no Ryke on the bed. Or even in the room.
Panic sets in, my heart shooting to my throat. My head whips towards the window, and I imagine a man crawling through with a bat or a camera or a combination of the two. My curtains stay still, not blowing, which means the window is firmly closed.
You’re okay, Daisy. Stop freaking out. I repeat the mantra over and over as I stiffly turn towards the bathroom.
The door is ajar. The door is ajar. No. It’s just Ryke. It’s okay.
I glance at the other wall. The bedroom door…it’s cracked open too. It’s just Ryke. You’re okay.
But what if it’s not him? What if someone broke in and did something to Ryke? What if they hurt him and are setting a trap for me? It’s a wild, crazed thought, but in the back of my head, I believe it’s so true. I quietly sit on my knees, holding my breath as this cold adrenaline floods me. I lift Ryke’s pillow and find the black handgun underneath.
With trembling fingers, I pick up the gun and point the barrel at the door. A clattering sound reverberates from my living room. I jump, a noise breaching my lips. Shut up, Daisy. What if they hear you?
And then the door slowly swings open.
Ryke stops short at the sight of me, his eyes filling with concern. “Daisy?”
What am I doing? The gun slides out of my unsteady hands and lands safely on my comforter. I can’t breathe. Of course it’s just Ryke. He’s at my side the moment I blink. He rests a knee on the mattress and cups my face between two large hands. “Daisy, look at me.”
I can’t breathe. I gasp, trying to capture air for my distressed lungs. “Where…what…” I try to glance at the window. Why am I scaring myself? No one’s there. It’s all in my head.
“Shhh.” He rubs my back. “Fucking breathe, Daisy.” He towers over me, staring down as he studies my paranoid, anxious state.
I inhale deeply, and my body accepts it this time. You’re okay. I can’t stop shaking. He suddenly lifts me up beneath my arms, and before I exhale, he’s on the bed, leaning against my headboard, and he’s placed me on his lap. He peels off his clean gray Penn shirt, and I frown, but I’m too hot and exhausted to make sense of it or protest. His hair is wet, and he wears black jeans.
And then he wipes my forehead with his shirt. I’m caked in a layer of sweat. My tank top suctions to my stomach and chest. “I’m sorry,” I whisper with a heavy breath. All the energy drains from me in a single instant. It’s like I used everything I had in that moment of panic.
“What did I f**king say about apologizing?”
I hold onto his forearm, and he keeps me upright with his body and his other hand. “I was about to shoot you.”
“No you weren’t.”
My eyes flicker up to his, and I only see that hardness in them. “You can’t know that.”
“The safety was f**king on,” he tells me.
Oh. Good. A knot starts to loosen in my stomach.
He combs my damp hair out of my face and runs his cotton shirt across my neck. “I didn’t think you’d wake up until later,” he confesses. “I shouldn’t have f**king left.” Usually he nudges me awake before he goes on a run with Lo or to the gym early, so I know he was expecting to return to my bedroom.
“It’s okay,” I say, eyeing his wet hair again. “Did you take a shower?”
“I ran out of clean clothes in your room, so I went upstairs to my apartment.” He shakes his head. “I took a shower up there. I thought I had time.” He pauses. “Are you sure you can handle being in Paris alone for an entire f**king month?”
“I don’t know…but I have to try. I don’t want to be afraid at night anymore.” I sit up a little straighter. “It’ll be different,” I tell him. “There’ll be less paparazzi in France, less cameras, and none of my old friends will be there.”
“I f**king hope you’re right.”
Me too.
After a couple minutes, finally catching my breath, Ryke slides me off his lap and gently leans me against the headboard. He climbs off the bed and snatches the handgun. I watch his fingers move quickly, checking the safety and ammunition in skilled routine. Then he bends down and opens the cupboard to his end table, revealing a safe. He types in a code, and the heavy metal door opens.
I really want him to leave the gun out, but I don’t want to sound that frightened, so I let him lock the handgun out of sight. I stand and search my room for clean clothes. Shower. Energy drink. Check flight departure. Call my sisters to say goodbye. Have Mikey take me to the airport. Then I’m gone.
I can do this.
* * *
I hate that my panties were wet. The only time I’ve ever orgasmed has been in my sleep. My sleep. And I remember nada. Not one little itty bitty moment. It’s cruel.
At least the shower rejuvenated me. I feel like a new person, or at least, the kind of person I like to be. Fearless, ready for any new adventure. I draw open the blinds, sunlight streaming in, no longer dark and dreary in my room. After double-fisting two energy drinks, I’m wired enough to do anything and everything.