“But it’d be gross for me,” Daisy says, touching her chest. Confusion wrinkles her forehead.
I glower at Lo. He did just say that.
“That’s not what I meant,” Lo says, cringing. “You’re just…you’re you, Dais. You’re young.”
“Lily had sex on a Ferris wheel when she was eighteen,” I refute coldly. “Don’t make this into an age thing. Say the f**king truth, Lo. It’d be gross for you to think about Daisy having sex. It doesn’t matter where the f**k it is.”
“It’s okay, guys,” Daisy says quickly, “I’m sorry I brought it up.” She slides over to the window, her face sinking in guilt at stirring more confrontation between my brother and me. But honestly, anything she f**king says is going to rile Lo. It’s just the way he is.
Lo gives me a long stare. “Just be more careful with Lil next time. You, ranting and raving, about losing your f**king virginity on a golf course is not going to help. She’s going to want to try it, and I have to tell her no.”
“You can’t even do it outside the bedroom once? I thought she was getting better,” I say.
“She can’t ask for it,” Lo tells me. “And she’s starting to f**king ask. You see the cycle here?”
“Yeah.” He’s not getting laid. But I know it’s more than that. He worries about her. He always has.
“Who locked the windows?” Daisy suddenly asks
I glance over and see her flicking the button on the door handle, nothing happens. Dais cannot sit still for longer than thirty f**king minutes. Put her in an SUV for an hour, and she’ll stick her head, arm, legs and eventually her whole body out of the window. Lo had to drag her back onto the leather seat three or four times already.
I slide next to her.
“I did,” Connor says. “I’m not getting my first ticket because Ryke won’t restrain his puppy.”
“Hey,” Lo interjects. I frown. He’s going to stick up for me? “Don’t be calling Daisy his anything.”
I roll my eyes. “Just unlock the f**king window, Connor.”
“No, it’s cool,” Daisy says, scooting closer to me. “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.” She tucks her long blonde hair behind her ear, and her leg brushes against mine. Her bruises are gone, and this morning, she had her stitches removed by a doctor in Ohio. The gash along her cheek is closed but reddened.
Still, it looks ten times better than it did. I untie her hair that’s in a bun, and I playfully mess the strands. They lie tangled on her head, frizzy like she rolled out of bed or ran through the woods.
She tenses as she watches me look her over closely. I act the same in front of Daisy as I did before we got together—which means my brother shoots me a warning glare every half hour for overstepping and walking a thin line.
“Do you like my hair long?” she asks me.
“No because I can tell you f**king hate it.” I wonder if she was waiting for my opinion before she grabbed a scissors. I thought cutting her hair would be one of her first spontaneous acts after she quit modeling.
“Then why do you always untie my hair when I put it up?”
I’m going to have to f**king generalize because my brother is in the front seat. So I say, “I like when girls have messy hair.”
“Like ‘we just f**ked’ messy?”
She went there anyway. I try hard not to smile.
“Daisy,” Lo interjects with a grimace. “Don’t say that to my brother.”
“You’re right,” she says to Lo. “The f-word is a bit abrasive.” She tilts her head at me. “How about ‘we just had sex’ messy?”
Lo shakes his head a couple times, puts on headphones and balls his sweatshirt in the corner of the door. “Wake me up when you stop flirting with a guy seven years older than you. It’s disgusting.”
Her smile fades.
I love Lo, but he can be a real f**king ass**le.
Connor stays quiet, concentrating on driving, and I take the opportunity to cheer up Daisy. I grab her waist and set her between my open legs. The surprise causes her to smile again, and I slip one hand beneath her shirt, rubbing her back while I massage her shoulder with the other.
Her tense muscles can’t loosen with me this close. The more I knead my fingers into her shoulder and skim her back with my palm, the more she stiffens and holds onto my kneecaps for support.
She purposefully scoots her ass harder into my crotch. Fuck me.
I remove my hand from beneath her shirt and comb my fingers through her hair. “I like your hair down because of how wild you look, but you could do anything to it and I would still love it.” I want her to choose the length and color based on what she wants. Her mom and agency have dictated her appearance so much. I’m not f**king replacing them.
She spins around, my hands falling off her shoulders. And in effect, she half-straddles my lap. Her ass is on the edge of the seat, not on me.
“Can I have your knife?” she asks.
I stare down at her and cup her face, brushing my thumb along her smooth cheek. “What knife?”
She reaches towards my ankle, and I grab her wrist to stop her. A smile plays at her lips, mischievousness dancing in her eyes. “The knife you used to wear to bed,” she whispers in a silky voice.
I’m wearing that knife now, but I stopped strapping it to my ankle at night because I thought it would lessen her anxiety—for her to see that I wasn’t worried about someone breaking into her apartment anymore. “Don’t talk about my knife, Calloway,” I deadpan.
She eases forward, straddling my lap. “I like your knife.”
She’s a wicked f**king girl. There’s a reason why guys haven’t been able to last with her. In bed, she probably won’t lie still while a guy dominates her. She doesn’t beg to be in full control either. She wants to be a part of the experience, so when I f**k her, she’s going to f**k me with equal intensity. It’s a back and forth between us that I didn’t expect to translate to sex, but I already know it will.
My gaze hardens, giving her a look that intimidates most women. Instead her eyes brighten, hypnotized by the darkness inside of me. The I don’t give a f**k what you think mentality scares some people, but it attracts her. It always has.
She breathes deeply and runs her hand through my hair before her lips touch my ear, “You’re my wolf.” Her hands fall to the back of my neck, watching me watch her.
“Cute,” I say.
“The cutest?” She smiles.
I shake my head, lean forward, and whisper in her ear, “The cutest is you, wrapped in my arms, coming three or four times before you fall asleep.”
Her fingers grip my neck tighter. “I can barely come once,” she whispers.
My eyebrows shoot up. “You came pretty f**king quickly with me,” I breathe. She stares at my lips while I reach down in my boot and pull out my serrated knife.
I hand it to her, and she touches the point of the blade to her finger, not drawing blood but just inspecting the sharpness.
“It can cut through hair,” I assure her.
She still scrutinizes the blade with a faraway look. Then she says under her breath, “I’ve never had sex with a guy like that.”
I frown. “With someone holding you?”
She nods. “Usually they have their head on a pillow, watching me while I’m on top.”