by R.S. Grey
I sit back and press my hand to his chest. He’s hard muscle beneath warm, golden skin—and all this time, I thought he was cold-blooded. His eyes meet mine and they are a shade of brown I’ve never seen. I shiver and he grows harder beneath me.
How far will you go? I ask with an arch of my brow. How much can you take?
His hands drift up to my neck and he yanks the last tie free. Yes, I think, diving into the lion’s den. God yes. I want Lucas to see me. Everything. Loose material gathers around my waist and whatever peace there was is gone. There is danger in his eyes, not from malice but from hunger. He takes me in, from flushed cheeks to quivering stomach. It’s all there for him to see. Every invisible scar from our war.
“Daisy,” he whispers, hoarse.
Suddenly, I feel like a toy that’s been wound and wound and wound.
I’m ready to be set free.
I need to be.
I reach down, take his hand from around my waist, and slide it right over the middle of my belly. With my guidance, it slips down inside the loose gown, just over the damp material of my panties. My thighs are spread over his and silk separates his fingers from me. My eyes squeeze close. My mouth drops open. There’s a low gasp, and it’s me, shocked by how good it feels to have his thumb circle there. Gently at first, just a hint of what’s to come. Soft circles that tease, around and around the exact spot where I need him to be. He’s getting closer and with a smirk, I realize Lucas somehow knows exactly how to touch me. Know thy enemy takes on new meaning for me. I tilt my head back and the pressure builds, the steam rises, and in my mind I’m reaching for the release valve. I stretch, I’m almost there, I…
A sharp, loud knock on the door is a pinprick to our balloon.
I shriek and leap off him, stumbling. I yank my gown back to cover my chest, only then remembering we covered the window to block the hallway light. We’re hidden.
“Hey! Are you two okay in there?” the CDC official asks. Apparently now he has time for questions. “Did you get the cot set up?”
“For fuck’s sake,” Lucas hisses under his breath, sitting up and yanking his hands through his hair.
Another knock indicates that we’re supposed to answer.
“Fine!” Lucas shouts. “Sleeping!”
“Oh, sorry about that. Night.”
My sympathetic nervous system, reacting to a cocktail of stress and excitement, has flooded my bloodstream with adrenaline. As a result, my heart rate and blood pressure are through the roof, my pupils are saucers, my lungs have expanded. It’s my body’s way of asking fight or flight, but from the way things were headed with Lucas, I know I was gearing up for a different f-word entirely.
I begin to normalize, but remember I have nowhere to go. I’m in a 10x12 cage, with Lucas, who is currently looking at me, waiting for me to speak.
“Daisy? Should we—”
I turn before he can finish and scurry back into the bathroom to retie my gown. Then I think better of it and put another one on over it, backward. I’m a teenager, doubling up on protection because I think it will safeguard me. It won’t.
When I walk back into the room, Lucas is on his side, facing away from me.
Apparently, there’s nothing left to say. With fuck gone and flight off the table, there is only one option left for us to turn to.
I climb onto the exam table, trying to be as quiet as possible, like maybe I can trick Lucas into thinking I’m not in the room anymore. I really don’t want to talk about what just happened, but the air didn’t get that memo.
The room is electrified and every movement Lucas makes sparks through me.
I don’t fall asleep. I lie there on tenterhooks, waiting for him to speak, yell—anything. We’ve never been closer, but in this moment I feel a gulf between us larger than the 11 years we spent apart.
HOUR 18
In the morning, Lucas is in a sour mood, probably upset that he had to go to sleep with a hard-on. BFD. We all thought the night would end better than it did.
“Can you pass the eggs?” I ask genially.
He tosses the pack of powdered eggs my way without a word.
“Cheers,” I grumble.
I don’t comment on his adorable bedhead or the fact that he hasn’t put his t-shirt back on. At least his jeans are covering half of him. I fork dehydrated eggs into my mouth and tell myself they don’t taste like kitty litter.
Through the morning, we avoid each other as much as our cell allows. I fashion a friend for Gary named Glenda. I prop the stuffed exam gloves up on the counter, and it looks as if they’re holding little thumb hands. Great, I think, even inanimate objects are less dysfunctional than me and Lucas.
HOUR 22
Gary and Glenda are in the trash and Lucas has cabin fever. He’s pacing the room while rolling his shoulders and exuding clear leave me the hell alone pheromones. I want to ask him if he’s okay, but I think he’ll jump on me if I do and I’m not ready for a repeat of last night. I feel queasy just thinking about it.
Whatever.
His mental health isn’t my concern. Besides, in a few hours, we’re free.
“Wee-ooh, wee-ooh,” I intone like a warning siren after he accidentally kicks a dozen tongue depressors out of line. I pretend my fingers are missiles, launching in retaliation for the border violation. My index fingers loop and spin to the crude sounds of rocket thrust before taking aim at his nose. They halt an inch before contact, frozen by the glare he’s leveled at me.
His brows are pinched together, forming an angry line down the middle of his forehead. I cower.
“All’s forgiven,” I say with a shrug and a half-smile. “I’ll just straighten those out again.”
Note to self: Lucas is not in the mood for games. Just ask Gary and Glenda.
HOUR 23
I don’t like this new, angry version of Lucas. He’s hotheaded and rude. He hasn’t spoken a single word to me in hours and it’s starting to get to me. As I change back into my jean shorts and t-shirt in the bathroom, I consider how far I’m willing to go to get the old Lucas back. It involves swallowing my pride.
He’s dressed in his jeans and a t-shirt when I walk back out, but his face is no more relaxed. He’s standing beside the exam table flipping through a Highlights.
I wait for him to look up and acknowledge me, but to him, I’m invisible.
“Yes,” I say.
He flips another page.
When I say what I’m about to say, I need him to look at me.
I walk over to him and don’t stop until I’m nearly on top of him. No chance of him ignoring me now.
“Lucas.”
He looks up—barely, but I take it anyway.
“Truth: yes, I fantasize about our kiss in the hallway.”
He arches a brow, studies me for all of three seconds, and then looks back down at his magazine. It’s like I’ve said nothing at all.
“Didn’t you just hear me? I fantasize about the kiss. I want you to kiss me again! Stop—just stop pretending to spot the differences! They’ve already been found!”
I yank the magazine out of his hand and fling it across the exam room. It lands with a plop on the tile.
I think I’ve finally got his attention. He crosses his arms and stares at me. Silent.
I want to scream.
“I fantasize about our kiss! How crazy is that?”
He shakes his head and leans forward, bringing his lips dangerously close to mine. “I heard you the first time.”
And then he pulls away and stands back up.
Just like that.
Like I didn’t just ask him to kiss me.
Who the hell does he think he is?
I crowd him in against the exam table and fist his t-shirt in my palm. I try to tug his face down to me again, and for two seconds, he doesn’t budge. Then he humors me and leans down. We’re face to face. Almost mouth to mouth. My eyes scorch into his. He seems amused.
“You listen here, Lucas Thatcher. I hate you, but
you’re going to kiss me. You’re going to kiss me and you’re not going to stop.”
He smiles and then I think he’s going to laugh, but I don’t let him. I press onto my tiptoes and crash my mouth against his. It’s punishment. Tough love. I am kissing him for his own good.
He’s frozen at first, confused. I am kissing a mouth that is not kissing back and I die of embarrassment just before his hands lock onto my hips and he tugs me closer. I stumble into him and paste myself against his hard body. Oh thank god, I think just as his head tilts and his teeth find my bottom lip. He’s been bad, but I’m willing to share the punishment.
He bites and I squeeze my thighs together.
Be good, I warn my body. We will kiss, but nothing more.
When his hands start to tug my shirt up across my stomach and ribs, I justify it because cotton is truly a difficult fiber to kiss in. My jean shorts? Those are in the way too.
We are the type of unpredictable frenzy that scares me. My fingers tingle, my toes curl. My heart is in my throat and my stomach flips alongside it. I string my fingers through his thick hair and he growls into my mouth. It’s the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard and it earns him one leg, then two wrapped around his waist. That’s right, Lucas—with good behavior like that, I might just commute your sentence.
Finding myself coiled around Lucas Thatcher like a python would normally shock me, but at the moment there are other emotions fighting for my attention. Fear and anxiety both try to wrestle for first place, but lust wins.
My panties brush against his jeans and the sensation is one I will never forget. It’s rough and merciless. Solid. He’s as hard as he was last night and I will not let anyone interrupt us this time. I am all too aware the officials might knock and let us out any second, so I yank his shirt up over his head and make my intentions clear: keep going or die.
He turns and presses me up against the exam room wall. There’s no apology as the textured paint scratches my back and his stubble turns the skin on my neck crimson.
His lips feel familiar, even against a place on my body they’ve never been. They attend to my chin and then my neck, lower and lower until he kisses my breasts through my thin bra. It’s still technically a kiss, I tell myself, proud of my logic. His tongue wets the lace and it turns translucent. My tight nipples are completely visible and I’m so obviously sensitive there. He exploits the knowledge, sucking and licking with ease, so confident with his mouth that I’m convinced he’s taken lessons at some point.
With his mouth occupied, his strong hands have taken charge of exploration. He alternates between light caresses and forceful pressure, as if to remind me that he’s still dangerous. He leans back and I watch him slowly drag his gaze across my chest and then lower, between my legs. My panties aren’t much, but they’re the last barrier I have. He reaches down and brushes his knuckle across my center. My mouth drops open. Closes. My teeth sink into my lip so I don’t scream something inappropriate. If I thought his jeans felt good, it doesn’t compare to his touch, his finger brushing the material aside, pausing for an eternity at my wetness, and then sinking into me.
“I’ve always wanted you wrapped around my finger.”
My mouth drops open again but no sound escapes.
Lucas Thatcher has never owned me as much as he does in this moment.
He has won, and from his smirk, he knows it—but he’s not greedy. He’s going to share the prize. He’s going to make me feel as good as he does. His long middle finger slides in deep and then drags slowly back out. This is how it’s always been with Lucas—who can go the deepest, who can get there the fastest? My non-casted hand grips his shoulder. His neck. His bicep. I try to stabilize myself with anything I can, but he’s going too fast, drawing out pleasurable tingles that I can’t hide.
His head falls to the crook of my neck and his breath warms my ear. His finger circles and circles, dipping inside me and bringing the slickness back up to my most sensitive spot. Another few circles and I will come undone for him.
“You’re close,” he rasps, more command than statement.
I wish I could correct him, but it’s true.
My teeth sink into his shoulder as the first sparks start to fly. He’s telling me to come and I am coming and his fingers keep up their pace and I’m shaking in his arms, trying to grip on to every ripple. He circles and circles until the very last burst of pleasure has washed over me, and then I’m limp in his arms and he’s kissing my neck, just below my ear. His lips are tender and sweet. He’s not gloating like I assumed he would.
Which means he deserves a little reward of his own.
I let my legs fall from around his waist. I can barely put any weight on them, not after what he’s just done to me, so I sink down to my knees.
Some women say giving oral is an act of submission or subservience to men. As Lucas’ eyes widen in shock and his mouth drops open, I realize I’ve never disagreed more. There, on my knees, I hold all the power I can possibly carry, and more.
He asks what I’m doing—as if any guy is confused when a woman looks up from beneath her eyelashes, tugging at the buckle of his jeans. He asks more as a courtesy. In this instance, What are you doing? means Are you sure?
I refuse to answer him. I unbuckle his jeans and tug them down along with his boxer briefs. I’m not as patient as he was. After all, there’s no time to tease when the CDC could come in at any moment.
Lucas Thatcher is hard in my hand. So very large. I smirk up at him; no wonder he’s an overconfident ass. He doesn’t see me looking up at him though. His head has fallen back against the wall. His eyes are closed. His brows are pinched and his lips have fallen open on an exhale. He is a Baroque sculpture: The Ecstasy of Lucas Thatcher.
I glide my closed palm over him, up and down until he grows another inch in my hand. It’s the sort of thing I always wanted—Lucas under my control—I just never thought it would happen like this.
I wrap my lips around the tip of him and then I take him deeper into my mouth. The first taste is almost enough to break us both.
“God, Daisy.”
He isn’t sure who to worship, but I’ll have him convinced soon enough. I wrap my palm around the base of his shaft and slide my mouth on and off him. I move slowly, dragging out every movement just like he did with me. It’s sensual, having him in my mouth like that. I taste him on my tongue and I close my eyes, trying to seduce him as best as possible.
His fingers string through my hair, tightening when I hit just the right spot.
You like that, don’t you.
I toy with him; I can’t help it.
Then his hand reaches down and cups the back of my head. He’s finished with games.
I smirk and take him deeper, pumping him with my hand.
He doesn’t ease up and my breaths are starting to get labored. I grip the back of his thighs and let him fuck my mouth. It’s an intimate act, trusting him not to hurt me.
“This is what I’ve wanted,” he says, caressing my cheek.
I close my eyes so he can’t read the emotion in them.
And then he’s coming. No lead-in. No warning.
I barely register anything but the sound coming from his mouth. The deep, satisfied groan. The way his hips buck forward, slipping out of his control. He is completely lost in me and I make sure it stays that way. For so long, we hover there, regaining our breath. I stay on my knees, staring up at him, and he finally looks down at me. It’s the first time we’ve locked eyes since I kissed him and the intimacy of the eye contact is more shocking than anything we’ve done yet. The delayed vulnerability finds its target, and self-preservation takes over.
I look away and stand.
I lock myself in the bathroom, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I am red and raw. My breath is still labored, recovering. My lips are a little swollen, carrying the evidence of what I’ve done, and my eyes are dilated. I’m still in shock.
I lean forward and splash water across my face. It feels go
od so I do it a few more times. I’m drying my hands when Lucas knocks on the door and informs me that they’re ready to confirm our negative skin tests, and then we’ll be free to go. How’s that for timing?
I imagine a parade waiting for us outside, a bevy of local and national reporters fighting over each other to get the scoop. America will be so glad to see us free and safe that they’ll declare today a national holiday. Yet when we stroll out of the clinic—not making eye contact, keeping our distance—the sidewalk is empty, and the only parade is the procession of new emotional baggage we each drag behind us. So much for my fifteen minutes of fame.
To her credit, my mom is across the street at Hamilton Brew. When she sees me, she waves a plastic bag overhead.
“Daisy! I brought you clean underwear!”
The universe can be so cruel at times.
Chapter Eighteen
Lucas
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: #351
Sometimes lying to yourself can be helpful. Therapeutic, even. But there are some moments in life when the truth is so white-hot that you don’t even have the choice to ignore it. It demands to be heard.
So ask yourself, Daisy: do you regret what happened?
I don’t.
For a few hours, you finally stopped fighting an imaginary war inside that beautiful mind of yours. You let go of all the things that shouldn’t be and guess what? It was sexy as hell. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve already convinced yourself it was some kind of defeat. But don’t worry, Daisy. Even though you were on your knees in that exam room, I was the one trembling. I had your blonde hair wrapped up in my hands. Your delicate features were so serene, so focused on what you were doing. Your heart-shaped mouth. Your lips…
Jesus, Daisy.
It’s no wonder you freaked out afterward. Those big blue eyes caught mine and you froze. I don’t think we’ve ever been closer than in that moment.
