by Zoe Lee
“Is—is it good?” Daisy had to ask.
“Is it good for you?” he countered, the words slurred with pleasure.
“Yes,” Daisy cried out, her feet lifting off the futon as her belly caved in, her shoulders jerking towards each other, constricting her breasts. “I-I waited. I waited until you called and now, it’s, I’m,” she rambled incoherently.
“I can’t believe this,” Dunk groaned, “you’re better than any dream, even when we’re not actually touching each other.”
“I wish we were,” she whimpered. “Touching.”
“The other night, when you were on your belly? And I was… I was against your back?” he rasped. “Your skin was so hot. Inside you was so hot.”
“O-Oh—”
“That’s it, baby, think of that, let me hear—”
“Fuck, Dunk!” Daisy wailed, writhing against her hand, her thighs pressed together with her wrist pinned between, the pleasure almost pain.
Dunk yelled out, echoing and distant to Daisy because she was still lost to her orgasm, imagining it was his fingers against her, those words spoken so close to her that his lips dragged against the tender skin behind her ear.
They panted together, Daisy unable to form a coherent thought.
Then, in the dazed comedown, Dunk said in surprise, “You said fuck.”
“What?” Daisy mumbled, kicking off her sheet and comforter and then starfishing, sweaty and leaden now that she was temporarily satisfied.
“When you came. You said fuck.”
“I swear,” she told him indignantly.
He chuckled breathlessly, and didn’t that made her heart rate tick up again? Knowing that she’d gotten such a big, strong man to lose his breath?
“Daisy Rhys, you know I l—”
Dunk’s voice cut off so abruptly, Daisy thought she’d dropped the call.
She slapped her hand over until she found her cell, then picked it up to check that they were still connected. “Dunk? Did you hit mute?”
“Oh! No! Sorry, I,” he stuttered. “Sorry. The… the dog jumped on me?”
“Okay?” she said as if it were a question, knowing that he was lying. But since she didn’t have a clue what he’d be lying about, and since her brain was still mushy, she let it go. “What were you saying?”
“Oh. Right. Um, you said fuck. You were outraged that I insinuated that this was totally out of character for you. I was about to tell you that you are so not a foul-mouthed girl. Like half an hour ago, you told me that you extra-love prizes. That’s extra cute. Extra cute girls don’t say fuck.”
Harrumphing, Daisy narrowed her eyes at her ceiling, since Dunk wasn’t there to glare at in person, and retorted, “Women are complicated creatures, Dunk. I can say extra-love and fuck.”
“Yeah you can,” he cheered. “Vocabulary bingo. You’ll win it.”
“I don’t know, you might give me a run for my money,” she mused teasingly. “You did just say insinuated. That’s a big word.”
She could practically hear the smirk when he replied, “I only know insinuate because it’s in the movie Dogma. I had to look it up.”
“Never seen that,” Daisy said drowsily.
“I don’t know if it’s your style… Listen, go to sleep, sweetheart.”
“Mmkay. Night, Dunk.”
Chapter 9
Daisy
Daisy went to her parent’s house for a family dinner on Friday night, planning to leave early so that she could meet Dunk at Wild Harts, where Seth Riveau was going to play around ten.
Her parents lived on the southern edge of Maybelle in a fixer-upper cottage they’d bought once Daisy, the youngest, had gotten married and moved out. It had a vegetable and herb garden out front and a deep porch with a big swing out back. It was very different from the house she and her three brothers had been raised in, which was a six-bedroom on one of the private lakes.
But it was hard to be anything but happy for them, she thought as she clattered up the steps and into the house, when it suited them so well. It wasn’t until they’d had their housewarming party that she thought to wonder if they’d hated that big house on the lake. That maybe they’d chosen it—and worked such long hours, her dad as a lawyer and her mom as an administrator at the hospital—to give it to their kids.
“Hey, little girl,” her dad said, tugging the end of her braid as if she were three, and smiling indulgently, as if he didn’t see her all day at work. “Why are you dressed up? Usually you come in your jammies.”
“I’m going to Wild Harts later,” she told him.
Her mom squeezed her when they came into the living room, where Levi and Shane were already waiting.
Levi’s wife Cora, who owned the local art gallery, wasn’t coming tonight because there was an opening. Time was, Daisy would’ve been there too; she’d sold her pottery there, and at art fairs. Loss rippled through her, although less than there had been when she’d first taken the admin job.
She rumpled her brothers’ hair and flopped down between them. “What’s up, boys?” she greeted them. “Anything crazy happen since five?”
“You know it,” Shane confirmed idly. “I ate like twenty of Mom’s deviled eggs.”
“You did what?” their mom demanded, bustling out of the kitchen and smacking Shane in the shoulder with a spatula. Since the spatula had buttery, garlicky mashed potatoes clinging to it, flecks of it flew at all of them. “I’m not even sorry about that,” she declared defiantly.
“I didn’t eat twenty,” Shane whined. “It was four.”
Their mom glared and Levi snickered.
“Okay. Six. Maybe seven.”
“Those are for after church on Sunday,” their mom informed him, then rolled her eyes and went back to the kitchen, their dad following.
Daisy and her brothers were silent until they were sure their parents were out of earshot and then Levi whispered loudly, “Those weren’t deviled eggs, Shane. Those were angeled eggs. God’s pissed.”
“Bite me,” Shane retorted.
“I can’t believe you’re both almost forty,” Daisy chirped, grinning ear to ear. They both jerked their heads to gape at her before they gave her the finger in unison. “Do you have to practice that?” she asked innocently.
Their disgruntled expressions cracked and they all laughed.
“What’s up, Buttercup?” Levi asked her.
“Don’t call me that, Jeans,” Daisy shot back.
Levi screwed up his face. “That’s the worst pun nickname thing ever.”
“I don’t know,” Shane said thoughtfully. “I think Duncan ‘Dunk’ McCoy is a pretty dubious pun nickname thing. Especially since he’s famous for football, not basketball, which would make much more sense.”
“Well, he’s not the brightest bulb.”
“Hey,” Daisy cried, “Dunk’s plenty smart!”
Shane scoffed. “Can’t deny the man had skills on the gridiron before he got injured, but it’s not like he’s an astrophysicist.”
Daisy crossed her arms defensively, the tiny buttons on her sweater digging into her arms. “Neither are you. And neither am I. What do I care if he’s a genius or just a normal guy? He’s sweet and funny.”
Levi sighed and clasped his hands together. “And so dreamy.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“I hear that a lot,” he said with a smirk.
“Dinner’s ready,” their dad called.
They all went to sit at the table, where the grilled chicken and mashed potatoes were already plated, waiting for them to dig in.
“Thanks, Mom, this looks great,” Shane, always the suck up, said.
“Yeah, thanks, Mom,” Daisy and Levi chorused.
Their mom smiled as they started to eat, talking about politics and the cases at the firm.
Daisy didn’t have much to contribute, but she usually didn’t. It wasn’t that she was ignorant or didn’t have opinions, it was just that she’d always been focused on the arts and books.
They could keep up with her if she wanted to talk about that, but it wasn’t their passion the way it was Daisy’s. She was the creative one, while they applied their passion to much more logical, practical things. They didn’t think she was silly and she didn’t think they were boring, but now that Daisy worked at the firm, she found the dinner conversations a bit repetitive.
“Daisy,” her mom said, her tone indicating it wasn’t the first time.
“Yeah? Sorry,” she apologized.
“Head in the clouds,” her dad said fondly. “Where’s your mind?”
“Oh, I’m just excited about going to Wild Harts tonight.”
Everyone smiled knowingly.
“I can’t remember the last time I heard Seth Riveau sing or play,” Daisy went on, smiling broadly, determined to keep the conversation away from her as-yet-labeled thing with Dunk. “I can’t wait to hear him again.”
Her mom sighed, “Such a sweet boy, and so talented!”
They all hummed in agreement before returning to the last topic, and the rest of the meal passed quickly, despite Daisy’s impatience.
By nine, she was in Shane’s truck and he was asking her, “Did you see those shots Conor posted on Instagram this morning?”
“Not yet,” Daisy said, not wanting to admit that she’d already reached her data limit for the month on her cheap monthly plan.
“He’s back in Dubai,” Shane said, rolling the foreign word around in his mouth. “He went skiing, can you believe that? They have whole ski resorts inside there.”
Daisy sighed at the very idea of such a thing. Conor’s life shouldn’t sound that romantic—he was a horse trainer in Kentucky. But he was at the top of his field, so he got to travel several times a year to the major horse races around the world. Dubai was the only one that she really couldn’t imagine. She’d never met anyone from there.
“Too bad he doesn’t need an assistant,” Daisy said, only half-joking.
“Now that would be much more fun than getting us donuts and answering ten calls a day from Mavis at the County Clerk’s office.”
Laughing, Daisy rolled her eyes. “I like Mavis.”
“You’re the only one,” Shane told her. “She’s always implying things.”
“Like what?”
Shane took the turn into Wild Harts, one hand sliding around the wheel as it released. “‘Oh, Shane,’” he mimicked her high-pitched, nasal voice, “‘did I see you coming out of the pharmacy yesterday?’ The way she says it, it’s like she thinks I was there to get medication for chlamydia.”
“You’re so paranoid,” Daisy giggled, pushing open her door and hopping down. “Thanks again for the ride. Have fun at… Sarah’s?”
“Melanie’s,” Shane corrected with a shit-eating grin.
“Ugh,” was all Daisy had to say to that, shaking her head.
“Don’t get too wild tonight, Buttercup,” he called after her.
She didn’t even acknowledge that as she swung into the restaurant.
It was the haven for locals in a tourist town, and it had a great atmosphere, like a secret clubhouse, with good food and music. But before Jamie had gotten engaged to Leda, Daisy hardly ever came in here. The Riveaus, and Dunk and the rest of their friends, had always been cool, and Daisy definitely wasn’t. She’d known Seth in school because he was in the arts too, but musicians were totally cool, while she’d been the girl in floral sundresses and pastel-smeared leggings. Always clutching a sketchbook and riddled with shyness. They had never been mean, but their exuberance, their loudness, had intimidated her, so she and her friends went out other places in town, like the cafe or the bookstore, or stayed in at their places.
They were pretty much the same now as they had been then, she thought with a smile as she cut through the tables towards them. Dunk was laughing his ass off, his arms slung around Aden and Jesse’s shoulders, Leda and Chase opposite them yammering and gesturing.
Daisy wasn’t shy anymore, but she wasn’t outgoing like Dunk either.
Sitting in a tent at art fairs, where she’d talked to people who came to her, wasn’t being outgoing. All she had had to do was offer a big smile, which had kept their eyes on her just long enough for them to catch sight of the work around her. If they’d liked it, they asked her questions about how ceramics and pottery were made. Her passion for her work made them enthusiastic about it, too, and she could keep up a steady, meaningless flow as she haggled and wrapped things up.
But nothing of herself was on display in those situations.
Dunk, though… Dunk was loudly, proudly on display in all situations.
The loyalty to his friends, the comfort he had with them, the way they loved and protected each other, was there in how close they stood. It was in their overlapping shadows and melded silhouettes, in the way their voices chorused in perfect harmony, whether in humor or challenge. When other people talked to them, they were hailed without fear, as if no one had ever upset them or made them nervous, or tried to pick a fight. Dunk easily made fun of himself, of his big doofy grin and how he’d single-handedly blown the bowl game he’d played in during college. He boasted about how much his mama loved him and lamented how often his so-called best friends slapped him upside the head for being silly.
“Daisy Rhys, don’t you just look pretty as a picture!”
The enthusiastic comment startled Daisy, who emitted a meep.
“Sorry, sweetie, we didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” one of the two women apologized, and to Daisy, it seemed like the same tone they’d use on a cute four-year-old kid, a little too sweet and slow. “We just thought your dress is so danged adorable. Where on earth did you get it?”
“The boutique, right?” the other jumped in.
“Yes, I—”
“I just knew it!” she interrupted again, patting Daisy’s hand. She looked over at Dunk, her eyes lingering—very rudely—on Dunk’s butt. “Now, normally I’d say it’s a darn shame you’re so adorable and dressed up when your man looks like he came here without even a shower. But, sweetie, I wouldn’t kick that man out of bed for eating crackers.”
Daisy was actually dazed by the sheer audacity of the woman. Sure, she knew women talked about Dunk, talked about him casually and shamelessly, whether they wanted him or whether they’d had him. It had never bothered her, not even in the time since the wedding.
But this… this felt as if the women didn’t recognize that he was hers—
“Daisy!” the object of the women’s lust shouted out, waving one arm wildly and actually bouncing up and down. “Hey, Daisy, there you are!”
Daisy hadn’t been raised to be rude, so she offered the women a smile before she darted away towards Dunk. But the smile had been tight and artificial, like the happy half of a drama mask. It was a smile she hadn’t had to fit over her expression since the days after her divorce was done.
Dunk met her halfway, immediately sweeping her up in his arms, his forearms criss-crossing over the base of her spine. He made an exaggerated grunt and staggered sideways, lurching hard so she squeaked and clutched his shoulders.
Then he murmured against her cheek, “You doing okay, darlin’?”
The juxtaposition of a man observant and sweet enough to know she wasn’t okay against a man who pretended she was so heavy he wouldn’t be able to hold her was bright and beautiful. How could a man as… as simple as Dunk McCoy made her laugh in delight even as she clung to him, aching for him even though she had him in her arms?
“Those women, they…”
She choked on the words, flushing hard.
Dunk slid his face back, his dark blond stubble scraping deliciously, and surveyed her. His brows drew together and then relaxed as his lips quirked. “Objectified me, huh?” he finished for her, knowingly.
“Maybe,” she squeaked, wincing.
“Do they want to bounce a quarter off this ass?” he carried on, still holding her up in his arms so their torsos melded together. “Would they hit it? Are they ready to knock
boots? Ride my flagpole? Smash—”
“No,” Daisy wailed through her loud giggles. She smacked a kiss to his lips, drawing back teasingly when he tried to keep her lips on his. “First of all, it’s rude to tell a woman you want to sleep with her man,” she pointed out indignantly. “And second of all, never use that flagpole euphemism.”
He cocked one eyebrow. “But the quarter off the ass one is fine?”
Swallowing more giggles, Daisy struggled to stay on topic.
She wiggled, her breasts almost popping right up out of her dress, until her ballet flats hit the floor. Then she laid one of her hands on his far shoulder before she started to circle him slowly, her hand dragging over one tight nipple, his ribs, his hard, taut belly, the cut of his near hip, and the top of that Magic Mike male stripper caliber ass.
By the time she’d circled him fully, his chest was juddering rapidly, his eyes a little wild, his way-thicker-than-a-flagpole tenting his jeans.
“Yeah, Daisy Rhys, buy that stallion at auction!” someone screeched.
“Ride him until he—”
The second voice was drowned out by Aden and Jesse’s totally grossed-out cries of pain. “That’s it, whoever finishes that is banned!” Aden yelled. “Have some mercy on a man, ladies! That’s my best friend.”
“Daisy,” Dunk said hoarsely.
“Yeah, baby?” she asked, all breathless and wide-eyed.
His big hands settled on her hips light as a butterfly before he exhaled hard and they clamped down, so that the softness at her hips felt like dough being kneaded through his fingers, thick and slow and deliberate.
“Are you objectifying me too?”
The words were a whisper so seductive, it took her a full heartbeat to realize what he’d said. Her eyes darted up to his and she bit her lip as coquettishly as possible, then used one hand to pop him on the ass hard.
“Sssh, you perfect Greek god marble statue,” she said, shaking her head and holding up one finger vertically across her lips. “I’m an artist. I’m not objectifying you. I’m studying your fine-ass workmanship.”
