Hothouse Flower (Addicted #4)(21)

“Shhh,” I whisper. “You’re safe.” I rub her arm, and she scoots closer to me. We’re no longer a f*cking inch or so apart. Her legs intertwine with mine like it’s the most natural position. She turns, her back against my chest, my arm around her waist, my cock pressing on her ass, but she probably doesn’t hone in on this last fact as much as me.

Do you want to know the kind of restraint it takes to be in this f*cking position with this f*cking girl almost every f*cking night without doing one f*cking thing?

More control than I even realized I had.



* * *



I figured tonight would be a rough one, but I just didn’t expect it to bypass a nightmare and hit on another f*cking issue she has. Not sleepwalking. I haven’t caught her doing that yet.

Daisy kicks me awake, which is the normal part. She squirms, her long, smooth legs moving back and forth, up and down, hitting my shins.

I don’t try to stop her. She’ll just be unresponsive until she wakes up fully.

She grips her pillow, her face turned into it, and she moans.

She’s still asleep. This is a f*cking side effect of her meds, and it’s happened maybe five times in the past four months. I wasn’t ever planning on telling her that she gets aroused in the middle of the night. She can’t remember it happening, even when her eyes snap open and she looks pretty lucid, like a sleepwalker. I thought telling her that I’ve heard her moan in arousal would embarrass her, so I kept quiet. But during a sleep study, she did it anyway, and so she knows.

Daisy didn’t look mortified when she found out. I forgot that she’s not Lily. She’s a lot less ashamed and a lot more brazen and probably five times as crazy. She just told me that if she does it again, I need to leave her bed immediately so she doesn’t accidentally rape me.

She read that it could happen with sleepsex, and I told her that she’s out of her f*cking mind if she thinks she’s going to rape me, asleep or awake.

Daisy tosses and turns restlessly, and then she stays still when her back faces me, one of her knees bent towards her body. She shudders, and then she moans again, the noise high-pitched and full of unbridled pleasure.

I sit up on my elbow and pause to watch her for a second. I start to harden, especially as she clenches the sheet by her waist. Her tank top has bunched to her chest, the bottom of her breasts peeking out.

Fuck. I have to go to the bathroom.

I’m about to tug her shirt down and leave, but her voice freezes me. “I can’t,” she moans softly, and then her noises turn into a series of breathless cries. “Ahh…ahhh…ahh…”

Fucking Christ. I wish I was so deep inside of her right now.

Her back arches. “Ryke!”

At least she thinks I am.

Frustrated, I toss the comforter off my body. Fuck her shirt. I glance back. Her breasts, even small, are killing me. I climb off the bed, my erection trying to burst through my f*cking pants. Her body is skinnier than it’s ever been. I want to f*cking feed her first, and then I want to f*ck her hard. Both of which seem improbable, and the latter can’t happen.

“I…can’t…” she moans. See, even in her f*cking sleep, she knows it’s wrong. So there we go. “Ryke…Ryke…” She cries again, feminine, high-pitched, and I lose it for a second time. “Ryke, ahhh!” I have to enter the f*cking bathroom before I come right here.

It takes me a minute to unlock the deadbolt, and then I slip inside. I gently shut the door and tug down my drawstring pants to my thighs. Fuck. I find the lotion on the ground, along with hair spray (not f*cking needed) and a tube of half-empty toothpaste (same). I didn’t even realize it was f*cking messy in here, but I guess it is. We both rarely clean up.

I used to make fun of Connor for masturbating like crazy when Rose wouldn’t give up her virginity, and here I am, going through the same thing. The difference: there’s no endgame for me. I don’t have the girl at the finish. I’m not chasing after her. I’m just helping her, and when that’s done, we’re both supposed to move on.

I stand over the toilet and place one hand on the wall. I shut my eyes and stroke my hard cock that f*cking begs to be inside a woman, but I’ve been saying no to that demand for months. Images start filling my head to increase my arousal, and the most prevalent is a girl with blonde hair, with that high-pitched cry and those long f*cking legs.

I immediately stop rubbing.

I lick my lips and glare at the wall. Why the f*ck do you have to picture her? Anyone else. Goddammit, anyone f*cking else. I try thinking about a girl I’ve already f*cked before, completely different from Daisy. She’s big breasted, big assed, and big hipped. I like curvy. I like athletic. I honestly like everything. I don’t think Daisy knows this either. I told her I had a type when she was fifteen—describing the complete opposite of her build, just so she wouldn’t get any ideas.

And look where I am now, f*cking imagining her. Stop thinking. I’m trying. I want to come, so I start again, and I keep picturing that other girl, my cock pounding between her legs. Fuck…me. I speed up my strokes, welcoming the friction with heavy breaths.

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.