Hothouse Flower (Addicted #4)(22)

Stop imagining her. I pause, my hand freezing in place. I can’t f*cking 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 breasts 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*ck 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 hips 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*cking hours prior to now. I hear her cries in my ears. I see her climax wash over her face. And her body is all mine, protected within my f*cking hands, my long cock 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*cking image is this good, it makes me wonder what the real f*cking 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*cking 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*cking 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*cking 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.