Daisy
“You fucked Ronan Kade?”
I nearly drop my tray of drinks and slam into a man passing by when I hear the table of women name drop the one guy who’s happened to infiltrate my entire life in the last twenty-four hours.
First, I walk in on him and Eden St. Claire getting cozy, just moments after I left him in the VIP room, and now this. He followed me out of the room after that, and he’s been like a shadow on my tail ever since, never letting me enter the VIP room alone. It’s a little over the top, if you ask me.
But at the same time…it’s almost sweet.
As I’m dropping off the cocktails to a nearby table, I try to listen in on the women nearby, but it’s so loud in here and they’re just out of earshot.
There are three of them. An older woman wearing a proud expression. A beautiful, young redhead, and a dark-skinned runway model (or so I assume) with a buzzed head and legs for days. I didn’t catch which one asked the question, but now I’m practically trying to read lips.
Once my tray is emptied, I make my way closer, pretending to wipe down a nearby table as they carry on their conversation.
“I came so many times I had to beg him to stop,” the runway model whispers, and I freeze.
“Older men always know what they’re doing,” the older woman replies.
“Well, not to mention, he’s a pleasure Dom,” one of them adds.
A pleasure Dom? What the hell is that?
Thankfully, the redhead is just as clueless. “What does that mean?”
“It means he forces you to enjoy yourself. He gets off on getting you off,” the woman replies.
“Sign me up.”
The three of them break out in laughter before raising their glasses to drink. I’ve run out of table to wipe down, but I’m not ready to leave this conversation. It’s a major invasion of privacy and probably grounds for firing, to be honest, but I’m too curious to walk away.
None of this is really what I wanted to know about the man, who may have had a romantic relationship with my mother, but I’m not thinking about that anymore. Now I’m just curious…for other reasons.
“Well, he’s here tonight. He’s right behind you, and he’s looking this way,” the runway model says with her drink to her lips.
My head practically snaps off my neck when I turn it so fast to find him, and sure enough, he’s staring right at me. And since I’m standing just on the other side of the women, it appears like he’s looking at them.
Grabbing my tray, I return to the bar, feeling his gaze on my back. I continue my eavesdropping on this table of women, who may or may not try to sleep with Ronan. Not that it’s any of my business.
“Should I go talk to him?” the older woman says, and suddenly, I’m detouring, no longer walking to the bar but heading straight toward him. He’s sitting alone at a low set table in one of the blue velvet chairs. His shirt isn’t unbuttoned tonight, but he is wearing a blue striped tie and his white shirt fits his arms so snug, it looks like the fabric might rip. How have I never noticed how buff Ronan is?
Thinking about Ronan in that way, considering he possibly dated my mother and I’m here on a mission to get answers, is wrong, but my mind ends up there anyway. Wondering what he looks like under those clothes. Imagining how he makes his submissive come so many times—with his tongue, his fingers, or a toy?
None of these thoughts are appropriate, but I think about them anyway.
I don’t even know why I’m walking over here. But as I reach his chair, I stand over him with my tray tucked under my arm.
“Those women at that table are talking about you,” I say quietly.
A mischievous smile plays on his lips. “Oh yeah? What did they say?”
“Well, apparently you slept with one of them. And the older one is interested in shooting her shot.”
His grin stretches wider, but he doesn’t even glance in their direction. His eyes remain on me. “What should I do?” he asks, and it feels like he’s teasing me. But why would he? I don’t care if he sleeps with any of them, or all of them for that matter. We’re just friends.
I force myself to look unaffected. “I don’t know. Go talk to them, I guess.”
“You could give them a message for me. Or, what if I order each of them a drink and have you deliver them for me?”
Okay, he’s definitely teasing me. Suddenly, I notice that my neck muscles are painfully tight and I have to force my shoulders to relax from their tense position.
“What would you like to order?” I ask with a cold expression on my face.
He licks his lips, and I feel a flutter low in my belly.
“A whiskey, double, neat,” he says, looking up at me.
“I don’t think they drink whiskey. One of them is sipping on a spiked seltzer.” I can’t help but sound judgmental in my response, but Ronan only laughs.
“It’s not for them. It’s for me,” he replies playfully. “And for you, if you’ll have a drink with me.”
“I’m working.”
“So you don’t want to make them jealous? I’ll let you sit on my lap while you drink it,” he replies with a smirk.
I’m struggling to hold my tense expression. Stepping closer to him, I place a hand on each of the arms of his chair, leaning toward him as I whisper, “You’re not going to use me to pit women against each other, Mr. Kade.”
His knee is between my legs, and with a little nudge, he rubs it against the inside of my thigh, and I let out a little gasp when he does.
“Who says I’m pitting you against them? You’d be surprised what a jealous woman will do to win a man’s attention, Daisy.” His voice is low with a smoky growl that makes the flutter in my stomach feel more like an assault.
“You’re a pig,” I reply jokingly, trying to pull away, but as soon as I try, he wraps a hand around the back of my thigh, tugging me closer until my knee lands on the chair between his legs, dangerously close to the spot he definitely doesn’t want me landing on.
Suddenly, I’m practically in his lap, straddling one leg, and he’s smiling, but instead of that devious grin, it’s warm with laughter. “Daisy, relax. I’m joking. But I think I like seeing you so riled up.”
“Very funny,” I reply, swatting at his chest.
I need to stand up, but it seems to take forever. Forcing myself out of his lap is like jumping into an icy pond. It’s far warmer and more comfortable here. The moment I’m standing up, putting space between us, I want to be back in his lap.
His laughter follows me as I walk toward the bar to get his drink. On my way, I glance at the table of women and find them glaring at me with jealousy-infused hatred, and I know it’s awful, but it makes me smile.
At nearly three in the morning, I’m standing under the hot shower in the giant tiled bathroom in Ronan’s penthouse.
Not a single song lyric enters my tired brain. It’s just a foggy, thoughtless void as I let the hot water warm me to my core. The club was so loud. After hours and hours there, I can still hear the music playing in my head like an echo, when all I really want is silence.
Tonight, there’s a new sound infused with the music. The sound of sex, and lots of it.
I can’t help but wonder what it might be like in the VIP room, and not as a waitress. But just as myself. I picture myself walking naked across the room. Ronan would never let me do that, of course. He’d find me. He’d shove me against a wall and cover my naked body with his own.
Maybe, he’d put me over his knee. Spank me. I can almost feel his harsh palm against my backside.
This is so wrong. I know it, but we all have scratches that need to be itched from time to time. Reaching up to the showerhead, I lift it from the base and turn the intensity higher. Then with my back against the wall, I hold it over the pulsing spot between my thighs that aches after a very long night of being aroused.
It’s him invading my every thought.
Ronan lifting my skirt.
Ronan bending me over the sofa.
Ronan fucking me so hard, I scream.
The fantasy is rough and dirty, yet so damn good, I almost don’t want it to end.
The steady stream of water pounding against my clit sends me over the edge so fast, I have to bite my lip to hold in my scream. My entire body goes rigid as I come, pressing a hand against the shower wall to keep me upright. The orgasm pulses and pulses and pulses for what feels like forever.
When it finally ends, I lower the showerhead and suck in a lungful of hot steamy air.
Just as I turn the dial on the shower, a feeling of overwhelming weakness settles in. My arms are like lead as I reach for my towel hanging on the hook. At first, I tell myself it’s the steam and the exhaustion making me fatigued, but then the tunnel vision hits like a freight train.
And I know it’s not the steam at all.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter as every muscle in my body hangs like deadweight, and I pray the episode passes quickly. My forehead starts to sweat, and my hands start to shake. “Not now. Not now,” I mutter.
That’s when I go down. My ears are ringing with that sort of faint fuzzy static sound, but when I tumble into the shower door, I know it’s loud because it echoes through my ears until everything goes dark.
I’m only out for a moment. Normally when I pass out, it feels like I’ve been out for hours. But this time, my skin is still warm and wet, so I know it’s only been a couple seconds.
And just when I think I’m in the clear, the bathroom door flies open.
“Jesus, Daisy!” Ronan shouts as he rushes over and scoops my frail, naked body off the floor.
“I’m fine!” I shriek, but his hand is on my bare ass, and after the fantasy I just streamed on the dirty movie screen of my mind two minutes ago, it’s a little jarring.
“Did you pass out?” he asks, carrying me over to the bathroom counter.
“I’m tired. I just fell!” I sound way too panicked and hysterical. I know that, but I’m deep in the throes of a hypoglycemic episode. My blood sugar is probably critically low, which means my emotions are off the rails.
But he doesn’t need to know all of that.
My arms move to cover my breasts as he starts inspecting my head. “I heard that all the way in my room. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I said I’m fine! Will you please get me a towel?” My command is sharp, and it gets his attention. Looking a little stunned, he pulls away, reaches for the towel, and brings it back to cover my body. “Please leave. I’m fine.”
His brow furrows as if he’s confused, which I’m sure he is. And I can see him hesitating. He doesn’t want to leave me, and my guess is, he won’t go far. I’m not used to being so…taken care of.
“Okay, I’m going.” With his hands up in surrender, he backs up toward the door.
I’m fighting back tears until I hear the click of the door. It takes all the effort I have to stumble toward my bag sitting on the back of the toilet. Once I reach it, I clumsily dig inside for the glucose gummies squished in the bottom alongside the crumbs and receipts. Once I hear the crinkle of the package, I let my back crash to the wall, sliding all the way down as I tear open the plastic, devouring the sugary fruit snacks like an animal.
Then I collapse against the cold tile floor and wait for the sugar to hit my system.
While I’m down here, I think about my mother and how disappointed she would be. I always was bad about eating and watching my blood sugar. And for that reason, I’ve been blessed with the good fortune of passing out every time it would drop. Since I haven’t had a bite since the burger Ronan made me, it hit me hard this time.
For no reason whatsoever, I start to cry. Just warm tears sliding down the sides of my face and onto the floor.
That’s when it all hits. Grief is a ruthless predator, attacking when I’m at my weakest. Cruel, impossible questions cycle through my mind. Why did my mom have to get cancer? Why did she have to die? Why do I have to be alone?
I don’t know how long I lie here and sob, but I slowly feel the energy return to my body as the sugar hits my bloodstream. I rise carefully from the floor and find my pajamas, pulling them on in a drunken haze.
When I open the bedroom door, he’s there.
He doesn’t say a word, just stands against the wall as if he’s waiting for me. It must be obvious just how much I’ve been crying, and he must be incredibly confused, but it doesn’t matter. Because he doesn’t say a word, just opens his arms for me, and I step into them like a moth to a flame.
“I’m fine, I promise,” I mumble. “It’s just…I’m a mess. I don’t deserve your help. I got myself into this situation and I don’t want to rely on you to get me out. You have no idea how hard it is for me to accept your help, like I’m…useless. A failure.” I sob out every word, feeling pathetic, but also safe.
He lets out a heavy sigh, and I’m hanging on every second until he speaks, needing him to say something encouraging. Praying to God he’s not about to lecture me or reprimand me or talk down to me like I’m a child.
“You’re not a failure, Daisy. Accepting my help doesn’t mean you need me to get you out of the situation you’re in. It means you’ve taken care of yourself for so long that you deserve a break. I wouldn’t offer to help you if I thought by doing so, I’d make you more dependent on me.”
He pauses for a moment before softly adding, “In fact, I’m the one who needs out of the situation I’m in. There’s no excitement in my life anymore. And hearing you play today…it made me realize how much I need you.”
I let out a shaky breath. Before he can utter another word, I whisper, “Thank you.”
