Her eyes twinkle, her cheek muscles flexing with the effort to keep a smile from her face. I narrow my eyes. "Little liar."
She ignores me, pivoting. I step inside, closing the front door behind me. And then I die. Once, twice, three times. A rip in the seat of Daisy's jeans is enough to send me six feet under.
"Daisy, where are the rest of your jeans?"
She's walking in front of me through her house, heading for the kitchen. I'm trailing along behind, staring at the curve of her ass. Correction, one ass cheek, bare. It's beautiful, like the curve of a Cheshire Cat smile. I want to sink my teeth into it, trace it with my tongue.
She wears a nondescript white T-shirt, but on her, it's elevated. I definitely made the right choice wearing jeans today. Sweats would not have hidden the ever-lengthening erection in the front of my pants.
Daisy pauses halfway through her living room, one hip popping out as she gazes over her shoulder, eyes cast down. "Are you talking about the rip in my jeans? These are my house pants, Pete."
"Stop calling me Pete."
"Old habits," she says, continuing on into the kitchen.
"You never called me Pete," I argue, following her. "Where's the Dracula cyclops spider?"
She points two fingers down, miming a break-neck run. "Scurried away."
"I thought I told you to keep an eye on it?"
She shrugs. "Too fast for me."
Obviously I knew there wasn't a spider, but I'm on pins and needles now waiting for whatever it is Daisy really called me over here for.
I stop and lean against the kitchen wall, watching her head disappear into the fridge. She's bending over, ass stuck out, a deep curve in her lower back. My hips practically thrust her direction, the second brain in my pants dying to rub against her. But I said I wouldn't touch her, and I mean it.
I cross my arms. "You are downright devious."
She pulls away from the fridge, a pitcher of water in her hand. "And so good at blow jobs, too. I consider myself the whole package."
My hands sink to my sides.
Do not picture Daisy on her knees. Do not picture Daisy on her knees.
Attempts to block the image are futile. All I see are Daisy's brown eyes watery as she takes me to the back of her throat.
She grins broadly, knowing she has gotten to me.
"So I tell you I won't touch you while you wear that ring"—I point at the frozen pond on her left hand—"and all you heard washe needs to be properly convinced."
"Well, Sailor," Daisy says, sauntering forward. She stops just out of arm's reach from me, lips pouty. "I do love a challenge."
"Daisy, you have no idea how stubborn I can be."
"Is that supposed to dissuade me?"
Alarm races through me. As much as it's going to kill me to deny this woman, I'm going to enjoy the ride. She can tease me all she wants. I have to die someday, might as well be at the hands, hips, and ass of Daisy.
"No, Sunshine. Just making sure you know to bring your A game, because I play to win."
"Funny you should say that," she says, lifting the pitcher of water. "Because I do, too." Then she overturns the pitcher, soaking her chest.
Two things become instantly clear. The water is cold, and she isn't wearing a bra.
I have vastly underestimated my opponent.
I spin around. Stomp out.
