She flushes, either from the compliment or from the way my eyes travel down her body, but she doesn’t move away.
“I’m not,” she whispers. “I just like being here. With you, Hunter.”
I nod, and the moment cracks. I’m too old for this. I’m thirty-five, with scars that could fill a novel, and she’s so young and innocent it hurts to look at her.
I clear my throat, step back. “We should get you dressed. There’s a closet upstairs, with clothes in your size. Take whatever you want.”
She hesitates, then says, “Can you show me?”
I almost refuse. But I want to see her walk, see the way she climbs the stairs, her curves framed by the glass railing. I want to watch her open the closet, pull dresses off the racks, laugh at the high heels lined up like soldiers.
I want to watch her choose.
We head up. The master bedroom is huge, all pale leather and soft rugs, and the walk-in closet is a city block long. She gasps at the rows of new clothes, tags still attached, and runs a finger over a sky-blue dress. “Did you buy these for me? But it must mean that you always planned to win the auction.”
“Yes,” I say, and it sounds bizarre, but it’s true.
She slips a dress off a hanger and holds it to her chest, looking in the mirror. She turns, catching my gaze. “I don’t think I want to put anything on right now,” she says, voice light as a dare.
My hands tremble, so I put them in my pockets. “That’s your choice.”
The innocent blonde hangs the dress back, then sits on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, breasts high and proud. She’s a queen, and she knows it.
For a minute, neither of us speaks.
Then she asks, “Why did you bid so high? Did you want me that badly?”
I think of the first time I met her, a gorgeous teenage blonde unaware of her own sexual appeal, when our parents were dating. I think of how I found her on the streets, injured and confused, and immediately took advantage of the situation. I think of how I swore to our parents I would never lay a hand on her, not even if she came to me begging.
But the real answer is: Yes, I want her that badly.
“Yes,” I say.
She smiles, not the least bit afraid. “Then you’ll get your money’s worth, Mr. McCarren.”
I want to kiss her. I want to fuck her until she can’t remember anyone but me. I want to make her forget her past, her real name, the childhood she lost and the secrets I’ve been keeping from her since the day I met her.
Instead, I stand there, silent, and watch her watch me.
At some point, my hands stop shaking.
Maybe that’s all the confession I’ll ever need.
I watchDaisy from the shadow of the doorway, body angled for the best view: she sits cross-legged at my dining table, naked as the day she was born, eating cold noodles out of a bone-china bowl with one hand and scrolling her new phone with the other. I’m not sure which makes me harder—the way her hair falls down her back like a stream of gold, or the way her tits sway when she leans forward, totally unselfconscious. Probably both.
The table is set for two, silver and glass sparkling under the hanging lamp. I didn’t set it; the housekeeper, a ghost who enters and leaves without a sound, must have. Daisy caught the smell of sesame and ginger right away, and now she’s slurping away, lost in her own world.
“You know, there’s a fork,” I say, just to hear her voice.
She glances up, blue eyes dancing. “But it’s more fun with chopsticks.”
“If you don’t mind looking like an idiot.”
She flashes a grin and dangles a noodle over her mouth, letting it slap against her chin before she swallows. “I’m an expert,” she claims, then chokes and coughs, spraying a tiny bit of sauce on the table. She’s a mess, and I can’t stop but love it as her big breasts bounce with the effort.
I pour her a glass of white wine and push it across the marble. “To new beginnings,” I say.
She clinks my glass, eyes locked on mine. “To expensive adventures,” she answers, and for a second, she looks older than she is. Maybe it’s the light, or maybe she’s finally catching up to herself.
