“Cameras?”
They’re everywhere. “Good chance they’re on. If they are, I’ll have everything erased.” In her ear, I whisper, “I will fuck you so hard, you’re not going to care about cameras.” Her breath comes out in short gasps of air. “What do you say?”
“Yes.”
Fucking music to my ears.
Sliding my fingers up her thigh to her pussy, she’s already wet.
Flicking the button on my pants and unzipping, my cock springs free. I grab a condom from my pocket and rip it open, rolling it on. I push her panties aside, nudge my cock to her entrance and slam into her.
There’s no time for foreplay.
This is how I fuck. Fast. Rough. Selfishly taking more than I give. Daisy’s just like any other woman.
Except she’s not, a voice whispers in my mind.
I pound into her, gripping her hips so hard, I’ll probably leave bruises. I should hold back. Not be so rough. But Daisy’s moans spur me on.
Her head tilts back as her fingers grip the barricade. “You like getting fucked like this, don’t you, Daisy Chain?”
“Yes,” she moans.
I drive harder.
“Don’t stop,” she whimpers.
I don’t intend to. Not until I hear her scream.
A moment later, her pussy clenches around my cock, and she cries out my name. I can’t hold on a second longer. On a loudgrunt, I come hard, slapping my hand on the barricade above her head to steady myself.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I pull in deep breaths to calm my racing heart. This is it. Daisy should be well and truly fucked out of my system. Yet, as I slide out of her, I still want more. Why isn’t it working? I’ve never been hooked on drugs, but I’d bet everything I own this is what it feels like—this insatiable feeling growing inside me. Like a couple of hits isn’t enough.
I’ll take her back to the hotel and fuck her in every room. When we’re back in LA, I’ll go back to my old ways and forget about Daisy.
Somehow, I have a feeling it’s going to be harder than I think.
***
Back in the hotel suite, I made good on the promise to myself. I fucked her in every room. We’d barely gotten through the door when I had her up against the wall in the foyer. Continuing on the living room couch, on her hands and knees on the living room rug, the shower and eventually in bed. Now she’s snuggled in my arms, sated and relaxed. I’m wired and wondering how the hell I’ve let this happen. How is she lying by my side, like she belongs there, and I never want to let her go?
She traces her fingers over my tattoos. “These are beautiful.”
This is the second time she’s called them beautiful. Not the reaction I was expecting from someone whose skin is creamy white and untarnished. With so much of my skin covered, I thought she’d be repelled, but she genuinely looks like she likes them.
“How old were you when you got your first tattoo?” she asks, her fingertips ghosting over a chain on my bicep.
“Fifteen.”
Her head jerks back to look at my face, and her eyes widen. “Fifteen? You were a child. That’s illegal. Who gave permission?”
“No one. It wasn’t like I went into a legit tattoo shop.”
“Then who gave it to you?”
“Asher. He’d bought an old second-hand tattoo gun from a pawn shop and did it for me.”
“Do you remember which one it was?”
