“Exc…excuse me,” I mumble. “Not feeling well.”
Maybe I actually am ill because my stomach really does hurt. I go up into my bathroom upstairs and lean over the toilet, waiting to throw up—and then I realize with a jolt that it’s not nausea I’m suffering from. It’s something worse.
“Daisy?” Lucas knocks on my bedroom door and I flush the empty toilet and then walk out to open it.
“Need a doctor?” He grins.
He’s standing on the threshold, holding a box of crackers and a glass of water.
Like that will fix my problem.
“Are you okay?”
“Peachy,” I say, stepping back and leaving the door open for him. The invitation is clear: he can come in if he wants. In 28 years, he has never been inside my room. I watch as he steps in and closes the door behind him. He’s a giant stepping into a doll house; my things seem small and childish compared to him. He eyes the trophies and ribbons adorning the walls, the pieces missing from his own collection. He smiles as he passes by the row of plaques from our high school science fairs. My shelves are stuffed full of old college textbooks. The poster above my bed doesn’t depict a boy band or one of the Twilight characters; it’s an anatomical diagram of the human heart.
I sit, watching him inspect my things from my perch on my twin bed, and when he finally turns to me, his gaze falls down my body, onto the small bed.
I panic.
“Madeleine will probably come check on me soon.”
His mouth hitches up. He can probably smell my fear.
“Your mom took everyone out back to show off her garden. We’ve got time.”
“How did you sneak away?”
“I volunteered to check on you, considering you’re sick.”
He sounds amused by the notion.
“I really am.”
He moves closer.
“Yeah? What are your symptoms?”
“Tightening in my chest. Faint feeling. Twisting in my stomach. A desire to inflict bodily harm on Kelly.”
He hides his smile and drops the water and crackers down on my nightstand. “Just as I feared.”
I fall back dramatically across my bed. “I probably won’t survive the night, will I?”
The old mattress sinks with his weight as he dips down beside me. For a second, we just sit there on my childhood bed, not touching, respecting house rules, but that doesn’t last long.
“Just a few more tests, then we’ll know.” His hand barely touches my stomach and then he draws a soft circle, twirling the fabric of my dress around his finger. “How about here? Does this hurt?”
I nod and close my eyes. “Yes.”
His hand slides up over my ribs and chest until it rests directly over my heart.
“And here?”
I reply with a shaky voice, “Worst it’s ever felt.”
He leans down and his mouth hits the side of my exposed neck. “Here?”
“I’m not sure. Do it one more time.”
I feel his smile against my skin as his hand trails down between my legs. He’s gathering the silky fabric of my dress in his hands and tugging it up gently. My knees are bared to him. Then my thighs. The bottom of my panties is just barely visible and the cool air hitting that forbidden patch of skin makes me shiver.
Lucas pauses and pulls back, leaving me exposed for him to peruse.
“Spread your legs,” he says.
His words are commanding, but his tone is gentle—so gentle in fact, that I comply. I part my thighs and my dress rides up another few inches, and then it gets worse. Lucas is fingering my panties and sliding them down my thighs. I have to bend my knees so he can tug them down my legs, but my body isn’t my own. It listens and does exactly what he wants.
Once I’m naked from the waist down, Lucas pushes off the bed.
I prop myself up on my elbows to watch him move in my room, hungry for his thoughts. What is he thinking as he leans back against my dresser and assesses me cooly? Still clad in his jeans, he’s got the advantage. I’m underdressed and yet, I don’t make a move to tug down my hemline.
“Show me.”
My eyes flick up to him and his attention is between my spread legs. His arms are crossed over his chest. His mouth is a flat line. His eyes are on fire.
“Show me what you used to do in high school. Late at night, when you were all alone. When you should have been sleeping.”
I smirk. “Hand me that old calculus textbook and I’ll show you.”
He barely smiles. “Wrong.”
My gaze flickers to the window sheepishly. Could he somehow see in here all those years ago? No. He couldn’t. The angle isn’t right, and the blinds block silhouettes. Still, he looks so confident, watching me try to recover.
“Is this some fantasy of yours?” I ask.
“A fantasy is a thing imagined. This—you, Daisy Bell, touching yourself—that’s something I want to see.”
“Your ego truly knows no bounds,” I scold. Even so, I don’t cover myself.
“Put your hand between your legs.”