Her Every Wish Read online

  “And you should spend more time not apologizing to me, I think.”

  Daisy let out a long breath. “Crash, you’re terrible.”

  “No, I’m not,” he said, sounding amused. “I’m brilliant at everything. And if you would like to not apologize to me in that particular manner once again, I’ll be happy to accommodate you.”

  She tossed her head. “Go smoke your head. I believe you have the medical apparatus for that now.”

  His laugh chased her down the street—warm, inviting, and not the least bit apologetic.

  The sun had set by the time Daisy arrived home. Her skin was numb from the cold; she rubbed her hands together in the dark hall before her door, peeling her gloves away, stamping her feet until the feeling returned.

  Her lips still tingled. And her heart…

  Just as well her mother wasn’t home; her face would give away all her secrets. She opened the door into darkness and reached for the matches.

  “Daisy.” Her name came from the bed.

  “Oh, Mama.” Daisy let the wooden match fall back into its box. “I didn’t know you were home.”

  “Just getting a little rest.” Her mother started to sit up.

  Daisy rushed over. “There’s no need to stir on my account. I’ll manage supper for you tonight.”

  “You do too much for me.”

  Daisy didn’t answer as she sliced and buttered bread.

  Deep down, sometimes she agreed. She had told herself she was a good daughter. But as she set the tea kettle on the hob, she wasn’t sure anymore.

  The future was coming. She ought to have felt a pit of dread in her stomach at that. Maybe, tonight, she was too weary to worry.

  Or maybe she was thinking of Crash.

  How can you be proud? she had asked Crash. And he’d answered. Oh, how he’d answered.

  She’d never asked that question of herself.

  How can I be proud?

  “You taught me to read when I was five,” Daisy said slowly.

  Her mother frowned at her in the gloom. Daisy walked over to the bed and sat down. “You taught me how to jab a man who brushed up against me on the omnibus with a hat pin when nobody was looking.” Her voice was shaking. “You drilled me in proper speech because you told me I’d have better prospects if I could sound genteel. You make dinner and handle laundry and do more than your fair share of lacework.”

  “Daisy. What are you saying?”

  Daisy took her mother’s hand. “You taught me to never stop. To always try one last thing. To keep hoping through the bleakest of times.”

  Daisy had not let herself truly want to win the competition, not until this moment. Or maybe it was that deep down, she had always wanted to win. She’d wanted it so much, with every aching fiber of her being, that she hadn’t let herself know the ferocity of her desire. She had told herself she couldn’t do it instead to cushion her heart from the blow.

  Now she thought about what her emporium would mean. If she succeeded, she’d have not just financial security and a lasting position. It would be a place where her mother might help, as much as she could, with no employer to scold her when her rheumatism took a turn for the worst. She could have a chair in front of the fire on bad days, and Daisy could work and still see to her needs.

  Daisy had not let herself feel her desire until this moment. Now, she wanted. She wanted the shop in her imagination fiercely.

  “Daisy,” her mother said. “What are you saying?”

  Daisy’s voice trembled. “Papa gave up when he lost the store all those years ago. You? You never did. You are the reason I am here. Alive. Well. Taking care of you.”

  Her mother said nothing.

  “And so nothing more of the future,” Daisy said. “If you please. Whether I marry, I promise you, Mama, you will always have a place with me. No matter how hard I must try. No matter how many times I have to stretch for plans outside my grasp. No matter how many times I am told no. I am proud of you. I’m proud of who you made of me. And I’m not going to stop being proud, no matter what the future brings.”

  “Daisy.” Her mother took her hand.

  Daisy couldn’t win the competition. She had told herself that for so long that she had made herself believe it. But Crash had been right. The grocer’s certainty that she would fail? That was his rubbish. The reason she kept reaching was because she could not stop dreaming.

  She wouldn’t.

  “Daisy.” Her mother’s voice was small. “I’m proud of you, too.”

  Daisy’s chin went up. “Good. Then watch what I can do.”

  Chapter Eight

  Daisy was counting out the final coins in the till two days later, going through her speech for the competition on the morrow, grimly preparing herself to do her very best. The door opened. A gust of cool wind swept in, and she looked up.

  The momentary annoyance at a customer arriving right at closing was swept away when she saw who it was.

  “Crash.” She tried not to smile. “I didn’t expect you to meet me here.”

  “No?” He slid his gloves off and sauntered toward her. And oh, did he saunter. Nobody could saunter like Crash, with those languid steps, that slight roll to his hips. She hadn’t known what a saunter truly was until she’d met him.

  The fact that it left her staring inadvertently at his crotch…

  She swallowed and dragged her gaze to his face.

  He came up to her, so close that he could reach out and touch her. And he did. He set his hand atop hers where it rested on the till. A little thrill ran through her.

  “You need to practice your speech again,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  A strangled noise escaped her.

  “Yes,” he said in a low, warm voice. “You do. I know you’re exhausted and I know that two days ago, I tried my damned best to rattle you. Now you need to do it one more time—once when I don’t try to rattle you. You need to do it perfectly once, so you know how that feels.”

  “Crash.” She should say no. Spending time with him was dangerous; it always had been. “It’s so cold today. The thought of trying to be perfect while my hands freeze next to the canal…”

  Speaking of hands. His hand twitched atop hers. “Luckily,” he said in a low voice, “I have a perfectly warm set of rooms. With tea. And I can obtain pastries.”

  “I will not be won over by baked goods.” Daisy folded her arms.

  “Yes, but what about pastries and tea?” He waggled an eyebrow at her.

  “No self-respecting woman would…” She paused and listened to her own words. Come to think of it, why wouldn’t a self-respecting woman go into a room with a man she wanted to be alone with? Especially with pastries. She was tired; she couldn’t think straight. And she was always ravenous after work.

  It didn’t sound like a terrible idea.

  He waited, watching her.

  “You know,” she said severely, “this whole questioning of societal mores thing… It’s entirely self-serving on your part, I’ve just realized.”

  “Come to my side,” he murmured. “We have baked goods and tea.”

  “That’s a terrible argument. The side of proper English morality also has pastries and tea. They practically invented it.”

  “They stole the tea, and they certainly never baked the biscuits. In addition, I know fifteen ways to give a woman an orgasm.”

  Daisy choked.

  “Which is rather antithetical to their position. So which do you prefer, Daisy. Pastries and tea? Or pastries, tea, and, orgasms?”

  “I’ll have tea,” Daisy said, “and…a baked good or two.” She felt her cheeks burn. “But if we are going to be precise about the matter, your presence is not necessary for me to have any of those things. I can manage all three on my own.”

  His eyes met hers and he let out a long breath. “Bravo, Daisy.” He pulled his hand away. “Now there’s an image. Damn.”

  She locked the shop and gathered the final remnants of flower stems. “I h
ave to take out the rubbish.”

  He slid ahead of her and picked up the basket. “Toss it out, then.”

  She gave him a look. Oh, she tried to make it a warning, repressive look, but her smile got in the way. “Don’t think I’ll be won over so easily. I value myself more than a biscuit or two.”

  “What do you want, then?”

  “What do you think?” Daisy shrugged. “To get on your velocipede, and to aim straight for the walls. As fast as I can go.” She took the rubbish bin from him. “You can sit in one place and listen to my speech.”

  They stopped at the bakery. Crash chose little twists of puff pastry laced with cinnamon; Daisy asked for currant scones. They went back to his rooms in good cheer. She smiled at him the whole way.

  This is what it would be like, his mind whispered. This is what it would be like if we were together. If…

  No. When.

  Daisy gave her speech. He didn’t interrupt. He wished her all the best in the world, pouring every ounce of good will into his smile.

  “You’re brilliant,” Crash said when she finished.

  “No,” Daisy started to say. Then she paused. Crash could see her inhale. She tilted her head. Then she gave him a glowing smile. “I was brilliant, wasn’t I? At first, I thought I couldn’t be any good in comparison. Now, I think I’m excellent. What are you doing to me?”

  “Nothing. You’re amazing on your own, you know. You’ve always known, deep down, that you deserved more. Now you want others to believe they deserve it, too. That’s what you’re really selling in your emporium.”

  There was something about having her stand above him as he sat in his chair. His head tilted back and his body came alive. Stirring. Wanting.

  She looked at him for a moment, then gave a slow nod. “That is what I’m selling.”

  “And I,” Crash continued, “for one, bow to your genius.”

  One of her eyebrows rose in a perfect arch. She took a step toward him. “Do you, now?”

  “I positively genuflect to it. In fact, I—”

  Daisy held up a hand. “All talk. I’ve had tea and scones. You didn’t promise me adulation, Crash. You promised…”

  She trailed off, and Crash found himself holding his breath, waiting for her to say the word.

  “You promised…”

  “I promised you an orgasm? Oh, no.” He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “You declined. I recall you promising to see to your own.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Are you asking me to leave?”

  He paused. He considered. Then he crooked a finger at her. “On second thought… Come here.”

  She took a step toward him, then another, until she stood next to his chair. He sat watching her. Wondering what she would do. Hoping…

  She didn’t reach out. She didn’t lay a hand against his cheek. She looked at him with solemn blue eyes. He wondered, then, if she was remembering what had happened the last time they’d been in this situation—alone together, their bodies humming, reason taking its leave.

  There had been nothing quite so vulnerable as that moment after they’d had each other, when passion was sated, when the future had opened up before them as a vast unknown. They’d wounded each other deeply then.

  “Not again,” he said slowly.

  She looked at him.

  “I promise,” he said. “Not again. No matter what happens. I will never again lash out at you in anger. I will never tell you the words that other people would say. I will never say you’re less because I’ve been hurt. I promise.”

  “I promise,” she said. “I will never again see you with anyone else’s eyes. Just mine.”

  Their eyes met. His promise settled on him like a comforting weight. It felt like a velvet cloak in the middle of a winter night, shielding him from winds and cold.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “that I hurt you. So much that you shoved me away.”

  She reached out and took his hands. “Make it better, then.”

  He wasn’t sure if he pulled her onto his lap or if she came to settle there on her own. This time, when he kissed her, he kissed her for all his hopes, all his wishes. For the future he’d built. For the things he wanted for him. For them.

  His hand slid up her spine. Gently.

  She moved to straddle him, her thighs settling against his hips. Even through layers of petticoat and skirt and trousers, he could feel her body press against him. Against his cock, which slowly came to life.

  They’d done this before, kissing and touching until they were both afire. This time, though, it felt… fragile, like a plant thought dead, poking new leaves through the soil after a freezing winter. Fragile and yet strangely robust, as if the roots had grown deep during their dormancy.

  He kissed her gently, nurturing every unfurling leaf.

  The gasp she made as he kissed her. The lift of her head as he pressed his lips to her neck, turning her face up like a flower to the sun. The parting of her lips as his hand found her nipple.

  “There you are, Daisy,” he whispered. “There you are.”

  Her hands slid down his ribs. “Here you are.” Their lips met once more.

  “Here.” His hands slid up her skirt, skimming the soft flesh of her knees, her thighs. “Let me help.”

  She was wet; when he slid his thumb between her folds, her breath caught momentarily. That little catch nearly broke him. He kissed the side of her neck, wanting more. She tilted her head back.

  “There?” he asked.

  “Yes.” The word came out on a hush. “There.”

  “Wait.”

  “Wait? I can’t—”

  He bodily picked her up, holding her close. “If I set you on the bed, I can use both hands instead of just the one.”

  She nodded, and he brought her there. He could smell her desire, the wet, intoxicating musk of arousal. He set her down, lay beside her, and kissed her again. A kiss on the lips; a brush of his hand back between her legs. She opened for him, mouth and body alike. Her hips moved against his touch.

  “This is why I need my other hand.” He unlaced her bodice, freeing her breasts.

  She froze when his lips found her nipple, but then exhaled and moved against him. They found a rhythm like that, her beside him, his hand between her legs.

  Her breath grew faster, then faster still. Then she let out a little choking noise.

  God, he’d missed her. Her fingers clamped on his arms; her passage clasped his fingers, and her hips moved in time with him. She came apart in his arms.

  He wanted more. All of her. That dazed look in her eyes, that soft, sweet smile that she gave him. He wanted to do it all over, to go back to the last time he had this, to do it right this time.

  Her skin was warm; her mouth was soft and inviting when she kissed him.

  More. His body was hard and all too ready. Don’t think. Act.

  “Daisy.” His voice was low. “Darling. We have to talk of what comes next.”

  “No.” She smiled up at him. “We don’t.”

  “We haven’t decided anything. We should—”

  She reached up and pulled him to her, and all his shoulds went up in smoke. There was nothing but Daisy, her hands pulling the tails of his shirt from his trousers. Her fingers ran up his chest, and it became imperative that he disrobe. That they touch each other. That the next kiss, when he took it, be skin to skin with nothing between them.

  He shed his clothing and slid back against her. He could feel the curve of her hips against him, the nub of her nipples against his chest. His cock nestled against her, hard and wanting, and he could not help that tiny thrust of his hips. God, he needed to think.

  He pulled away six inches.

  “Crash.” Her hair was spilled on the sheets; her eyes were wide and inviting.

  “Daisy, dearest.”

  He’d been here before, with her. Wanting her so badly. Needing her.

  Now he wanted to redo it. To take that hurt he’d given her last time and turn it to pl
easure. Nothing but pleasure for her from here on out.

  Even now, even with his blood insistently thrumming in his veins, with his desire riding high, he wanted to cuddle her close, to build a fortress with his body to keep the world from getting at her.

  He couldn’t shield her from everything. He hadn’t even been able to shield her from herself.

  She smiled and curled her finger at him, beckoning him closer.

  And in that moment, he was helpless. He leaned his head down to her. “Daisy. We shouldn’t.”

  She laughed. “Who are you,” she said, “and what have you done with my Crash? You sound like someone who cares about such things as propriety and manners. We should, and you know it.”

  They should.

  He knew it.

  He kissed her again, longer this time, lingering. He let his hands slide down the sides of her body, let his knees nudge hers further apart. Her breath scattered.

  He slid inside her.

  “Oh, God.” The words fell from her lips.

  “Sweetheart.”

  She surrounded him, all warmth and tight surrender. He took her, slow sweet inch by slow sweet inch, waiting for her breath to loosen before he went further. She opened to him slowly. Perfectly.

  Until they were together, until he was buried deep inside her, her legs wrapping around his hips. Until she smiled up at him, and he wanted this, nothing but this, forever, and he drove into her, gently at first, then harder still. Until the world began to break apart. He held that line, waiting, bringing her with him, until they both dissolved in pleasure.

  He held her afterward. He didn’t ever want to let go. He felt soft and vulnerable and almost afraid of what might come next.

  But they had to disengage. They had to lie next to one another.

  They had to look in each other’s eyes. He had to stroke her cheek and say the words that he most feared. “Daisy, darling. We have to talk of the future.”

  She exhaled, leaning her forehead against his. “The final round of the competition is tomorrow. I don’t know how to think beyond it.”

  And yet beyond it was where they had to go.

  The truth, sometimes, was a weapon. He didn’t want to wound her, but…