Daphne Vs. Daddy

We kiss as if we are mad, adrift in a sea of insanity. Our tongues are dancing around one another, his cum their dresses, and our lips feel slippery from all the cum. This is madness, I know it … But it’s the sweetest kind of madness I've ever known. Forget about sex; this goes beyond that. It’s not lust or passion, either; this is pure existence without shackles, living in the now and sailing through an ocean of unconscious desire.

“God… This was…” I pant, looking into his eyes as I try to catch my breath. He grins at me, his lips glistening from the cum there, and then he places one hand on my cheek and lays a gentle kiss on my mouth.

“I know,” he says. “It was amazing.” Then, there’s a flicker of lust in his eyes and he continues: “And do you know what’s the best part?”

“What?” I ask him, throwing myself back on the mattress and just staring at the ceiling as my heart drums loudly.

“The hotel is paid for… I figure we have the whole day just for ourselves.”

I don’t even need to look at him to know what he means by that. The whole day just for ourselves…

Has anyone ever said something more deliciously wicked than that?

63

Lisa

I wake up with a grin plastered on my face. God, I feel amazing. Between the whiskey, the hot bath, and the deep fucking, it was just what the doctor ordered.

I roll over and face Diesel, who’s awake and staring back at me. I smile in surprise and his face lights up. “Just wondering how long I can creepily stare at you before you wake up,” he admits cheerfully.

I laugh.

“Listen, I just want to say,” I take a deep breath for courage, “that…I really like you. And I’m not just saying that because you got me drunk off my ass. I like you more than I ever expected to like a guy, and…well, I just wanted to let you know that I’m done kidding around about you needing to be an outlaw before I’ll want to fuck you. You can get tats and have the valet bring your bike around all you want, but you can drop the story about the Black Fist MC. I really don’t need that, I promise.”

“Drop it…? Lisa, I’m telling the truth. There’s nothing to drop.”

I sit up in bed, pushing the covers off me. “C’mon,” I say, my voice tinged with irritation. “You know and I know that there is no MC gang called the Black Fist.”

“No, I don’t know that.” His voice matches mine. He’s getting irritated too. Good. If he’s going to piss me off, then I’m going to piss him off.

“This really isn’t funny anymore,” I say, climbing out of bed. I spot new clothes laid out for me over the back of the damask-covered couch, and eagerly begin pulling them on. Now this is a nice surprise to wake up to. The lacy Victoria's Secret bra fits perfectly, and I have to wonder if Diesel has been sneaking a peak at my underwear to get this right.

“Yeah, I know. It’s not funny. Lisa, look at me.”

He stops talking, forcing me to look at him to get him to continue.

“It’s never been a joke. I really was in the Black Fist for a long time; I really was the president. I’m not anymore. But they’re still my friends. I didn’t just borrow that Harley from a friend or something; that’s my Harley.”

I pull on my stilettos and grab my Coach purse.

“Diesel, I get it in the beginning. It was a joke. It was a joke that’s gone too fucking far. If you can’t be honest because you think I need this lie to—” I stop myself from saying love, “fuck you, then you really do have a pretty damn low opinion of me. For the longest time, I did think I wanted an outlaw. I did think I wanted a man’s man. But you…you’re what I want. The real you. The honest version of you. And if you can’t do that, then there’s really not much else we have to talk about.”

I storm out of the hotel room, slamming the door behind me as hard as I can, which, for fuck’s sakes, isn’t hard at all because they have some whisper quiet door closing system on their doors that keep me from slamming them.

And that just makes me cry as I walk down the hallway and ride down the elevator. Well, that and the guy I’ve fallen in love with is a serial liar.

So, you know, two things.

64

Lisa

I stare into my gin and tonic, swirling it around and around in my glass, which is eerily reminiscent of the scene a week ago, right before Diesel saved my life on the subway platform. Except this time, instead of listening to Ashley and Christine blather on about how amazing the men in their lives are, I am listening to Becca complain about work. Again. She works at the New York Daily Journal and her boss is a real bastard.

Becca has no reluctance about telling the world that fact.

And especially telling me that fact.