He bends me over, two fingers in my asshole, thumb on my clit, and fucks me with his hand until I come so hard I sob, my face pressed to the mirror, tears streaming down.
“Oh Hunter,” I moan breathlessly, big boobs shaking as he vibrates his fingers in my bottom. “Oh yes yes yes.”
He holds me through it, letting me ride the wave until I collapse against the glass, legs trembling.
For a long moment, we just breathe.
Then he helps me up, straightens the bralette, and wipes my face with his thumb.
“You did so good,” he says.
I just nod, still dazed.
He hands me a pile of lingerie. “Try the rest on, but don’t be surprised if I like the first one best.”
He slips out of the dressing room, and I sink onto the velvet chaise, my heart still racing.
For the rest of the visit, I can’t look at myself in the mirror without blushing. But I feel beautiful, alive, wanted.
And the next time I step out to show him a new set, big breasts bouncing and with that just-kissed look, I don’t care who sees.
We leaveLa Coquette with three huge bags and a heady sense of satisfaction.
I can’t stop smiling. Neither can Hunter.
We walk to the car, and he opens the door for me, ever the gentleman.
As we drive, I lean back and let my mind drift, replaying the day: the champagne, the dresses, the lingerie, the way his hands felt on my skin and in my dirty spot.
I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, or the day after.
But for the first time since waking up in a strange city with a new name and no past, I’m not scared.
I’m happy.
And that’s enough.
We’retwenty minutes into the post-shopping comedown, driving through downtown with bags stacked in the backseat likestolen treasure, when Hunter takes a hard right and pulls into a parking space in front of the Walker Art Center. I stare at the sign, then at him.
“We’re going to the museum?”
He shakes his head, lips twitching. “The garden. It’s the best spot in the city this time of year. Fresh air. Sculptural art. You can show off your new boots.”
I grin down at my feet—black leather, three-inch heel, the kind that make my legs look twice as long. “You just want to parade me around in public.”
His eyes flick sideways. “Yeah. I do.”
For a guy who could buy the world and have it delivered to his penthouse, Hunter is weirdly obsessed with being outside, walking, acting like a normal person. We stroll through the entrance, past a pack of bundled-up school kids and a pair of old men in matching wool hats. The garden is dusted with snow, every sculpture topped with a white dome or scarfed in ice. I feel tall and elegant, a real person for the first time in ages.
Hunter’s hand is warm at the small of my back, steadying, but also claiming. The place is so pretty it almost hurts: iron beams twisted into impossible shapes, a row of silver trees with real birds sitting in the branches, and at the center, a big blue rooster that looks like it’s ready to take over the city.
I want to make a joke, but then we pass a fountain, frozen mid-spurt, and I stop dead in my tracks.
It’s just a circle of stone, nothing special, but something in the way the sunlight hits the ice makes my chest seize up. I see myself, small, just a child, running around a backyard in barefeet, chasing a dark-haired young man with a blue plastic bucket. He dumps the water over my head, and I scream, laughing, the water so cold it’s almost pain. Then there’s a woman’s voice, calling us for lunch. Is that his mom? Or my mom? I can smell cut grass, hear the buzz of a lawnmower. It’s so clear I almost collapse.
“Daisy?” Hunter’s voice slices through it. His hand is on my shoulder, gentle but firm.
I blink, and the world snaps back. The memory is gone, but my heart’s beating like I’ve just run a marathon.