I do, and I suck hungrily, looking up at him with worshipful eyes as I circle my tongue around his cock.
“Yes Daddy,” I pant. “Mmm, I love the stanky taste of ass to mouth action. Mmm, it’s so good. Give me more.”
The dirty words do it and with a cry, Hunter ejaculates deep down my throat. The hot splash is shocking, almost overwhelming, but I love it. I want him to mark me, inside and out, choking and swallowing with maximum effort. There’s too much though, and white liquid spills out from my lips, dripping down my chin.
“Fuck,” he rasps, pulsing deep while looking down into my eyes. “You look so good drinking my sperm, baby.”
I mewl my answer, still swallowing because I feel loved. I feel complete. I feel like his woman, and this is exactly where I want to be.
For a long time, we just breathe before he slips out of my mouth. Then, Hunter gathers me in his arms, carries me to the rug infront of the fire, and wraps a blanket around us. My hair is stuck to my face, my skin sticky with sweat and come, but I’ve never felt more wanted. More alive.
We lie there, tangled together, watching the city spin below us.
I trace the line of his jaw, the stubble, the faint scar under his lip.
“Why haven’t you claimed me where it counts?” I ask, soft. “You know that vaginal sex is what you paid for.”
Hunter cups my cheek, his thumb tracing the delicate skin. “I paid for all of this, sweetheart. All of your holes belong to me, not just your pussy cherry. But I want you to gift it to me,” he says, his tone going serious. “Willingly.”
My chest tightens. “But you bought me at auction. It’s your right.”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Yes, you belong to me because I won you. But your pussy virginity? That’s yours to surrender, Daisy. I want it to be your choice, no matter the price I paid, because a girl can never get it back once it’s gone. Once your hymen is broken, it’s gone forever, sweetheart. So I want you to decide.”
I don’t know what to say. I press my face into his chest, breathe in the smell of his skin, as my mind circles.
This man can do anything he wants to my body. He paid $20 million for the privilege.
Yet Hunter wants me to make the choice, and I adore him for it. He wants me to give him the okay, and I already know what my answer will be.
We fall asleep like that, on the rug, the city lights swimming through the window. My ass aches, my clit tingles, and my heart feels like it’s blossoming inside my chest.
If this is surrender, then I want to lose everything.
But a tiny part of me is terrified for when the memories come back.
Because what if I have to choose between the girl I was and the girl Hunter’s teaching me to be?
What if I want both?
What if the only way to keep him is to stay lost forever?
12
CHAPTER 12 – SUSPICIOUS MINDS
Hunter
Iset the photo on the shelf and step back, arms crossed, pretending this is normal. The frame is silver, the matting white, and the glass catches the city light so the whole thing glows. In the picture, I’m fifteen years younger and grinning in an oversized shirt, with my arm slung around a stick-figure of a girl who’s both elated and mortified by the camera. She’s got braces and a spray of sun-bleached hair and a face too sharp for her years. If you squint, you’d almost mistake her for Daisy.Almost.
I try to line the photo up so that if you’re sitting at the desk and look left, you can’t miss it. There’s a logic to this, a ritual—if you want someone to remember, you give them something to stumble over. It works with passwords and childhood memories and, I hope, amnesia.
The penthouse is quiet, the only sound the hum of HVAC and the occasional click from the fridge’s ice maker. Sunlight pours through the north-facing windows, spattering the floor ingeometric grids. I move to the next photo, a candid from some long-ago barbecue: me, mid-twenties, beer in one hand, burger in the other, standing behind the grill while that same scrawny girl tries to sneak a hot dog from the plate. In this one, she’s wearing a pink swimsuit with red bows at the shoulders. The shot is mostly innocent, except for the way her eyes tilt toward the lens, as if she’s already plotting her future as a heartbreaker.
I slide the frame to the edge of the shelf, adjust the angle so it’s obvious but not desperate, and try to ignore the knot in my gut. This feels wrong, like staging a crime scene for an audience of one.
But it has to be done. Unfortunately, I don’t have any recent shots of Tara. Everything’s from years ago, and to be honest, I’m not sure she’ll recognize herself as a young girl. But it’s worth a shot.
My work done, I turn around. The home office is minimalist, but not cold: dark walnut, brushed steel, a set of absurdly expensive ergonomic Scandinavian chairs. The glass wall to the living room is always clean, so the light flows in in a bright glitter. At night, the city glows behind it, towers and traffic and the constant promise of something happening just out of frame.