Page 11 of Dare to Love Me

Footsteps.

Not the “Relax, it’s just the pipes” footsteps you tell yourself when you’re home alone and convincing yourself the house isn’t haunted.

No—these are proper heavy thuds. Someone-is-very-much-present footsteps.

“Spencer,” I hiss, my knees reflexively clamping around his head like I’m about to put him in a UFC chokehold. “Please tell me you’ve got a massive cat clomping around down there, or is your brother home?”

But Spencer’s too lost in his own world, slurping away at my delicate bits. I’m not sure he can hear anything over the enthusiasm of his own tongue.

Okay, Daisy, think logically. It can’t be a break-in. The security system on this place has more digits than a fucking phone number.

Except, those footsteps?

They’re getting closer.

Louder.

Thumping up the stairs.

Right outside the door.

It’s got to be his brother. Obviously. Just a normal, non-threatening human, coming home from a long day, about to head to bed.

“Spencer?” I try again.

The door flies open.

And I swear to god, my soul leaves my body.

What. The. Actual. Living.Fuck.

Standing like he’s been ripped straight out of my most unhinged nightmares or the glossiest page of aGQspread, is none other than Edward Cavendish—Edward fucking Cavendish.

CHAPTER 5

Daisy

Edward’s face is aportrait of a man staring down a crime against decency. To be fair, he kind of is. Spencer’s oral skills are a fucking war crime.

The worst part? Spencer’s blissfully unaware we have company. He’s chugging away at my right labia like it’s a bloody resuscitation dummy.

I can’t move. Can’t even string together a coherent thought that isn’t just static.

The room fills with the grotesque soundtrack of Spencer’s relentless slurping.

And me. Squeaking.

What the fuck isEdward Cavendishdoing here?

His glacier-blue eyes pin me in place. His dark brows furrow over that chiseled face, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles ripple under the shadow of stubble, like he’s one second from shattering his own teeth.

In agonizing slow motion, his suit jacket slides from his fingers, hitting the floor with a soft thud.

The expression on his face? Oh, it’s a masterpiece.

Outrage. Confusion.

Pure, unfiltered revulsion.