Page 59 of Dare to Love Me

Edward

As I sit bythe firepit, half listening to a group of twenty-somethings passionately debate whether a wedding website is “pretentious” or “practical,” a grim realization settles over me: I am, without question, an irredeemable bastard.

Not because I’m tuning out as they argue the merits of digital RSVPs—though if I have to endure another round of this drivel, I might genuinely consider skewering myself with a marshmallow stick.

It’s because of her.

The chaos. The human hurricane in a Union Jack skirt.

I’m destined for damnation because I just . . . fucking hell, I just masturbated in a tent like a teenager on his first overnight school trip. While my sister’s bridal party awaited a hog roast meters away.

I’ve only known her as an adult for what—five years? She went from wild little terror to full-on sex siren, and the shift was highly disconcerting. Now, her sexuality’s everywhere, impossible to ignore. It’s in the way she moves, the way she looks at you, the way she breathes. That white bikini at the lake. Those shorts this morning. It’s relentless.

She has that rare, timeless sort of beauty—the kind that belonged to actresses in the golden age of cinema. The dark hair, the pale skin, those hazel eyes—it’s the kind of face that would’ve packed cinemas in any era.

And then there’s her mouth.

A mouth made for pleasure.

I should feel ashamed.

Idofeel ashamed.

Though, evidently, not ashamed enough to keep my hands above the waistband.

What’s worse? The fact that I just jerked off in a tent fantasizing about being inside Daisy Wilson, or that I’m already calculating the optimal timing for round two?

Weighing the likelihood of everyone turning in early, considering ambient noise levels . . . Christ, I’m applying surgical planning to orchestrate a wank.

No. This ends here. No more inappropriate thoughts, and absolutely no more ill-advised outdoor masturbation sessions.

She’s off-limits. Absolutely forbidden. That particular peach will remain unplucked—no matter how . . . damn, I need to stop even thinking in these metaphors.

It’s been over two years since I was intimate with a woman. It’s no wonder my brain is starting to wander into places it shouldn’t.

Millie and I had become more like housemates than spouses by the end. We were well-matched in all the ways that counted: similar educations, shared goals, and a unified approach to life.There was humor, warmth, and genuine affection. She knew me better than anyone ever has or likely ever will.

It wasn’t the all-consuming blaze of young love, but it was solid. Reliable.

And I let that reliability lull me. I sank too deeply into its comfort. Allowed the spark to fade because I was so at ease in our routine.

My greatest regret isn’t just losing her—it’s that I let us drift into something so damn quiet before the end.

I thought I might be ready again—with Lucia. Brilliant, formidable Lucia. But hospital politics are a minefield, and I have no intention of becoming surgical-lounge gossip. More than that, I respect her too much to risk what we have.

So I buried myself in work. Years of pouring every ounce of myself into being the consummate professional.

And then Daisy Wilson waltzes in and blows all that work to smithereens.

It took her less than twenty-four hours to reduce me to some Neanderthal version of myself—grunting, brain barely functioning, mentally dragging my knuckles across the floor like I’ve discovered fire . . . and yoga shorts.

And just when I thought I’d survived that full-scale assault on my self-control, she turned up in thatbloodywhite bikini—the one that single-handedly robbed me of my own sodding name, let alone any semblance of rational thought.

I haven’t been this sexually frustrated since boarding school.

The ladies have now abandoned the riveting discussion of wedding websites for something even more ridiculous—if that’s possible—just as the sun begins to dip on our second evening of glamping.

“I’ve got a good one!” Bernice announces. “Would you rather marry a duke with halitosis who owns a castle in Wales, or abarista with perfect teeth who makes an exceptional flat white but lives in Croydon?”