Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
Charlie
I can still feel the tingle of Bash's lips against mine as we trudge back to the house. My mind keeps replaying the kiss. The heat, the urgency, the way his body pressed against mine. I barely register the conversations happening around me.
When we finally step into the warmth of the house, stomping snow from our boots in the entryway, Dad appears from the kitchen with a dish towel slung over his shoulder.
"There you all are! Hope you've worked up an appetite. We've made reservations at The Alpine for seven." He glances at Sarah and Addie, his expression brightening. "And you two are joining us, of course."
Sarah raises her hands in polite protest. "Oh no, Richard, you don't have to include us."
"Nonsense," Dad insists with that tone that brooks no argument. "You're most definitely invited. Even the Harpers are joining us."
I freeze, my heart sinking at the mention of The Harpers. Just when I'd started to forget about Ethan and why Bash is even here in the first place.
Sarah catches my expression, then looks questioningly at me. "The Harpers?"
"I'll fill you in later," Bash says quietly, coming to stand behind me. His hand finding the small of my back. The gentle pressure feels steadying, like a silent promise.
Dad claps his hands. "Well, it's already five-thirty. Everyone should start getting ready. We're leaving at six-thirty sharp."
Mom asks Emily if she can borrow earrings, and suddenly the house is a flurry of movement.
Bash and I slip upstairs amid the chaos, neither of us speaking until we reach our room and close the door behind us.
Standing there, suddenly awkward, I’m hyper-aware of him in a way I wasn't even when we were naked together that first night. Because now there's more at stake. Now there are feelings involved that I can't quite name.
"So," I say, unzipping my snow jacket.
"So," he echoes, a half-smile playing at his lips as he shrugs out of his.
We both try to speak at once.
"About earlier—"
"I should probably—"
We laugh, the tension breaking slightly.
"You go," I tell him.
He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up in adorable tufts. "I was just going to say, that snowman was definitely my best work."
I roll my eyes, grateful for the moment of levity. "You're impossible."
"Impossibly charming? Impossibly handsome?"
"Impossibly full of yourself," I counter, but I'm smiling.
The silence settles again, charged with everything we're not saying. I clear my throat. "We should get ready. Do you want to take a shower first?"
Instead of answering, he crosses the room in two long strides. His hands cup my face, and his eyes search mine, giving me every chance to pull away.
I don't.
His lips meet mine again, soft at first, then hungry. All the restraint from earlier is gone. This isn't a stolen kiss during a snowball fight or a bet that is being collected. This is deliberate. This is a choice.
I melt into him, my arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer. A small sound escapes me as his tongue slides against mine.
In one fluid motion, he lifts me, hands gripping underneath my thighs. I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist as he walks us toward the bathroom.
"What are you doing?" I gasp when he breaks the kiss for air.
He doesn't answer, just pushes open the bathroom door with his shoulder and kicks it shut behind us. The world narrows to just his mouth back on mine, his hands holding me steady, the solid warmth of him against me.
Until the sudden shock of cold water hits us both.
I shriek as he steps us directly under the shower head, fully clothed. The water hits like a slap of winter, and we both jolt back, twin gasps escaping us.
Then we're laughing, water streaming down our faces, clothes quickly soaking through.
"Are you insane?" I sputter, pushing wet hair from my face.
"Probably," he admits, his smile so wide. "But I've been wanting to do that for a while now."
"The shower ambush?"
"No, the kissing part," he clarifies, adjusting the temperature until steam begins to rise around us. "The shower was improvisation."
I'm about to deliver some witty comeback when he places me down in front of him and his hands find the hem of my soaked sweater. "This is in the way," he murmurs, his voice dropping to that low register that makes my insides clench.
I raise my arms, letting him pull the heavy, wet fabric over my head. He tosses it with a wet slap onto the tile floor. My thermal layer follows, then my sports bra, until I'm bare from the waist up, water cascading down my skin.
His eyes darken as he takes me in. "Fuck, Charlie."
I should feel exposed, vulnerable. Instead, I feel powerful. Wanted.
Feeling bold I reach for his layers now. "Your turn."
We continue undressing each other with fumbling urgency, laughing when I nearly fall trying to peel off my thermal leggings, groaning when my fingers brush against his erection through his boxer briefs and soon we're both naked.
Bash spins me around so suddenly that my palms slap against the cool tile to catch myself.
The shock of cold against my overheated skin makes me gasp—a sharp contrast to the scalding water still cascading down my back between us.
His body molds against me, every hard plane and muscle pressed flush against the length of me as if trying to imprint himself into my skin through sheer force of will.
"Is this okay?" The question ghosts across the shell of my ear, his breath hot and uneven against the water-slicked curve of my neck. One broad hand splays across my stomach, fingertips tracing hypnotic circles just above where my hips begin their dangerous curves.
"Yes," I manage, even though my throat feels tight. The word comes out rougher than I intend, half moan, half plea. I twist a little to see his face over my shoulder, catching the way his pupils have blown so wide the glacial blue of his irises is just a thin ring of color.
"More than okay," I add, arching back into him when his teeth find that sensitive spot beneath my ear. The teasing scrape sends sparks skittering down my spine straight to where I already ache for him.
His hands begin a slow, torturous exploration—down the slope of my waist, curving possessively over my hips before sliding back up to claim my breasts.
His thumbs brush my tightening nipples with just the right amount of pressure, and I can't help the way my back bows, pressing every inch of skin I can against him.
"Do you have any idea," he rumbles, the words vibrating against the nape of my neck in a way that's making my toes curl, "how much I've been thinking about this? About you?" The deliberate drag of his erection along the dip of my lower back punctuates the question like an exclamation point.
I can feel the answering throb between my legs, the heat pooling there making my thighs tremble. His sheer, unapologetic want is intoxicating—no pretenses, no games beyond the delicious teasing of his wandering hands.
One large palm glides up to cradle my throat, not restricting but claiming, his fingers spreading wide over my fluttering pulse.
His other hand traces lower, following the water's path down the curve of my spine before wrapping around my side and landing between my thighs in a slow, exploratory stroke that has me gasping his name.
"Tell me," I demand, voice catching when his fingers withdraw just as quickly. The shower spray drums against my back, the sound nearly drowning out my labored breathing, but I know he hears me from the way his lips quirk against my shoulder.
His teeth graze the delicate shell of my ear, followed by the damp heat of his tongue.
"I've wanted you every day since that first night.
" His fingers return with purpose, slipping through slick folds to find me more than ready.
The blunt press of two fingers inside has my head falling back against his shoulder.
"Thought about how you taste," he continues, curling those clever fingers in a way that punches a moan from my throat, "how you sound when you come.
" His thumb circles my clit with just enough pressure to make my vision blur at the edges.
"How tight you get around me when you're close. "
As if to prove his point, he scissors his fingers slightly, the stretch burning so perfectly I can't help rocking back onto his hand. The tile is cool against my front, his body scorching behind me, the push and pull of contrasting sensations makes every nerve ending sing.
"That's it," he praises, voice gone rough and ragged as I chase the friction of his touch.
The hand that's wrapped around my throat slightly tightens, tilting my head back so he can claim my mouth in a searing kiss.
His kiss turns filthy, all teeth and tongue and hungry noises between us, his fingers working me with relentless precision. The steam thrums thick around us, wrapping us in our own shared, humid world where nothing exists except his hands on me, his body surrounding me, his voice low in my ear—
"Sebastian," I gasp against his lips, his name ripped from me as my hips stutter against his hand.
He stills for one breathtaking moment before renewing his efforts with single-minded focus. "Say it again," he demands, his thumb pressing hard against my clit as his fingers continue thrusting deep.
"Sebastian," I cry out again, feeling my walls start to clench around him. The name becomes my anchor, my prayer, the only word left in my vocabulary as pleasure winds tight in my core.
"I've got you," he promises against my damp skin, lips trailing fire along my shoulder. His rhythm never falters, his wrist flexing with each precise movement. "Let go, Charlie. I want to feel you come apart on my fingers."
And with that the orgasm crests like a rogue wave—one moment I'm teetering on the precipice, the next I'm tumbling into freefall, my cry echoing off the shower tiles as pleasure whites out my vision.
He works me through every pulse and shudder, murmuring praise that barely registers through the ringing in my ears.
When I finally come back to myself, boneless and breathless, he slowly withdraws his fingers and I turn in his arms to face him properly.
The raw hunger in his gaze steals what little breath I'd managed to regain—there's no artifice now, just naked want and something deeper that makes my stomach swoop.
"My turn," I murmur, letting my own hands explore the carved planes of his chest before trailing lower. His stomach muscles jump under my touch as I wrap my fingers around the thick length of him, eliciting a sharp inhale between clenched teeth.
"Charlie, you don't have to—" His protest dies when I rise up on my toes to silence him with a kiss, my fist tightening just enough to make his knees buckle slightly.
"I want to," I say against his lips as I turn us so that now his back is pressed against the wall before dropping slowly to my knees on the shower floor.
The water cascades around us, sliding down his torso in rivulets as I look up through my lashes. "I want you."
His hand tangles in my hair as I take him into my mouth, his head thudding back against the tiles with a muttered curse.
The salty taste of him bursts across my tongue, the weight and heat intoxicating.
I savor the way his breath hitches when I hollow my cheeks, reveling in the desperate way his fingers flex in my hair when I swirl my tongue just so.
The power is heady—he's always so composed, so effortlessly in control, now he's trembling above me as I work him with lips and tongue and hands. His ragged breathing fills the steamy air between us, every stifled moan and bitten-off curse a victory.
"Charlie," he warns after long, delicious minutes, his voice strained to breaking. "I'm close."
I pull back just enough to meet his darkened eyes, letting my lips curl in a smirk. "Good."
I take him deep again, my throat opening around him as my hand works what I can't take. He says my name when he comes, his hips stuttering, his fingers gentle even in their urgency as they cradle my face, holding me in place. The taste of him floods my mouth as I swallow everything he gives me.
Bash helps me up from my knees, his hands gentle but firm under my elbows. His eyes search mine, concern flickering beneath the lingering heat.
"You okay?" His voice is low, almost reverent in the steamy cocoon of the shower.
"I'm more than okay," I say, pushing wet hair from my face. "I'm perfect."
He tucks a strand behind my ear, thumb tracing the curve of my cheek.
I reach for the loofah hanging on the shower caddy, squeezing a dollop of body wash onto it.
"Now let me help you wash." I make little circles on his chest, working up a lather that slides down the ridges of his abs.
"We probably have, like, twenty minutes to get ready before someone starts pounding on the door. "
Bash laughs, the sound echoing off the tile. "Think we can manage?"
"Depends how efficiently we can multitask." I trail the loofah lower, enjoying how his breath catches.
"I think we can manage." He takes the loofah from my hand, his fingers brushing mine as the soapy sponge glides across my collarbone, leaving a trail of bubbles in its wake.
After we're cleaned up, we step out and wrap ourselves in the plush towels my mother insisted on purchasing for every bathroom. Bash pulls me against him, his body radiating warmth as he presses a kiss to my forehead, his lips lingering.
"Just so we're clear," he murmurs, his voice dropping to that serious tone that always makes my stomach flip, even as the corner of his mouth twitches upward, "that wasn't fake."
I laugh, nestling into the solid wall of his chest. "Nothing about that felt fake."
"Good." His lips find mine again, soft and unhurried. "Because I'm starting to think I'm not very good at pretending when it comes to you."
The admission ripples through me, my heart stuttering beneath my ribs, half soaring, half plummeting into the unknown. Because I'm starting to think the same thing.