Chapter 35 Charlie #2
"Been here a long time, dear. I know where all the treasures are hidden." She straightens up. "Now drink your coffee before it gets cold. I gave you both my special holiday blend—cinnamon and nutmeg with a hint of chocolate. Your auras told me you needed something festive today."
With that cryptic comment, she pats my shoulder and returns to the counter, greeting another customer by name.
"Our auras?" I mouth to Emily, who stifles a laugh.
"I don't care what my aura supposedly said, this coffee is amazing," she whispers back.
We finish our drinks in comfortable silence, watching people pass by the frosted windows. The café feels like a warm bubble, separate from the rest of the world.
"Ready to check out this market?" I ask eventually.
Emily nods, gathering her things. "Absolutely. I might even find something for Bash while we're there."
"You don't have to get him anything," I say.
"Of course I do. He's family now." She says it so matter-of-factly that it catches me off guard.
Family. The word settles over me, unexpected but not unwelcome.
As we bundle up to brave the cold again, I glance back at the watercolor picture of the snowboarder. On impulse, I go to the counter to ask about it.
"That one caught your eye, did it?" Glenda smiles knowingly. "It's by a local artist—Sarah Montgomery, actually. Sebastian's sister."
I blink in surprise. "Sarah painted that?"
"She's quite talented. Did a whole series of her brother when he was competing. That's one of the last ones she did before his accident."
I stare at the painting with new appreciation. "Is it for sale?"
"Everything's for sale, honey," Glenda says. "For the right person."
Ten minutes later, Emily and I step back onto the snowy street, the carefully wrapped painting tucked safely in my bag. It feels right, somehow—a piece of Bash's past that I can give back to him.
"To the Winter Market?" Emily asks, linking her arm through mine.
"To the Winter Market," I agree. "Let's see if Glenda's insider knowledge is as good as her coffee."
Emily and I spend another hour exploring the Winter Market, the air filled with the scent of pine, cinnamon, and woodsmoke.
The local artisans have transformed the end of the street into a winter wonderland of handcrafted goods.
Just as Glenda promised, Theo's wooden boxes are exquisite—each one a miniature masterpiece of inlaid woods and secret compartments.
Emily finds a perfect one for Dad's cufflink collection.
By the time we head back to the house, both of us are loaded with bags, our cheeks flushed from the cold and the satisfaction of successful shopping.
"I'm exhausted," Emily announces as we stamp snow from our boots in the entryway. "Shopping is more tiring than skiing."
I laugh. "That's because you approach it like an Olympic event."
"Strategy is everything," she says with mock seriousness. "I'm going to wrap these before Mom gets nosy. Are you coming?"
"I'll be down in a bit. Need to hide these first," I say, lifting my bags.
The house is quiet as I climb the stairs, I think mom’s still out with Mrs. Harper out enjoying the afternoon and dad should still have Bash preoccupied.
I push open one of the empty bedroom doors with my hip, relieved to find it empty.
Not that I don't want to see Bash, but I need to hide his gift before he spots it.
I set my bags on the bed and carry the wrapped painting and a few other items toward the walk-in closet. As I'm reaching for the light switch, strong hands grab my waist from behind.
I let out a startled squeal that turns into a giggle as I'm guided further into the closet. The door clicks shut behind us.
"Bash!" I gasp, clutching my packages to my chest. "You scared me!"
"I love all the little noises you make," he murmurs, his voice low and rough near my ear. His hands, warm and sure, slide from my waist to my hips, turning me to face him.
In the dim light filtering through the closet slats, his eyes are dark with intent. He backs me against the wall, boxing me in with his arms.
"I missed you," he says, nuzzling his nose against mine.
"I was only gone for a couple of hours," I protest, though my heart is already racing.
"Longest two hours of my life." His lips brush the corner of my mouth. "Feels like I've been waiting all day for you to get back. I need to remind you of something."
"What's that?" My voice comes out breathier than intended.
His mouth curves into that half-smile that makes my stomach flip. "Your doctor's orders about taking it easy have officially been lifted." His hand slides beneath my sweater, fingers splaying across my ribs. "And I need to be inside you. Right now."
Heat blooms low in my belly. "Oh really? What are you waiting for, then?"
I barely have time to set my packages on a shelf before his mouth claims mine. His kiss is hungry, demanding, as if we've been apart for weeks instead of hours. My hands find their way under his shirt, greedy for the feel of his skin.
We make quick work of our clothes. His sweater tossed aside, my jeans shimmied down and kicked away. He pushes me back against the wall, and I gasp at the contrast between the cool surface and his hot skin.
"God, you feel incredible," he groans, his large hands slipping beneath my sweater to map the familiar terrain of my body with possessive certainty.
Those clever fingers trace each dip and curve of my ribs before sliding lower, dragging impatiently against my skin as he discovers just how ready I already am for him.
"Fuck, Shortcake," he rasps when he finds me soaked, his thumb circling with just the right pressure to make my legs tremble.
The moment becomes dizzying—the scent of his cologne mingling with our combined arousal, the rough scratch of his stubble against my cheek.
My fingers curl around him, feeling the heavy weight of his cock in my palm, the way it twitches as I stroke him from root to tip.
He exhales sharply, forehead dropping against mine, his breath coming in ragged bursts that ghost warm over my lips.
Then, suddenly, he pulls back, his chest heaving. "Wait—" His voice is strained as he forces himself to stay in control. "Condom. I need to get one before I—"
But I tighten my grip, holding him exactly where I want him, breathless with recklessness. With deliberate purpose, I guide him right there, teasing the thick head against my entrance until his eyes darken with realization.
The protest forms instantly in his throat. "What are you—?" His breath hitches when I rock my hips forward just slightly.
"Charlie, fuck, I can't—I can't come inside you."
A slow, wicked smile curves my lips. I rise up on my tiptoes, letting my mouth skim the shell of his ear as I murmur, breath hot, "Then before you do..." My fingers tighten at the nape of his neck. "You can give me a pearl necklace."
The growl that tears from his chest is primal, vibrating through me—a sound of pure need.
"Fuck, Shortcake," he grits out, every syllable tinged with desperation.
His restraint shatters. One strong hand grips my thigh, lifting me effortlessly as he yanks it over his hip. There's no hesitation, no teasing, just the sudden, breathtaking stretch as he buries himself inside me in one deep, claiming thrust.
The sound I make is obscene, alarmingly loud—until his palm slams against my mouth, muffling me.
His other hand anchors at my waist, holding me pinned right where he wants me as he pulls back agonizingly slow, then drives in again with brutal precision.
My back arches, pressing harder into the wall as another ragged gasp slips past his fingers.
"Shh," he whispers, though his own control is hanging by a thread, his voice rough and uneven. "We wouldn’t want the house to hear, would we?"
The thought of someone catching us like this—against the wall, so far past desperate—should terrify me. Instead, it sends a fresh wave of heat straight to my core. His hips snap forward again, harder this time, and I bite down on his palm with a muffled curse.
"You feel so fucking good," he rasps, his teeth grazing my neck before he drags them lightly back down. "So tight—Christ, like you were made for me."
The words spilling from his lips shouldn't be this intoxicating, but it is. My fingers dig into the hard muscle of his shoulders, urging him faster, deeper, chasing the inevitable. His rhythm starts to fracture the closer he gets—rough, erratic thrusts that have my vision whiting out at the edges.
Then it happens. A particularly deep stroke has my entire body tensing as pleasure coils taut in my belly. "That's it," he coaxes, voice hoarse with approval. "Come for me, Charlie."
That single word—just my name, not a joke, not a tease—does me in. The orgasm crashes through me with brutal force, my cry swallowed by his hand. My nails rake down his back as my hips jerk uncontrollably against his, mindless with pleasure.
I barely have time to recover before his grip turns bruising, his movements growing desperate. "I'm close," he warns through gritted teeth, his thrusts turning punishing. "Gonna—"
Still trembling from my own release, I slide him out and sink to my knees before he can finish the thought. His darkening gaze locks onto mine as I tilt my chin up, lashes lowering in unspoken invitation, and I hold out my tongue.
The strangled noise he makes is sheer surrender.
One slick stroke of his hand. Two. Then—
"Fuuuuck—!"
The first hot stripe lands just shy of my parted lips, the rest splattering across my cheek, my collarbone, even catching on the swell of my breast. It's messy and obscene, and I can't help the soft moan that escapes when a stray burst lands between my lips against my tongue—warm and salty and his.
He braces one forearm against the wall above me, his chest heaving, staring down at me with something like reverence.
"Fuck," he breathes again, but it sounds different now—softer, deeper. "You're beautiful like this."