Chapter 15
15
T he rough edges of the ornate metal key, which I pulled out from my Birkin during our charged trip in the elevator, cut into the soft flesh of my palm as I turn to face him. “This is me,” I announce.
Charlie glances at the door to my hotel room, and then his attention is right back on me. “Nice room.”
“You haven’t even seen it.”
One corner of his mouth lifts as he rests a hand on the wall next to my head. I have immediate déjà vu, recalling the last time we were in this same position.
He told me during dessert—pistachio tiramisu—that he’s staying here rather than driving home to Newcastle tonight and then back here for the wedding tomorrow. Chloe told me Carys Park was fully booked, but I’m not shocked they managed to procure a room for Charlie.
His gaze dips to my lips, the intensity practically a physical sensation against my skin. “Is that your way of inviting me in?”
“No. I’d ask.” I pause. “Do you want to come in?”
“Yes.”
Such a simple answer, suffused with certainty.
I’ve spent a lot of time around confident men. Yet Charlie’s the only one who’s ever managed to make me nervous. His proximity is a drug that makes me feel dizzy and reckless and energized. If he challenged me to something right now, the amount of adrenaline swimming in my system might actually allow me to beat him.
I wasn’t certain we’d end up here. My pride still smarts when I picture him strolling away from me, down my grandparents’ hallway and out of sight. But I also remember how I felt in the moments before, and I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time considering what might have happened if Charlie hadn’t left that night.
Bridget was right—his indifference makes him an ideal candidate for a fun night of hot, meaningless sex.
And he’s not walking away now. He’s staring at me in a way that makes me feel like I’ll explode with impatience. Like the amount of desire is too much to contain. Anticipation has been humming through my body, making me feel like I’m brushing against a live wire, ever since we left the restaurant.
“So much for you offering to walk me to my door to be a gentleman.”
Charlie huffs a laugh, then twirls a piece of my hair around one finger. He braided it for me again on the car ride back. I undid it during the short journey from his car to upstairs, searching for a distraction from the smothering sexual tension.
He tugs the strands—hard—pulling a soft gasp from my mouth. “You don’t want a gentleman, Elizabeth.”
It’s the smoothest I’ve ever heard his accent sound. Usually, the syllables are crisp and precise. But that sentence sounded like it was cushioned by velvet, sliding across my skin like decadent sin.
I’m so aroused I’m almost disoriented. My heartbeat is a wild echo in my ears. No matter how fast I inhale, I can’t seem to pull in enough air. There’s not a cell in my body that’s currently unaffected.
Charlie’s hand drops from my hair, his fingers prying my fist open and finding the metal that’s now warm.
The lock clicks open, and then I’m being pulled into a dark room.
The first thing Charlie does is turn on the lights. Not a lamp. The overhead that illuminates every corner. His second move is to slip off his suit jacket, throw it onto the couch in the small seating area, and roll up the sleeves of his shirt. He tugs the white fabric from the waistband of his pants next, then begins unbuttoning.
His eyes don’t leave mine the entire time.
And I stand there and stare at him like I’ve never seen a shirtless guy before. I’ve never seen Charlie shirtless before, which seems like the same thing.
I toss my purse onto the couch, then tuck a piece of hair—the same section he touched—behind my ear. I’m accustomed to being the initiator in these situations. To being treated like I’m delicate.
Charlie was right—I don’t want a gentleman.
I think that’s part of why I came so hard the last time, because he seduced me effortlessly. Because I never had to explain what I wanted. He pleasured me like he’d planned out every touch.
The conceit that’s annoyed me at other times is an aphrodisiac right now. I’m a sure thing. Our interests are aligned, and I don’t care if he’s bossy about it.
I want him to be bossy about it.
He stalks toward me, looking every inch the god Chloe called him earlier. Imperious and unattainable. Too devastatingly attractive to be real flesh rather than chiseled marble.
Even in my high heels, Charlie towers over me. His fingers trail across my collarbone, leaving goose bumps in their wake, before stopping at the strap.
Rather than flick it off my left shoulder, he uses the thin strip of fabric to haul me closer. My hands land on his bare chest, encountering warm, firm skin. They spread, seeking more contact, my nails scoring crescent-shaped marks.
Charlie steps back so fast I stumble.
“Get naked and get on the bed,” he demands roughly. “Unless you want that dress ruined.”
I don’t. It’s one of my favorites.
But it might be worth it, to witness Charlie lose control. I’m heady with the power of affecting him, my gaze trailing from the half-moons indented on his chest to the carved topography of his stomach. Lower, to the growing bulge in his pants.
I knew hooking up with Charlie wouldn’t be a fumbling encounter, but experiencing it is something different.
“ Lili .”
My flower-painted Oscar de la Renta dress flutters to the floor a few seconds later, pooling in a satin puddle at my feet.
It’s very satisfying, watching Charlie’s hands still in the midst of unzipping his pants. He stares at me, standing in a strapless bra and matching thong. I step out of my red-bottomed stilettos like I don’t notice or care about his reaction. I was tempted to leave the heels on, but my feet hurt. The silent pad of my bare feet takes a little away from the dramatic effect of strolling past Charlie like I’m a model on a catwalk, but not much. I can feel his eyes on my ass as I saunter toward the bed, the lacy underwear I’m wearing invisible from his angle.
He stalks toward me as soon as I’m perched on the edge of the mattress.
A couple of rejected dresses lie in a heap on the quilt beside me. My entire room’s a mess. Charlie doesn’t appear to notice. Or care.
My legs spread to accommodate him, the ironed fabric of his suit pants rasping against my bare skin.
I’d rather he was naked. But there’s something insanely sexy about this view—the tease of seeing his sculpted abdomen and happy trail, but nothing more scandalous.
“You didn’t follow directions.” His hand slides up my ribs, making me shiver.
“Sorry. I assumed you knew how to take a bra off.” The tremble in my voice when his palm cups my breast spoils the sarcasm that’s supposed to be there. And the effect is totally ruined when his other hand strokes the damp lace of my thong.
“Are you always this wet, Kensington? Or is this just for me?”
I swallow the truth with the plea for more that wants to spill out. This is already the best sex I’ve ever had, and I’m not sure if that’s pathetic or optimistic.
The thick ridge of his erection is right against the throbbing ache that’s all I can focus on. I’m soaking another pair of his pants.
I’d rather be dripping on his cock.
Charlie yanks my thong to the left and circles my clit with his thumb. I moan—loudly—and his smile is smug.
Whatever. A nun would have filthy thoughts about him.
His thumb leaves my clit, and I open my mouth to protest. I’m falling backward before I can say a word, a light shove of his palm splaying me flat on my back. He unhooks my bra with an impatient flick and a pointed look. The lace joins one of the piles of clothes around my room. Then, his hands move lower, pulling my thong down and opening my thighs wide. I can feel the sting of the stretch in my hamstrings. So much for weekly Pilates making me more flexible.
Excitement reaches a fever pitch, overwhelming the vulnerability from being on display this way. I’ve never had a guy just decide to go down on me. There’s always been some suggestive maneuvering or not-so-subtle request involved.
But there’s no question about Charlie’s intention. He props one of my legs over his shoulder and licks the length of my slit. Two of his fingers press inside of my opening while his tongue flicks my clit. Swirls and sucks. He’s playing my body like a maestro, hitting each sensitive spot precisely.
The build is dizzying; it happens so quickly. A different form of the insane propulsion I experienced at the track earlier. Except now, the whole world is standing still. Nothing else is moving, but I’m flying.
There’s finesse and skill—the perfect pressure in the perfect places—but I’m most focused on the speed. How I’m reaching the peak that’s sometimes hard to climb impossibly fast.
I cry out his name when I come. Scream it really, the rush of euphoria washing away all my inhibitions. Decimating any awareness of what exists beyond this bed.
When Charlie’s head lifts, his lips are glossy. His pupils are blown wide, the tendons in his neck raised in sharp definition.
He’s made me orgasm twice, and I’ve yet to see his cock once.
I just came so hard that my toes are tingling and the edges of my vision are as fuzzy as an old photo. But all I can think is, More . Not only so I can experience the staggering satisfaction again. But so I can finally witness him lose complete control.
Charlie tugs the waistband of his suit pants down. His dick bobs free.
It’s bigger than I thought it’d be—and I wasn’t making small estimations. Long and thick. The flared tip flushed dark red and damp with pre-cum. He fishes a condom out of his pocket, then fists his massive erection to roll the prophylactic on.
There’s something incredibly sexy about the sight. The consideration, for one, that he’s not leaving the responsibility of protection up to me. But also the pause of preparation, intensifying the anticipation of contact even more.
The veins on his groin and cock are raised. Ropes of lean muscle twine down his arms.
The sight is incendiary, a signal of what’s about to take place. There’s no question about what’s going to happen next. And I want it so, so badly, the pull of need dragging me under like a powerful undertow.
“Did I tongue-fuck the ability to speak out of you?” he asks conversationally, tossing the condom wrapper away. “You haven’t said a word since you stopped shouting my name.”
“Oh, you need me to talk you through it?”
The head of his cock probes my pussy, but he doesn’t push inside. I can see the shininess of my arousal on the tip.
I don’t know where to look. Anywhere but away.
His straight jaw clenches sharply, so rigid I’m concerned it might snap in half, as he stares down at me.
This is so intimate —and not in the obvious sense of us both being naked.
My lungs burn, reminding me inhales are important.
He still doesn’t thrust.
“Are you going to fuck me or not?”
“Many times,” he promises.
But there’s still no stretch. He’s dragging the flared head of his cock up and down along my swollen, sensitive flesh, the slickness creating a smooth glide. Taunting me with the thick length I’m desperate to have inside of me.
His hand is holding my thigh against the mattress, keeping me from moving very much. I try anyway, attempting to lift my hips and hurry things along.
The erotic torture finally ends.
I moan, watching him push inside of me. My feet flex, and my fingers fist the quilt I’m lying on, adjusting to the thick invasion. He inserts a few inches and then withdraws, less than half of the rubber coating his cock now shiny. His grip on my thigh tightens, bicep flexing, as twin lines wrinkle his forehead.
It’s a delicious sort of pain, like massaging sore muscles. It hurts at first, but that only feeds the underlying pleasure.
“More,” I beg, trying to lift my hips again. They don’t move a centimeter.
I’m at his mercy, and it only amplifies my arousal.
A devilish smile spreads across Charlie’s face. “More what?”
Everything . I need it faster and harder and deeper.
I need more of him , filling a place that’s never felt so empty.
I clench my inner muscles. The tip of his dick is still lodged inside of me, so I manage to suck him in a tiny bit deeper.
Charlie grunts, no longer looking amused. His right hand slides higher up my leg, his thumb finding my clit and drawing circles that start slow, then quickly speed up.
I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to come again. But he proves me wrong. The heat that pooled in my pelvis starts to simmer, tingles sparking up my spine. His dick slides deeper, the contrast of his lazy thrusts and rapid rubbing the most incredible sensation I’ve ever experienced.
My inner muscles tighten again, this time clenching around a hard cock.
I come, calling his name like a claim. Like a reminder of who’s inside of me, even though it feels like I’ll never forget.