Chapter 19 #2
The moment she starts sucking, my knees nearly buckle. I keep my hand fisted at the base as she swirls her tongue around the head of my dick. Fuck. It feels so fucking good.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Swallow me deep down your throat.”
She continues sucking on me as my eyelids grow heavy with lust. My heartbeat hammers away in my chest as my release draws closer. She sucks cock like a pornstar, and I keep thrusting my hips, fucking her pretty mouth.
I could easily come down her throat, but I’d rather slam my cock deep inside her sweet pussy instead. I graze a thumb down her cheek. “You’re doing such a good job sucking me off, baby. But I need inside you. I need to watch your pussy take my dick.”
I help her stand. “Lean over the arm of the couch. Face fucking down.”
She does as I command, and her obedience turns me on even more. I’m so fucking close.
I’m like a raving lunatic, with pussy being my entire focal point as I move behind Charlotte. I want to slam my cock so deep inside her, but I remember how tight she felt when I stuck my finger inside her. The thought of going slow nearly slays me, but I don’t want to hurt her.
She glances over her shoulder. “You look like you’re really thinking back there.”
I smile. “You have no idea how badly I want to fuck you raw right here and now.”
She gives me a knowing smile. “Then do it.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m not as fragile as I look. Fuck me, Asher, please. As hard as you can. As rough as you want to go.”
With one hand I slap her ass, with the other I hold onto the rope binding her wrists. “You asked for it,” I tell her, slamming my cock deep inside her with one punishing stroke.
She moans out long and hard as I bury myself to the hilt. I give her a few seconds to acclimate to my size before I start thrusting back and forth. “Oh, Asher,” she groans.
“You wanted this, Charlotte. So fucking take it,” I tell her, slamming my dick deeper inside her. I keep fucking, making sure she knows exactly who she belongs to. My heart’s a jackhammer, as my body’s on fire with need. “This is what you asked for.”
She moans and groans, her body desperately trying to keep up. I nearly black out as I keep pounding away inside her. “Asher, I love this,” she moans out. “Keep fucking me.”
I slam even harder, my free hand reaching around to toy with her clit.
I’m not gentle in the way I play with it.
Not even a little bit. I pulse my finger in time with each stroke of my cock.
“I’m going to fill your body with my seed, and then I’m gonna fuck you even harder.
Don’t think for one second this is gonna be our only time tonight.
I’m going to have you begging for surrender. ”
“Never,” she challenges. “I’ll never want you to stop.”
“Promise?” I could fuck this woman for the rest of my life. Part of me wants to. Actually all of me wants to. This woman has now ruined me for others.
“I promise. Keep fucking me, Asher. Fuck me all night.”
I untie her wrists, sliding out of her long enough to flip her around.
She clings onto me, her fingernails digging into my shoulders.
I lift one leg over my hip, and slam back inside her.
I gaze into her eyes, my mouth crushing over hers.
I slide my tongue over hers, letting our kiss bind us together.
“You’re fucking mine, got that?” I tell her. “This is a demand. You’re mine.” I keep pushing my cock in and out of her, over and over. I squeeze her ass as my other hand wraps around the base of her throat. “Tell me you’re mine, Charlotte.”
Her eyes slam into mine, her promise holding true. “I’m yours.”
“You’re damn right you are. I own this body. This sweet fucking pussy.” I keep slamming into her, letting her know exactly who she belongs to.
“I’m coming,” she calls out, and I chase her orgasm down with my own. My body doesn’t stop spilling my seed deep inside her.
Fuck, what has she done to me? It’s never been like this before. Ever.
The resort’s ballroom looks like something ripped from a glossy benefit-gala spread: crystal chandeliers dripping light, linen-draped cocktail rounds, a silent-auction table glittering with bid sheets and golf getaways.
The charity du jour is a children’s literacy fund, but everyone here is more interested in social optics than storybooks.
I post up at the end of the bar—club soda in hand, eyes on the elevator bank—scanning reflections in polished silver trays, noting exits, cataloging faces I don’t recognize.
Charlotte’s still upstairs dressing. Thirty minutes ago she shooed me out with the promise of a “showstopper.” Whatever that means, it’s derailed my focus all evening.
I force my gaze across the crowd: Nancy Sinclair preening near the stage, Wade prowling the perimeter like a wolf in a bespoke suit, and a half-dozen potential hired guns in rented tuxedos.
Elevator bell. Doors part.
My pulse forgets how to beat.
Charlotte steps out in a floor-length scarlet gown that skims every curve before spilling into a subtle mermaid flare.
The color is audacious against her pale skin; the neckline, a daring slash bracketed by collarbones.
Her hair’s swept to one side as soft waves tumble over one shoulder, exposing the elegant slope of her neck.
Tiny diamond droplets glint at her ears.
She’s not merely dressed; she’s weaponized.
Conversations around me fade to static. I set the glass down, missing the coaster completely, and cross the marble floor before my brain signs the permission slip.
She spots me halfway, lips curving into a smile equal parts shy and wicked. “Is it too much?” she whispers when I reach her.
“It might be lethal,” I answer, and her laugh spills across my nerves like warm brandy.
I offer my arm. “Dance with me before the room finds its tongue.”
She slips her hand into the crook of my elbow and we weave through throngs of jewel-tones to the parquet square where a string quartet is easing into a Sinatra standard.
I fold her into my hold, my right palm against the small of her back, left curling her fingers, and the rest of the crowd blurs.
Her perfume—something subtle, hints of jasmine—distracts every tactical algorithm in my head.
“You clean up well, Mr. Hawke,” she says, eyes sparkling.
“Occupational hazard,” I murmur, guiding her into a slow sway. “You, on the other hand, just set off the sprinkler system in my brain.”
A surprised flush blooms high on her cheeks. “Compliments? From the stoic bodyguard? Must be a full moon.”
“Maybe I’m trying to sell the engagement,” I tease. “Public displays of besotted admiration and all that.”
“Mission accomplished,” she breathes, and I nearly forget which foot to lead with.
We glide through the first verse, trading small talk calibrated for eavesdroppers.
How’s my favorite fiancée this evening? Over the moon, darling.
I can feel eyes on us—curiosity, envy, suspicion—but I keep my focus tight.
Every time Charlotte’s dress brushes my shin, a zing of heat shoots up my spine.
Halfway through the second song she tilts her head. “Tactical question: do you always dance like you’ve done this a thousand times?”
“Military balls,” I admit. “Turns out waltz steps impress generals’ wives.”
“Well, color me impressed.”
“And you? Professional gala-goer?”
“Practically born on a dance floor,” she says with a rueful chuckle. “Comes with the Lane pedigree—learn to foxtrot before you can parallel-park.”
She spins under my raised arm, red fabric flaring like a solar flare, then settles back against me, chest to chest. Her heartbeat flutters through thin layers of silk and worsted wool. Mine answers. This is dangerous. But I tighten my hold anyway. Just for the duration of one more chorus.
On the final note I feel a shadow fall across us. Wade. His smile is as tight as piano wire.
“Charlotte, you look… ravishing.” His gaze cuts to our joined hands. “Asher.”
I rest a protective hand on Charlotte’s waist. “Evening, Sinclair.”
He forces a laugh meant to sound urbane; it lands brittle. “Didn’t realize the guest list included security detail.”
“Where she goes, I go,” I say, keeping my tone pleasant. Back off pulses unsaid between us.
Charlotte steps in before the testosterone fumes slip a gear. “Wade, you remember my fiancé.” It’s a personal jab. Obviously he remembers me, but it makes me proud of her for using me like this. She smiles, and then drapes her arm across my chest.
Her eyes flick up to mine. I lower my head and brush a soft kiss across her temple. Wade’s jaw ticks.
“Enjoy the evening,” I say, steering Charlotte toward the far side of the floor before Sinclair can retort.
When we’re clear she exhales. “He looked ready to blow a gasket.”
“That was the idea.” But adrenaline lingers in my blood like static. “You okay?”
“Better than okay.” She squeezes my hand, and we drift to the bar for hydration. I order a sparkling water for her and a soda water for me. I scan again: no obvious tails, though Wade’s eyes burn holes from across the room.
The quartet segues into a slow violin piece. Couples sway under chandelier prisms. Charlotte leans in, voice low. “Thank you… for existing right now.”
I smile—can’t help it. “Anytime.”
Another song begins, “Fly Me to the Moon.” An impulse kicks my ribs.
I set my glass down, pull her gently back to the floor.
She slips into my arms like we’ve practiced for years.
Laughter bubbles at her lips; then her expression softens, the distance between us dissolving.
Midway through the chorus, she tilts her head, eyes blinking up at me.
Screw professional distance. I lower my mouth to hers.
The kiss is deliberate, unhurried. It’s public yet private in its connection.
Her lips are soft, tasting faintly of citrus and champagne.
The ballroom hum fades and even the bowstrings mute.
I angle my head, brushing a thumb along her jaw, deepening just enough to say mine without crossing the PG-13 line.
She sighs, hands sliding to my shoulders.
We part after three heartbeats—four, maybe—and her eyes are storm-bright. Around us applause breaks for the band’s graceful finish, masking any gossiping gasps. I rest my forehead to hers for one stolen second, whispering, “Selling the story.”
“Best endorsement money can’t buy,” she murmurs, cheeks flushed rose beneath chandelier light.
We manage two more dances before Charlotte’s grandmother intercepts us near the dessert table—petite, silver-haired, eyes sharp as cut glass.
“Well, well,” she says, tapping my forearm with her cane as though testing the quality. “The happy couple glowing like sparklers.”
“Nana Peg, you look lovely,” Charlotte says, kissing her cheek.
“Thank you, dear. I didn’t realize Asher was quite the dancer.” She offers her hand and I take it with respectful firmness.
“Nice to see you again.”
She scrutinizes my face as if comparing me to a lineup. “So, Mr. Hawke, indulge an old romantic—what are your plans once you sweep my granddaughter off the aisle?”
Charlotte stiffens. I keep my smile easy. “First, a modest honeymoon. She craves the mountains. I’m thinking something more tropical. Obviously she’ll win.”
Her grandmother’s brow arches, impressed despite herself. “And after the honeymoon?”
“I’m renovating a ranch house outside Denver,” I say, speaking about my family’s property. “Plenty of room for the library Charlotte wants and the rescue dogs she won’t stop talking about.”
Charlotte’s eyes widen—adoration, disbelief, or both. She recovers quickly. “He’s promised me a window seat for reading and a kitchen big enough for holiday feasts.”
“Grandchildren?” Nana Peg fires off, eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Eventually,” Charlotte says before I can. “We’ll enjoy being newlyweds first.” She squeezes my hand.
I nod, adding, “Timing’s less important than raising them in a home built on trust.”
Nana Peg studies us, gaze ping-ponging between faces, seeking cracks. Finding none—at least none she can pry open—she pats Charlotte’s arm. “Well then, my dear, I’ll expect a postcard from Denver.”
“We’ll send two,” Charlotte promises, relief hidden behind a bright smile.
The matriarch glides away, cane tapping a contented rhythm. We both exhale.
Charlotte turns to me, voice a hush. “Can you believe that?”
“So, she’s accepted us.” I smile wide. “I do own a ranch house, that wasn’t a lie, though the kitchen needs work.”
Her laughter is soft, and maybe a little awed. “You’re scarily good at this, you know.”
“I meant every word.” The confession slips out before I can leash it. Her breath catches, and my own heart stutters.
Across the ballroom, Wade downs his whiskey, glare razor-sharp. Nancy whispers in his ear, eyes narrowed. Trouble is brewing. But in Charlotte’s reflected gaze I see steady trust, and for tonight that’s ammunition enough.
I offer my hand again. “Another dance, Mrs. Almost-Hawke?”
She grins, placing her palm in mine. “Lead on, Mr. Hawke.”
As I guide her back to the dancefloor, I know lines have blurred past reclaiming. The job says protect the asset. My heart murmurs protect the woman.
And I’m starting to realize they are one and the same.