31. Charlotte Gallagher #2
He stands over me, pulling his shirt off, controlled in a way that says the restraint is costing him.
He reaches down, grips my cover-up, and drags it over my head in one clean motion. It lands somewhere behind him. The bikini goes next, quick and easy, until I’m bare on the bed.
Dane takes his time looking at me.
“Well?” I say. “What do you think about my idea?”
“I think you’re a fucking brat.”
A small smile pulls at my mouth. “I think I’m your fucking brat.”
His gaze sharpens as he pushes his swimmers down, freeing himself, already hard. His hand wraps around his cock, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke, his eyes locked on my face.
“Do you think he’d be able to give you this?” He strokes himself again, unhurried. “Would he measure up?”
My mouth goes dry, and I swallow. “He might.”
“He might?” He comes down over me, his mouth finding my jaw, my throat, dragging lower—then stopping, pulling back just enough to make it worse. “That’s interesting.”
“Dane—”
“I’m just thinking about your other man.” His mouth grazes my collarbone. “Very polite of him—opening doors and pulling out chairs for you.”
He trails his mouth down the center of my chest, then pauses again, leaving me there, waiting.
“He’d probably be attentive and considerate.”
His hand slides up my inner thigh then stops just short of where I need it, close enough it almost hurts.
“Would he take care of you? Really take care of you?”
“Dane—”
“Answer me, Charlotte. Would he take care of you? Make you come?”
“I don’t—please—”
“Please what?”
“Touch me.”
“Where? Here?”
“Yes.”
His fingers brush the top of my slit—barely there, just enough to register—and the sound that leaves me fills the cabin, echoing softly off the walls.
“Is that what you want? To be touched here? To come?”
“Yes.”
He pulls his hand away completely.
Fuck.
My head drops back, and I make a sound I don’t even try to control. He lets out a low, satisfied chuckle that tells me he’s enjoying this far too much.
After that, he takes his time. A ridiculous amount of it.
His mouth is everywhere except where I need it.
His hands slide close, then pull away, pushing me right to the edge and backing off with calculated timing.
Every time I start to get there, he senses it and stops—like he knows my body better than I do and is withholding the one thing that would end it.
By the third time I say his name, it comes out shaking. There’s no control left in it.
“That’s your punishment for running your mouth,” he whispers, not even a little sorry.
“I hate you right now.”
He laughs, low and easy. “No, you don’t. You wish you did.”
He presses a slow kiss to my hip bone, then another, unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world.
“Up,” he says against my skin. “You’re going to suck my dick—but not the way you think.”
I push up, and he shifts with me, hands on my hips, turning me slowly until I’m facing the opposite way—his face between my thighs, his cock lined up with my mouth.
I drop forward onto my forearms.
“Sit on my face,” he says, gripping my hips and pulling me down onto him.
His tongue is on me immediately—no teasing this time, no buildup. Just the flat of it dragging slowly and firmly through me before the tip finds exactly where it needs to be.
My thighs clamp around his head on instinct.
He works me in long strokes, then tighter, more focused circles. His mouth closes and sucks. The sound that tears out of me is loud, completely uncontrolled, echoing in the small space.
I lower my mouth to his cock.
My hand wraps around the base first, steadying, then my tongue drags from root to tip before I take him in. The sound he makes against me hits low, more felt than heard, and it throws me off for a second before I find the rhythm again.
My mouth sinks down slowly, lips dragging, the tip hitting my throat before pulling back and doing it again. My head bobs, my hand working with it—pressure and release, over and over.
He groans against me, and it breaks something in my concentration before I’m able to pull it back together.
We fall into it—his hands firm on my hips, mine gripping his cock. I settle into a rhythm and push deeper, feeling his hips lift. A flicker of satisfaction surges through me.
“Mmm—”
He’s relentless—adjusting, reading my body language, staying just ahead of me every time.
Then his hand slides up the back of my leg. His thumb presses somewhere new—slow, circling, testing—and I tense.
I didn’t expect that to feel good.
It does.
The pleasure building in me tips into something sharper and deeper. The sound that comes out of me is muffled by his cock in my mouth.
Then he pushes a single finger into my ass.
Oh God.
The stretch pulls a full-body reaction out of me, my back arching as his other hand holds me steady. He works them together—mouth and finger—and the ache builds fast.
“Oh—God—Dane—don’t stop—please—”
Steady strokes, his mouth never letting up. My thighs shake around him, my eyes squeezed shut, everything narrowing down to that one point.
And then he stops.
Just fucking stops.
“No, Dane—don’t you dare—”
“I’m not done with you yet,” he says, voice rough beneath me.
“Dane, I swear to God—”
His hands slide under my hips and lift, shifting me down his body in one smooth movement until I feel his cock lined up beneath me and know exactly where this is going.
“You’re going to fuck me this way.” His hand drags up my spine, slow and possessive. “You’re going to ride me facing the other direction, so I don’t have to look at your face after what you just said about another man touching you.”
I actually laugh, breathless. Then I sink down onto him from behind, and the sound that comes out of both of us echoes in the cabin.
“Oh—”
“Fuck,” he groans.
I brace my hands on his knees and start moving, rolling my hips, finding the angle that makes my breath catch every time. His hands lock onto my hips, pulling me down harder to meet him. I let him take control of the pace, my head tipping back with it.
“Are you jealous of a hypothetical man?”
“What the fuck do you think?”
“I think you are.”
I lean back, and he drives up into me, the change in angle pulling a sharp gasp from my throat.
“You really piss me off talking about another man like that.”
“Because I’m your fucking brat sister. So fuck me like it, Dane. Punish me. Fuck me like you hate me.”
His arm wraps around my middle, tight enough to hurt, and then he moves—rolling us. I end up face down, him over me, my arms pinned behind my back, my cheek pressed into the bed. When he drives back into me, the sound that leaves me isn’t even a word.
There’s nothing held back now—no restraint—just him right on the edge of it with me taking everything he gives.
“You fucking brat sister,” he says, voice wrecked.
“Don’t stop,” I manage into the mattress. “Don’t stop.”
“I’ll come inside you if I don’t.”
“I don’t care. Don’t stop.”
I feel it when it hits him—the break, the shift, the sound he makes—and then the heat of it inside me. Something about knowing it’s happening, knowing exactly what it means and not stopping it, feels too good.
My body follows, completely—shaking, tightening around him, pulling everything out of him as I come apart.
“Aahh—Dane—”
After, neither of us moves.
He eases some of his weight, but I stay where I am, his hold still firm on my arms, both of us breathing hard. I can still feel him inside me, softening. I close my eyes and just stay there.
“Charlotte.”
“I know.”
“We shouldn’t have—”
“I know.”
I take a second before I speak. “When you said you were going to come, something shifted. I didn’t want you to stop. I just—didn’t want you to stop.”
He exhales slowly. “I know exactly what you mean. I can’t explain it, but I understand the pull.”
I roll onto my back beside him, both of us staring up at the cabin ceiling, and his hand finds mine.
“We can’t keep doing that, Char.”
There’s a line we cross, and after that there’s no logic left. Knowing we shouldn’t only makes it more tempting.
“Our self-control is shit.”
He chuckles. “You don’t have to tell me, babe.”
“I don’t know why I get off on having your cum inside me.” But I do.
“You still need to see a doctor. We can’t keep putting it off. If we—if another pregnancy happens—”
“I know.” I exhale. “I just... dread it. With everything going on, the thought of sitting there and explaining myself to someone who’s going to judge me makes my skin crawl.”
“If you get pregnant again, there’ll be a lot more judging than that.”
I stare at the ceiling. “I wouldn’t have to name the father. No one could make me.”
“We shouldn’t even be having this conversation.”
“I know, but a baby—” I stop because there are some lines we can never choose to cross.
“We have enough going on without adding a pregnancy to it. The world would lose its mind. We’d never get a second of peace.”
It feels like every decision we make has to be filtered through what other people think is right.
“Having your baby would make me so happy.”
“Charlotte—”
I turn my head and look at him in the dim light. “I know it’s not rational. I know we can’t. I know what it would cost us. But you wanted honesty, and that’s the truth.”
“Come here,” he says, pulling me against him.
We lie there, the boat rocking gently beneath us, stars drifting past the porthole. His heartbeat is steady under my ear, lulling me toward sleep.