2. Charlotte
— ? —
Charlotte
A Few Years Ago
His mouth was on my stomach when I opened my eyes.
“Sutton,” I said, my voice rough with sleep. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer right away. His lips traced the curve of my hip bone, and I felt the scrape of his stubble against skin that was still warm from the sheets.
My body woke up before my mind did, heat pooling low in my belly, my thighs falling open without any conscious decision to let him in.
“Nothing,” he murmured against me. “Go back to sleep.”
“I can’t go back to sleep when you’re doing that,” I said.
“Doing what?” he asked, and I felt him smile. That smile I knew so well, the one that curved against my skin and made my pulse quicken.
His tongue dragged across the hollow below my navel, and my hips lifted off the mattress.
“That,” I breathed. “That thing with your mouth.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. He kissed the inside of my thigh, his breath warm against sensitive skin. “I’m just saying good morning.”
I reached down and found his hair, soft between my fingers. He was still half-asleep too, I could tell by the heaviness of his movements, the lazy way he explored me. There was no urgency in him. We had nowhere to be. We had all the time in the world.
“You have a nine o’clock,” I said.
“The nine o’clock can wait,” he said.
“It cannot,” I said. “You told me last night it was important. You said if you didn’t close this deal, your father would…”
“Charlotte.” He lifted his head and looked at me. His hair was messy, dark strands falling across his forehead. His eyes were warm and clear and completely focused on me, like I was the only thing in the room worth seeing. “Watch me.”
He held my gaze as he lowered his mouth between my thighs.
The first stroke of his tongue made me gasp. He licked through my folds slowly, tasting me, learning me all over again like he hadn’t done this a hundred times before.
My back arched off the bed and my fingers tightened in his hair and I stopped thinking about the nine o’clock or his father or anything except the heat of his mouth.
“God,” I breathed. “Sutton.”
“There it is,” he said against me, his voice low and satisfied. “That’s what I wanted. Say it again.”
“Sutton,” I repeated, and it came out like a prayer.
He rewarded me by pressing his tongue flat against my clit and dragging upward. The sensation shot through me like electricity. I cried out and grabbed at the sheets with my free hand, my heels digging into the mattress.
He took his time. That was the thing about Sutton when we were good, he never rushed. He explored me with his mouth like he was memorizing every response, every shiver, every sound I made.
His tongue circled my clit in slow patterns, then dipped lower to push inside me, then returned to trace maddening shapes against the bundle of nerves that made my vision blur.
“Please,” I said, my hips rocking against his face. “More. I need more.”
“Tell me what you need,” he said, pulling back just enough to speak. His breath was hot against my wet skin and I whimpered at the loss of contact.
“Your fingers,” I said. “I need your fingers inside me.”
He slid two fingers into me without breaking eye contact. I watched his face as he felt me clench around him, watched his pupils dilate, watched his jaw tighten with the effort of holding himself back.
“You’re so wet,” he said, his voice rough. “So tight and warm and perfect.”
He curled his fingers up and found the spot that made me see stars.
His mouth returned to my clit, sucking gently, and his hand began to move.
I couldn’t think anymore. I couldn’t do anything except feel, the stretch of his fingers, the pressure of his tongue, the pleasure building in my core like a wave about to break.
“I’m close,” I gasped. “Sutton, I’m going to…”
He sucked harder on my clit and thrust his fingers deeper and I shattered.
I screamed his name, my back arching off the bed, my whole body clenching around his fingers. He worked me through it, gentling his touch as I came down but never pulling away completely, drawing out every last tremor until I was gasping and pushing weakly at his shoulders.
“Too much,” I managed. “God, Sutton. It’s too much.”
“It’s never too much,” he said, but he relented, pressing one last soft kiss to my inner thigh before crawling up my body.
He kissed me and I tasted myself on his tongue. His cock pressed against my thigh, and I felt the wetness at the tip smear against my skin. I reached between us and wrapped my fingers around him, felt him twitch in my palm.
“Your turn,” I said.
“Not yet,” he said. He caught my wrist and pinned it gently above my head. “I’m not done with you.”
“What else could you possibly…”
“Shower,” he said.
The words sent a fresh pulse of heat between my thighs. I was still sensitive from the orgasm, still trembling, and already I wanted more of him.
“Then take me there,” I said.
He stood and pulled me up from the bed. My legs were unsteady and he caught me around the waist. I could feel his heart pounding under my palm, could feel the tension in his muscles from holding himself back.
“I’ve got you,” he said.
He led me to the bathroom, his hand warm on the small of my back. I watched his body as he moved ahead of me to turn on the water. He was beautiful in a way that still surprised me sometimes. After all these months, I still caught my breath when I looked at him.
Steam began to fill the room. He turned back to me and pulled me under the spray.
The hot water hit my shoulders and I sighed. He pressed me against the tile and I gasped at the contrast. He kissed me under the spray, deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against mine.
“Turn around,” he said against my lips.
I turned.
He pressed me forward until my cheek rested against the tile, my palms flat on the wall. I felt him behind me, his chest against my back, his cock hard against my ass.
His hands roamed my body, cupping my breasts, rolling my nipples between his fingers, sliding down my stomach to grip my hips.
“I think about this all the time,” he said, his mouth hot against my ear. “When I’m stuck in meetings. I think about you like this. Wet and wanting and waiting for me.”
“I’m always waiting for you,” I said, and I meant it as seduction, but it came out like truth.
He groaned and reached between us. I felt the head of his cock press against my entrance, felt him pause there, teasing me with the promise of what was coming.
“Sutton,” I begged. “Please. I need you inside me.”
He pushed in slowly.
The stretch of him was exquisite. I pressed back, taking him deeper, and he cursed under his breath. His hands gripped my hips hard enough to leave marks and I wanted him to.
I wanted to carry the evidence of this on my body. I wanted proof that he had been here, that he had wanted me, that we had been real.
“Fuck,” he breathed against my shoulder. “Charlotte. You feel incredible.”
“Move,” I said.
He pulled back and thrust forward, filling me completely. I cried out, the sound echoing off the tile.
He set a rhythm that made my knees weak, deep, steady strokes that hit every sensitive spot inside me. The water ran down our bodies and the steam wrapped around us and I felt like we were the only two people in the world.
“Harder,” I gasped. “Please. I can take it.”
He gave me what I asked for. His hips snapped against my ass, driving deeper with every thrust.
One hand left my hip and slid around to find my clit, rubbing in tight circles while he fucked me from behind.
I was still sensitive from before, still swollen and aching, and the pleasure built faster than I expected.
“I can feel you getting close again,” he said, his voice strained. “Your pussy is squeezing me so tight. You’re going to come again, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I moaned. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
“Never,” he said. “I’m never going to stop.”
He thrust harder, his fingers working my clit relentlessly. The orgasm crashed through me and I screamed his name, my walls clenching around his cock. He groaned and followed me over the edge, burying himself deep as he came, his hips stuttering against me.
We stayed like that for a long moment. His forehead pressed against my shoulder. His arms wrapped around my waist, holding me up because my legs had given out entirely.
The water ran over us and I felt him soften inside me, felt the evidence of what we’d done begin to slip down my thighs.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured against my skin. “I’ve always got you.”
“I know,” I said. “You always do.”
I believed that. Standing there in the steam with his arms around me and his heartbeat against my back, I believed it completely.
When we finally got out, he wrapped me in a towel and lifted me onto the bathroom counter. He stood between my thighs, his hands resting warm on my legs, and just looked at me.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “I just like looking at you.”
“You’re going to miss your nine o’clock,” I said.
“I already missed it,” he said. “It started an hour ago.”
“Sutton.” I tried to look disapproving. “Your father is going to kill you.”
“My father can wait,” he said. “Everything can wait. You’re the only thing I don’t want to wait for.”
He kissed me, and I melted into him.
We made it back to the bedroom eventually. I pulled on one of his shirts and he pulled on boxers and we collapsed onto the bed together, limbs tangled, hearts still beating too fast.
“I should call the office,” he said, but he didn’t move.
“You should,” I agreed, but I held onto him tighter.
“In a minute,” he said.
We lay there in the quiet. His fingers traced patterns on my back. I pressed my ear to his chest and listened to his heartbeat slow.
“I never thought I’d have this,” he said after a while.
“Have what?” I asked.
“This,” he said. “Someone I want to miss meetings for. Someone who makes me want to stay.” He was quiet for a moment.
“My parents had a terrible marriage. My father was never home. When he was, they screamed at each other until one of them left. I thought that was just what relationships were. Two people slowly destroying each other.”
I lifted my head to look at him. His expression was open in a way I had never seen before, unguarded, like he was showing me a part of himself he kept hidden from everyone else.
“I decided I would never let myself get trapped like that,” he said. “I kept everything casual. No commitment. No expectations. No chance of turning into him.”
“What changed?” I asked.
“You,” he said simply. “I met you and I wanted to be trapped. I wanted everything.”
“I want everything too,” I said against his lips.
“Good,” he said. “Because I’m not letting you go.”
That was only the start of our relationship.
By the end, everything had changed.