Chapter 33
T he legal brief was filed. The appeal packet was clean, tight, aggressive. Maya had confirmed her exposé was dropping in the morning—headlines already queued, interviews locked, quotes from former permit-holders and shop owners ready to blow the town’s genteel bullshit wide open.
I was feeling pretty pleased with myself, lying in bed, shirtless in soft old joggers, scrolling emails with one hand and rubbing the bridge of my nose with the other, feeling...wired. Like my body knew something big had shifted but hadn’t caught up to the relief yet.
That’s when I heard the door creak open, Charlie framed in the doorway like a goddamn fever dream.
She was wearing black. Sheer. Lacy. Barely-there lingerie that shimmered in the low light of my bedside lamp.
Tiny satin straps traced over her shoulders like whispers, and the fabric clung to her like a secret she wanted me to beg for.
“I know it’s not the bikini,” she said, her voice warm and amused as she stepped in, hips swaying lightly. “That was all sweaty and covered in sunscreen. This will have to do.”
I sat up so fast my phone slid off my chest and hit the floor. I didn’t even look down. Holy fuck .
She looked at me like I was already undone. Like she could see every dirty thought I’d ever had about her—and was planning to top all of them before midnight.
My cock twitched in my sweats, instantly hard, and she hadn’t even touched me.
“Charlie—”
She held up a hand as she crossed the room. “Shh.”
She climbed onto the bed—slow and seductive, like she was stepping into something sacred—and straddled my lap.
Her thighs warm against mine. The lace of her lingerie brushed my bare chest. My mouth went dry.
“I know you’re buzzing,” she whispered, hands resting lightly on my shoulders.
“Legal adrenaline. Big moves. Corporate takedowns. It’s all very sexy. ”
She leaned in and brushed her lips against my ear. “But I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
I swallowed hard. “I just—wanted to tell you it’s done. The brief has been filed. Maya’s?—”
“Hush, baby,” she murmured, pressing one soft finger to my lips. “I trust you. I know you handled it. And I want to hear every detail. Later. ”
She leaned back enough to look into my eyes. Her pupils were wide, her smile slow and sure. “But right now,” she whispered, “you’re mine.”
The last word landed like a jolt. I exhaled, shaky. And she kissed me then—slow and open-mouthed, her tongue teasing the seam of my lips until I gasped and gave in. Her fingers slid into my hair, tugging just enough to tilt my head back and claim the kiss deeper .
I tried to reach for her waist, but she grabbed my wrists. Gently, but firm. “No touching,” she murmured. “Not unless I say.”
I let out a breath that might have been a moan. “Okay,” I said, voice already rough. “Yes. Okay.”
“Good boy,” she purred, and I swear to God my cock throbbed so hard I almost came on the spot.
She kissed down my throat, trailing her tongue along the line of my collarbone, while her nails scraped lightly over my ribs, down my stomach, just enough to make me feel the trail of tingly heat on skin.
“You’ve been carrying the world all day, saving me,” she said softly. “But not tonight.” She sat back and shifted, rolling her hips just once against mine—slow and devastating, her lace barely hiding the heat of her core. My hands fisted in the sheets. “Tonight, I take care of you.”
My breath caught. “I want you pliant,” she murmured, reaching between us to trace the waistband of my joggers. “I want you open. I want to hear you say yes, and please, and more.”
I was already nodding.
“Use your words, Whitmore.”
“Yes,” I rasped. “Please. I’m yours.”
Her smile was pure satisfaction. And when she leaned in to kiss me again—deep, slow, promising everything—I melted into her hands like I’d been waiting my whole life for this moment.
Then she leaned down, and her mouth— God —her mouth closed over my nipple, sucking once, then dragging her tongue over the hardened peak in a slow, wet swirl.
I gasped, hips jolting.
“I didn’t know you liked that,” she whispered, switching sides, letting her teeth graze just enough to make me whimper. “I’m going to find out all the things you like.”
My hands stayed where they were—fisted in the sheets, jaw locked, eyes wild. She kissed down my chest—every inch measured, sacred, like she was unwrapping me from the inside out.
By the time her hands slipped into my waistband, I was trembling. She slid my joggers down just enough to free my cock, already hard and twitching against my stomach, the head flushed and leaking. I throbbed just from the brush of air.
“Fuck,” she said, voice full of awe. “You’re dripping , Fitz.”
I groaned. “I can’t help it.”
“You don’t have to,” she purred, bending her mouth down to blow gently on the tip of my dick. It took every bit of self-restraint not to thrust up and into her mouth as her lips parted and she ran her tongue between them. But she refused to lick me where I was desperate for it.
She kissed my hip. My inner thigh. My other thigh—ignoring my cock entirely while it jumped against my abs, desperate and denied. “Charlie?—”
“Shhh,” she said. “Let me.” Then she took a handful of her honey golden locks of hair and brushed them over my cock — as if she were tickling me with a feather.
I whimpered— actually whimpered —as she dragged her hair across the flushed head of my cock again, strands catching the slick, making me twitch like I’d been struck by lightning wrapped in silk.
“You’re so fucking sensitive,” she murmured, watching me, her mouth a soft little smile. “I love it.”
I clenched my fists in the sheets. My hips arched of their own accord, seeking friction, begging for her mouth, her hand, something .
But she gave me nothing. Just another slow sweep of her hair over my length, down the shaft, featherlight and maddening. “Charlie,” I begged, voice strangled. “Please.”
She rested one palm low on my belly, holding me in place with effortless pressure. I was burning. Wild. Trapped.
“You’re doing so well,” she whispered. “Letting me play. Letting me take my time.”
Then—finally— finally she leaned in, lips parting, and licked a single, devastating stripe up the underside of my cock.
I shuddered. But when I tried to thrust, to chase that heat, she pulled back and tsked softly. “Still so greedy,” she murmured. “I said let me. ”
She kissed the tip, then wrapped her lips around it—just the head—and held . No sucking. No motion. Just heat and pressure and a low, satisfied hum vibrating in her throat.
My thighs were shaking, my stomach clenched, my cock throbbing against her lips like it was trying to memorize the shape of her mouth.
Then her fingers replaced her mouth, wet and warm, stroking me in slow, lazy pulls while her other hand drifted lower—cupping my balls, cradling them with the same reverence she used to hold a pastry she made from scratch.
And then she laughed . “Fitz...you’re actually trembling.”
I was. I was quaking . “I’m dying,” I said, breathless. “You’re killing me.”
She grinned like a sinner. “No,” she said softly, brushing her thumb over the leaking slit again. “I’m loving you. Just...my way.” Then her thumb brushed the tip, spreading the pre-cum with little wet circles until my hips bucked and my breath hitched.
“I want you so close,” she whispered. “Right on the edge, just like this.”
Her hand worked me in long, torturously slow pulls, dragging her thumb under the head, pressing against the slit just enough to make me see stars. Every time I got close, she stopped. Backed off. Kissed my stomach. Waited for my pulse to settle.
My cock was red and leaking and begging. And then her fingers moved to that spot just behind my balls, that perfect patch of skin that made my thighs spasm when she pressed there just right. I was practically vibrating with the need to come. To do something .
“Fuck,” I gasped, back arching off the bed. “Charlie?—”
“Mmm,” she hummed. “You like it right here ? She rubbed small, slow circles, and my whole body tightened like a bowstring. She pressed firmer—just a little—until my hips jolted and my voice broke.
And then—she moved lower. I froze, every nerve on fire. She paused at the edge, right at my hole, just letting her finger rest there—barely touching, barely there —like a question she wasn’t going to ask out loud.
I couldn’t say it, but I couldn’t not. “Please,” I whispered.
She looked up at me through her lashes, already knowing. Then— spit . Wet and obscene right into her palm. She slicked one hand, rubbed it over the head of my cock as she resumed stroking—slow and sticky—while the other hand teased that puckered hole, now sliding .
One slick finger circled my hole, spreading spit, pressing in little by little, and I couldn’t stop the sounds I was making—needy, raw, desperate .
“God, baby, please,” I begged, not even sure what I was begging for anymore. “Do it—fuck, just?—”
Her fingertip pressed. One shallow push. I gasped, sharp and guttural, as she slipped in —slow, careful, just the tip up to the knuckle.
“ Oh my God ,” I choked, hips jerking.
She didn’t stop stroking. Her hand on my cock kept moving, perfectly synced, dragging me right to the edge again while that single, forbidden finger curled just slightly inside me.
“You feel so good like this,” she murmured. “So soft. So open. You’re perfect.”
I moaned—loud, unfiltered. My cock jumped in her hand. My thighs shook.
“Do you like that?” she whispered. “Me inside you like this?”
“ Yes. Oh fuck—Charlie— yes. ” Her finger moved in slow, deliberate strokes—just enough to make me twitch, to make my whole lower body curl toward her. At the same time, her other hand stroked me faster, tighter, her thumb rubbing perfect messy circles into the tip.