36. My one rule （is yours to break）
CHAPTER 36
MY ONE RULE (IS YOURS TO brEAK)
EMMA
T hree months into my job, I discovered that what is simple in theory can easily become a spontaneous chop because I destroyed my hair with bleach in practice.
It’s also been true in other areas of my life.
In theory, I enjoyed sex. In practice? Well…
Except it turns out, I was wrong about that.
I like foreplay and teasing, through words and flirting and touches. I like taking my time, enjoying the anticipation. I really like toys.
In the past, I’ve focused on making it good for my partner, too busy with their pleasure to enjoy my own.
It turns out that I simply wasn’t having sex with people who wanted to make it good for me too.
Until Charlie.
And I really need him to feel the same, because it’s high time I made it good for him.
Come Saturday morning, Charlie answers his door in sweatpants and a Queen T-shirt. Holy shit. I didn’t think he could make anything look sexier than a tuxedo, but dammit, he does.
I’ve rubbed shoulders with actors and greeted congressmen. I’ve shaken hands with multimillionaires. But Charlie Walker bends gravity by simply walking into a room.
The laws of physics don’t apply when he’s near. How could they when his smile stops time and his hands reshape my pleasure into all-consuming need?
“Hey,” he says, his voice thick with sleep. “Miss me already?”
“I did,” I admit. It’s a loose thread that’s been bothering me, the sharp end of a stitch that keeps snagging on my skin.
I’ve been wanting to kiss him for weeks, kicking myself for my own rules. I buried the urge as best I could until the other night, and now, in the kissless days since, it’s all I can think about.
He wants it too. That much has been so obvious I’m shocked HR hasn’t already sent us a cease and desist.
But he’s held off.
Because I asked him to.
God, he’s good to me.
But I’m done holding back.
I close the distance between us. I want him. No agreement, no faking. Just the heat of his skin as I slip my hand around his neck and pull.
The short hairs there are whisper soft. I’ve never considered myself a tactile person, but I’m kind of addicted to the brush of them against my fingertips. Maybe it’s the heat of his skin. Maybe it’s how the catch of my nails against his scalp always pulls a low, hot rumble from his throat.
When he meets me in the middle, I’m hit with a wave of relief so strong my knees go weak. Our lips find each other as though they never left, or maybe are always destined to return.
He moves easily when I push forward, over the threshold. I’m eager, hungry, biting down. The way he groans makes me grip tighter, kiss harder.
In theory, it’s as simple as wanting him.
In practice, it’s so much more delicious.
His skin is scorching under his shirt. “Is this okay?” I ask.
Charlie sweeps his tongue against mine. “I’ve already told you.” His hands find my waist, and I rock against him. “There’s nothing you’ve got that I don’t want.”
“Good,” and I push him against the closed door and take .