Suddenly, I really don’t want him to hold something back. Maybe I don’t want him to hold anything back.
I wait and see if he changes his mind, becomes a little braver, but after many more minutes have passed and our kissing is only becoming more intense, with our heads pressing together with some force, the skin around my lips starting to feel a little sore from his stubble, a sensation that feels foreign but not unwanted, I am done waiting. I reach back with both of my hands, cover his and then drag them down to cup my arse cheeks. It’s exactly the invitation he needs because he wastes no more time clawing, pawing, claiming my flesh there.
“Fuck,” Charlie says on an exhale into my mouth a few seconds later. “You have a fantastic arse.”
“I know,” I say quickly as I twist my head to the other side and attack him some more.
It’s only when my jaw starts to ache and I can no longer ignore the thick ridge of his erection against my stomach that I stop kissing Charlie and look down between us. My hands rush to the belt he’s wearing but I get nowhere before he’s covering my fingers with his.
“No,” he says and he sounds as out of breath as I am, my chest heaving.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I mean, you first.”
I keep my fingers tucked into his belt as I pull back further so he can see my expression, or rather, my deep and pouty scowl.
“I don’t think you know how this happens with me,” I say. “I like to stay in charge.”
Charlie gives me another head-tilted-to-the-side curious puppy look. “Is that right?”
“Yes, very much so.” I feel my jaw tense. He better not fight me on this. I always stay in charge with sex.
Charlie’s questioning look lingers for a second or two longer but then it disappears completely and a more thoughtful, possibly scheming expression is there. He is a bit firmer now when his hands try to move mine away from his belt and because I don’t expect it, I’m not quick enough to stop him. I’m also stunned once he starts speaking.
“Then tell me to drop to my knees. Tell me to push your dress up to your hips. Tell me to pull your tights and underwear down, and to worship your pussy with my mouth.”
Jesus fucking Christ and all his fucking disciples.
Charlie Atkinson has a filthy mouth, and I don’t know if it’s that discovery or the words themselves, but the ache between my legs intensifies and it completely eclipses any desire I had to make Charlie see stars with my hand or my mouth.
I also want to see if he’s as dirty as the words he just spoke. And furthermore, I need him to know that two can play this game.
“Fine.” I sound grumpy about it even though I am anything but. I take my hands away from his and place them on his shoulders. “On your knees, Charlie,” I say, applying a little pressure.
He doesn’t just go down, he drops, like gravity has just increased tenfold, and he does so with a smile. The same smile he has in a meeting when someone asks him a question. The same smile he has when one of his team cracks an invariably terrible joke. The same smile he has when he’s handing out cups of tea from the round he just made. All that is to say, Charlie is happily falling to his knees for me.
And as I stare down at him, watching his pupils dilate and darken his azure eyes, I am feeling very happy to have him there.
“Pull my dress up,” I order and he does. But it’s not a perfunctory action, instead his hands are practically languid in their motion, starting at my knees and sliding up the front of my legs until he reaches the hem of my dress. Then his palms glide up the inside of my thighs, caressing the sensitive skin there until his fingers touch my suspenders and they freeze.
“Wait a minute…” he says and drops his head to look at where his hands are. “No fucking way.”
“What?”
“You’re wearing stockings.” He pulls my dress up further to reveal what I, of course, already know.
“Yes,” I say slowly, a little sardonically.
“I’m sorry, I’m just going to stare at these for a minute or two because they are so fucking sexy.”
“You like stockings?”
“It’s the suspenders really, but fuck, yes, I do.” One of his hands falls to grip his erection which is making a tent of his trousers. Never in a million years did I think I would find watching Charlie manhandle his hard-on sexy, but here I am, wanting it to be my hand gripping his length.
“These stay on,” he says decisively.
I huff out a short laugh, but then fall very silent when his hands continue their ascent up my legs, meandering side to side on each leg as if they want to touch every square inch of my skin.
