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“You taste so fucking good, Charlotte.”
“I’m close.”
“Take your time, babe,” I say as I bask in the moment of having my head between her thighs. This is definitely not a situation I ever thought I’d be in with Charlotte, but damn, I am not complaining right now.
I continue to curl my fingers against her G-spot, slowly swirl my tongue around her clit before sucking it hard, and repeat the process until I feel her grip my head, tug at my hair, and then scream, “Oh, fuck!”
Charlotte’s cries of ecstasy spur me on as I work her through her orgasm, her entire body shaking as she tightens her thighs around my head. And I keep moving my fingers and tongue until I feel her start to relax, indicating I should stop.
When I lean back on my heels, I see she’s slouched down in the chair, her eyes are closed, and she’s struggling to breathe.
“Are you okay?” I ask, which has her eyes flying open.
Brushing her hair from her face, her entire demeanor changes from satisfied woman to spastic basket case. “Um. Yes. That was…thank you.” She stands, lifts her thong from the floor, pulling it in place before shimmying her dress back down her hips and searching the room for something, which I have no idea what that would be.
“You’re welcome. Now we should…”
“I have to go, Damien.” She runs right past me for the door and just like before, I reach out to stop her.
“Charlotte, no. We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.” She shrugs me off as my hand drops to my side. “I told you, this was just about orgasms, remember?”
“I faintly remember that mid-make-out session, but seriously, I think we should talk about what just happened.”
“Then I’ll call you tomorrow,” she says on a fake smile before opening the door and running off, leaving me with a raging hard-on and a pile of unanswered questions.
But at least I know the answer to one now—Charlotte definitely wanted what just happened, which means at least I know I’m not the only one that wanted to cross the line.
Now I just need her to admit it.
* * *
Saturday morning came and went with no phone call from Charlotte, and by four o’clock in the afternoon after I took care of a few errands, went to the gym, and took a shower, I decided to call her. However, not surprisingly at this point, she didn’t pick up.
Frustrated beyond belief with this woman, I settle into my couch Sunday morning with my cup of tea, full of honey and lemon since my throat feels a little dry, clicking on the television to find something to watch. And normally, I’d have no problem finding a show to binge, rewatch an old favorite movie to pass the time, or hell, even do a puzzle. Yes, I like puzzles.
But now that Charlotte is around, none of that sounds as entertaining as being around her, whether she secretly hates me still or not.
After the way you made her come the other night, I doubt she hates you.
Fuck. The woman looked like a goddess when she screamed while my head was buried in between her legs. I swear, I can still taste her on my tongue, and apparently, my dick remembers too as he twitches at the memory.
Sighing in frustration, I reach for my phone again to see no missed calls or messages, but it is only ten in the morning. I’m not sure what time Charlotte wakes up on the weekends, but she’s got to be up by now.
I decide to shoot her a text, break the ice and see if I can finally get a response from her.
Me: Hey.
Short. Simple. Open for interpretation.
Well done, Damien.
But then I stare at the screen for an unhealthy amount of time as I wait for a response and never get one. I’m about to throw my phone across the room when a lightbulb clicks on in my mind.
Brunch. Fuck, of course.
Charlotte is at brunch this morning with the girls at Frankie’s. I remember her talking about it the night she came over for dinner. They meet every Sunday.
And suddenly, I know exactly how to get Charlotte to talk to me—with three new accomplices hopefully on my side.
* * *
