"Bash!" I gasp, clutching my packages to my chest. "You scared me!"
"I love all the little noises you make," he murmurs, his voice low and rough near my ear. His hands, warm and sure, slide from my waist to my hips, turning me to face him.
In the dim light filtering through the closet slats, his eyes are dark with intent. He backs me against the wall, boxing me in with his arms.
"I missed you," he says, nuzzling his nose against mine.
"I was only gone for a couple of hours," I protest, though my heart is already racing.
"Longest two hours of my life." His lips brush the corner of my mouth. "Feels like I've been waiting all day for you to get back. I need to remind you of something."
"What's that?" My voice comes out breathier than intended.
His mouth curves into that half-smile that makes my stomach flip. "Your doctor's orders about taking it easy have officially been lifted." His hand slides beneath my sweater, fingers splaying across my ribs. "And I need to be inside you. Right now."
Heat blooms low in my belly. "Oh really? What are you waiting for, then?"
I barely have time to set my packages on a shelf before his mouth claims mine. His kiss is hungry, demanding, as if we've been apart for weeks instead of hours. My hands find their way under his shirt, greedy for the feel of his skin.
We make quick work of our clothes. His sweater tossed aside, my jeans shimmied down and kicked away. He pushes me back against the wall, and I gasp at the contrast between the cool surface and his hot skin.
"God, you feel incredible," he groans, his large hands slipping beneath my sweater to map the familiar terrain of my body with possessive certainty. Those clever fingers trace each dip and curve of my ribs before sliding lower, dragging impatiently against my skin as he discovers just how ready I already am for him. "Fuck, Shortcake," he rasps when he finds me soaked, his thumb circling with just the right pressure to make my legs tremble.
The moment becomes dizzying—the scent of his cologne mingling with our combined arousal, the rough scratch of his stubble against my cheek. My fingers curl around him, feeling the heavy weight of his cock in my palm, the way it twitches as I stroke him from root to tip. He exhales sharply, forehead dropping against mine, his breath coming in ragged bursts that ghost warm over my lips.
Then, suddenly, he pulls back, his chest heaving. "Wait—" His voice is strained as he forces himself to stay in control. "Condom. I need to get one before I—"
But I tighten my grip, holding him exactly where I want him, breathless with recklessness. With deliberate purpose, I guide him right there, teasing the thick head against my entrance until his eyes darken with realization.
The protest forms instantly in his throat. "What are you—?" His breath hitches when I rock my hips forward just slightly.
"Charlie, fuck, I can't—I can't come inside you."
A slow, wicked smile curves my lips. I rise up on my tiptoes, letting my mouth skim the shell of his ear as I murmur, breath hot, "Then before you do..." My fingers tighten at the nape of his neck. "You can give me a pearl necklace."
The growl that tears from his chest is primal, vibrating through me—a sound of pure need.
"Fuck, Shortcake," he grits out, every syllable tinged with desperation.
His restraint shatters. One strong hand grips my thigh, lifting me effortlessly as he yanks it over his hip. There's no hesitation, no teasing, just the sudden, breathtaking stretch as he buries himself inside me in one deep, claiming thrust.
The sound I make is obscene, alarmingly loud—until his palm slams against my mouth, muffling me. His other hand anchors at my waist, holding me pinned right where he wants me as he pulls back agonizingly slow, then drives in again with brutal precision. My back arches, pressing harder into the wall as another ragged gasp slips past his fingers.
"Shh," he whispers, though his own control is hanging by a thread, his voice rough and uneven. "We wouldn’t want the house to hear, would we?"
The thought of someone catching us like this—against the wall, so far past desperate—should terrify me. Instead, it sends a fresh wave of heat straight to my core. His hips snap forward again, harder this time, and I bite down on his palm with a muffled curse.
"You feel so fucking good," he rasps, his teeth grazing my neck before he drags them lightly back down. "So tight—Christ, like you were made for me."
The words spilling from his lips shouldn't be this intoxicating, but it is. My fingers dig into the hard muscle of his shoulders, urging him faster, deeper, chasing the inevitable. His rhythm starts to fracture the closer he gets—rough, erratic thrusts that have my vision whiting out at the edges.
Then it happens. A particularly deep stroke has my entire body tensing as pleasure coils taut in my belly. "That's it," he coaxes, voice hoarse with approval. "Come for me, Charlie."
That single word—just my name, not a joke, not a tease—does me in. The orgasm crashes through me with brutal force, my cry swallowed by his hand. My nails rake down his back as my hips jerk uncontrollably against his, mindless with pleasure.
I barely have time to recover before his grip turns bruising, his movements growing desperate. "I'm close," he warns through gritted teeth, his thrusts turning punishing. "Gonna—"
Still trembling from my own release, I slide him out and sink to my knees before he can finish the thought. His darkening gaze locks onto mine as I tilt my chin up, lashes lowering in unspoken invitation, and I hold out my tongue.
