I check the kitchen, just in case. No coffee made, no note on the counter. Nothing to indicate he was ever here except the slight soreness between my thighs and the fading scent of his cologne on my skin.
"Classic Charlie," I say to the empty kitchen. "Another stellar judgment call."
The worst part isn't even that he left. It's that I care. One night with a stranger, and I'm already spinning fantasies about morning coffee and lazy Saturday breakfasts.
I fill the kettle and slam it onto the stove with more force than necessary. Six months post-Ethan, and I still haven't learned my lesson about men.
Last night I felt powerful, desirable. Now I just feel stupid. Too easy to get into bed, too hard to stick around for. A great story for him to tell his friends over beers.
"Not this time," I tell myself firmly. "You don't get to feel sad about a one-night stand acting exactly like a one-night stand."
Across the kitchen counter, the morning light glints off the tequila bottle and shot glasses. My throat tightens when the memory detonates without warning.
His voice is a low hum against my bare skin, the scratch of his stubble sending sparks skittering across my inner thigh. "Tell me what you need, Shortcake."
Every synapse in my body sparks to life when his tongue drags up my seam, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the taste of me. My fingers twist into the sheets, knuckles white, heels digging into the mattress. "Don't tease," I manage, the words breathless and fraying at the edges already.
"Is that a request?" he murmurs, pausing just long enough to nip the delicate spot of my inner thigh, jolting a whimper out of me. "Or an order?" His breath fans warm over the slick heat between my legs, and it takes everything in me not to grind shamelessly against his mouth just to get more of that torturous friction.
A wrecked gasp tears from my throat as my back arches off the bed of its own volition, the world shrinking to nothing but the maddening, maddening heat of his mouth. His tongue circles closer with each pass, relentless, like he’s determinedto unravel me thread by thread. When his teeth graze my clit—just barely, just enough—a raw, ragged "Fuck!" punches out of me.
He hums against my skin, the vibrations ricocheting through my core like a shockwave, and the sound is pure, smug satisfaction. "There it is," he murmurs, his lips dragging up to press a soft kiss to my trembling stomach. "Let me hear you." The command is gentle, coaxing, but there's a roughness underneath, like he knows just how deep he already has me, how powerless I’ve become under this slow, deliberate torture.
Then, without warning, two fingers slide into me, curling just right in a ruthless, perfect angle. The shock of it sends my head thrashing back against my pillow, my hips jerking helplessly against his hand. "Jesus, Bash—" I choke out, my voice breaking, and the bastard just chuckles darkly against my skin like he knows exactly what he's doing to me.
“Eyes on me.”
His voice is a rough, velvet command wrapped in something darker just before he pins my hips with that infuriating, effortless strength. One broad hand splays across my stomach like an anchor, steadying me. His gaze locks on mine, devastatingly focused, pupils blown wide with want as he watches every shiver, every breath, every way I start to come apart for him. “I want to watch you fall apart,” he murmurs, and then those two perfect fingers drag through my slick heat with slow, deliberate friction before he pushes them in again, deeper this time. The world narrows to the rhythm of his touch and the quiet, hungry sounds he makes as he studies my reactions like they’re a map only he gets to read.
Praise spills from him like honey—good girl, perfect, just like that—each word thick with dark satisfaction. Something primal in me rises to meet it, greedy for every ounce of attention I’d never admit to craving.
When the coil finally snaps, it’s with his name breaking from my lips. My nails claw into the headboard, my spine bowing off the mattress as I go under. He doesn't let me drift far—he follows, mouth replacing his fingers as he licks me through the aftershocks, humming approvingly against oversensitiveskin like he’s savoring something decadent, something that belongs only to him.
The condom wrapper tears between his teeth. He slinks up my body with predator grace, all coiled muscle and intent, lifting my left leg over his shoulder until the stretch burns magnificently. His grip on my calf is possessive, fingertips pressing into the delicate hollow behind my knee. The first thrust punches the air from my lungs, stealing my breath as he sheathes himself fully with a ragged groan.
"Fuck, you're tight." He leans forward and his forehead drops to mine, sweat-slick and trembling, tendons standing out in his neck like cords. Every ragged breath fans across my lips, our rhythm fracturing as his control slips. Each snap of his hips hitting deeper, his hands roaming my body like he's memorizing territory he plans to reclaim later.
When I clench around him on a particularly sharp roll, his composure cracks open raw. "Fuck, Charlie." His voice shatters, hips stuttering as his fingers dig into my thigh. "You're gonna make me—"
The whistle of the kettle yanks me back. Boiling water overflows, hissing on the stovetop. I kill the burner and pick up the kettle. The granite's cool bite grounds me as I pour hot water into my cup.
"Get it together."
My phone buzzes next to me.
Sooooo how's the walk of shame? Need Plan B and breakfast tacos?
Em
I type a lie with furious thumbs.
All good. About to head to out for a walk.
The threedots appear.
Liar.
Mom and dad are making breakfast on the blackstone.
