“Never what?”
“I’ve never been with anyone.” The words came out barely audible. “Not because I didn’t want to. Just because no one ever made me feel like they saw me. The actual me. Not just the body.”
He went very still. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back up to my eyes, and I watched him wage some kind of internalwar. His hand came up slowly—so slowly—and cupped my jaw. His palm was warm and rough with calluses, and I leaned into it without thinking.
“Charisma.” My name again, that same rough scrape, but softer now. Almost reverent. “I need you to be sure about this. Because if you let me kiss you right now, I’m not going to want to stop. And I’ve spent three years not wanting anything, and I don’t know how to do this halfway.”
My heart pounded so hard, I was sure he could feel it. “I don’t want halfway.”
Something broke behind his eyes. Permission, maybe. Or the last of his resistance.
He kissed me.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tentative. It was three years of isolation colliding with twenty-three years of loneliness, and the impact was devastating.
His mouth claimed mine like he was starving, one hand tangling in my hair, the other gripping my hip and pulling me against him until there was no space left between us. I gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss until I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but hold on.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard. He straightened but his eyes were still closed.
“Bedroom,” he said roughly. “Now. Unless you want to stop.”
I didn’t want to stop.
I never wanted to stop.
4
T.J
Icouldn’t think past the taste of her on my lips—sweet coffee, a faint edge of salt from earlier tears, and something uniquely Charisma that made my blood roar. Three years of nothing, of ice in my veins, and now?
Fire everywhere she touched.
She pulled back and my eyes popped open.
“Bedroom?” she echoed, but there was a wicked little tilt to her smile that said she had other ideas.
Before I could take a step, she slipped out of my hold, turned, and walked the five paces to the kitchen table. My table. The sturdy oak one I’d built myself the first winter here because I needed something to do with my hands that wasn’t drinking or punching trees.
She hopped up on it like it weighed nothing, thighs parting just enough to make room for me between them. The borrowed flannel rode high on her legs, exposing smooth skin that begged to be touched. Her hands braced behind her, shoulders back, chest rising and falling fast. Those dark eyes flashed—half challenge, half pure, electric want.
“Fuck me right here, T.J.”
The words hit like a gut punch. Raw. Direct. No hesitation. My cock jerked hard against the zipper of my jeans.
“Jesus, Charisma.” I dragged a hand over my face, trying to scrape together some shred of control. “Let me grab a condom from the bedroom?—”
She shook her head, quick and certain. Her hair spilled over one shoulder like ink.
“I’m on birth control. I want to feel you. All of you.”
That was it. The last thin thread of restraint snapped.
I crossed the room in three long strides, hands finding her hips and yanking her to the edge of the table so her heat pressed right against the aching ridge of me. I kissed her again—harder this time, all teeth and tongue and three years of pent-up hunger. She moaned into my mouth, fingers digging into my shoulders, legs hooking around my waist to lock me there.
Clothes came off in a frantic rush. My shirt hit the floor. Hers—my flannel—followed, buttons popping somewhere in the chaos. The sweatpants and my jeans landed in a tangle by the chair, followed by our underwear. Then it was skin on skin, her nipples tight against my chest, my cock trapped between us, leaking against the soft skin of her stomach.
I slid one hand down, finding her slick pussy.
