Then I crash into her again. Pulling her impossibly close. My hands take on a frantic rhythm.
Her body mirrors the quivering ache that pulses through my every breath. Her hands are gripping my cut this time.
Finally I allow my tongue to meet hers. Hesitantly, at first. The moment she plunges into me further, I let go. I pour all of my emotions into that moment.
With every nervous stroke of my tongue, each bite of her teeth on my lips, my uncertainty bleeds away in rapid bursts.
She claws and clambers, pushing into me so frenetically that I let my hands wander over to her ass.
Picking her up in one smooth motion as she wraps her legs around my waist. My stiff length behind the zipper brushes her against pajama-clad pussy.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I force myself not to accidentally come in my jeans as I settle us down on my couch. She’s straddling me.
My hands rest on her waist—gripping firmly. And I force myself not to touch her anywhere else. Even as her hands frantically stroke my chest, sliding under my cut, I dare not move my hands. Not if she won’t welcome that touch.
Fuck. I bet she can feel the wild beats of my heart through my Henley.
Unable to resist, I let my one hand graze upwards, carefully skipping her torso, cupping her cheek.
For a brief second, she leans back, allowing me to tangle my fingers in her hair. Her eyes are glazed over with lust. Her breath fans across my lips.
She looks so fucking gorgeous.
I never allowed myself to daydream this far ahead. But the reality is a million times better.
As I place a soft, charged peck on her lips, a small smile cracks on my lips. “Christ, Charlotte,” I say, my eyes closing when I drop my forehead to hers.
Before I can dive in further, stupidly assuming I’ll be welcomed by the woman I love, she yanks herself off my lap.
Stumbling—almost falling on her ass—she grips a random chair of my office to steady herself. Eyes wild as she stares at me.
No…throughme.
Shit.
“Charl—”
“No!” she snaps, her voice shaking. “Fuck—I… no!” There’s a strained, almost whiny edge to it. Frustrated. Cornered. Like she’s arguing with herself more than me.
“It’s okay,” I say gently, even though the contrite look on her face doesn’t ease in the slightest.
Fuck. She regrets it. Of course she does.
The realization settles heavy in my chest, dull and expected, but no less brutal.
Before I can say anything else, she lets out a sharp, frustrated groan. Then she strides toward me, pacing straight to where her phone rests on the couch. She snatches it up like it personally offended her.
I blink, thrown off by the sudden shift. “Charlotte—”
She’s already moving. Storming toward the door, muttering under her breath, each word clipped and sharp. “Fucking peanut butter and stupid jam…”
Uh… what?
I frown, completely lost.
She yanks the door open, still grumbling something that very clearly sounds like a threat involving mussels and my ass. And then she’s gone.
