I took this photo the day we made pickles with Nan. She’s in the background of the shot, an unfocused figure at the sink, and Charlie is in the fore. I think I’d just made a joke—something juvenile about his expert handling of cucumbers. He’d glanced up at me with what I thought was surprise.
Click.
But it’s not surprise on his face. Or that’s not all it is.
I press my palm to my cheek, feeling how hot it is, while I wait. I texted Charlie ten minutes ago. When I hear his knock, I jump. Slowly, I tear my gaze away from the photograph and go to the door.
Charlie’s smile drops as soon as he sees me. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Nothing…you just startled me.” God, I’m nervous. “I thought you might like to see what I developed.”
“Absolutely.”
I lead Charlie to the darkroom and stand beside him.
“It’s a really good shot, Alice.”
“There are better ones,” I say. Some might even be great.
Charlie looks down at me, his mouth hooking upward. “Then why did you choose this one?”
I’m not sure whether he can’t see what I do, or if he’s in denial like I was. I straighten, hoping that standing tall like Nan will trick me into being brave.
“We met over the cucumbers,” I say.
His gaze melts—the same as in the photo. Just like it did yesterday afternoon before we jumped off that granite cliff into the lake, and again when we sat on his floating raft after we’d returned, feet dangling in the water. A monarch butterfly had landed on my finger. I raised it to my eye, telling it how pretty it was, then looked at Charlie, who was staring at me with the same bare adoration.
“So sentimental,” Charlie says now, but his voice is thick.
I meet his eyes, my pulse thundering. “This has been the best summer of my life,” I tell him. “These last two months have meant everything to me. I want to show you how much they’ve meant. How much you mean.”
His fingers brush against mine. “Alice.” My name falls from his lips like a plea. I see the tension in his neck, his shoulders.
“I want you,” I whisper. Charlie’s gaze darkens, not moving an inch as I rise on my toes and lean into his ear. “I want all of you.”
His face turns to me, green lightning flashing in his eyes. Before I’ve even set my heels back on the floor, Charlie’s hands are on me, lifting me clean off the ground. His mouth finds mine, a growl rumbling deep in his chest. His tongue is wanting, his sounds as desperate as my own.
“You have no idea,” he says, his lips skating down to my neck, “what you’re asking for.”
“I knowexactlywhat I’m asking for,” I say, tilting my chin back as he tastes my skin. Charlie flicks a switch, and the room goes dark except for the red light glowing over his face. Our lips collide again, frantic.
Charlie sets me down on the edge of the sink, stepping between my thighs. I reach up, pulling his face to me, taking his bottom lip between my teeth, hard enough that he hisses and then tugs my hips against him, letting me know how much he wants this.
“Don’t you dare hold back,” I say.
He groans. The wordtroublevibrates in his chest.
I feel his fingers working at my bun, and then my hair falls over my shoulders. I reach for the fly of his pants as he slips the straps of my dress off my shoulder, the material puddling at my waist, leaving my breasts exposed.
“Fuck, Alice.”
I don’t know if he’s swearing because I didn’t wear a bra today, or because I have my hand around him. His fingers tease my nipple, a firm, rolling grip that has me tilting my head back. Charlie’s tongue finds the opposite breast, flicking in a way that has my legs squirming. We both moan as he pinches and sucks. My heel connects with something on the shelf below, and it crashes to the ground.
He pushes my dress up my legs, presses his thumb against the already damp fabric of my underwear, and I buck again, then hurry to push his jeans fully down his hips. “Now,” I tell him. “I want you now.”
We’ve already had the talk. He’s clear; I’m clear. Birth control? Check.
I lift my hips to pull down my panties, but Charlie rips them off.
