Her ass looks delicious in that dress, round and perfect, the fabric swishing around her thighs as she moves.
I remember how those thighs felt wrapped around my waist.
How her breasts fit perfectly in my hands. How she tastes when I kiss the pulse point in her throat.
Stop.
She looks up, and those hazel eyes find mine immediately. They’re more green than gold in the kitchen’s fluorescent light, and I watch them widen with concern as she takes in whatever she sees on my face.
“Adrian?” My name in her voice does something to me, makes my chest tight and my control fracture. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” The lie tastes like ash. “Just tired.”
She sets down the mixing bowl and wipes her hands on a towel, moving toward me with that unconscious grace that makes me want to pull her close and never let go.
When she’s close enough that I can smell the vanilla and chocolate clinging to her clothes, she stops.
“You’re lying.” Her voice is soft, not accusing. Just stating fact. “I can always tell when you’re lying.”
My jaw clenches. She’s right. She sees through every defense I’ve built, every wall I’ve erected to keep people at a safe distance.
With Charlie, there is no safe distance.
There’s only this dangerous proximity that makes me forget I’m supposed to be a man of God.
Footsteps echo in the hallway, and we both step back instinctively, putting necessary distance between us.
Marcus appears in the doorway, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes immediately finding the tension crackling between Charlie and me.
“Everything okay?” Marcus asks, his voice low and rough. His dark eyes move between Charlie and me, reading the charged atmosphere with perfect clarity.
I force myself to nod, to unclench my jaw, to breathe like a normal person instead of someone whose past just materialized across the street like a ghost made flesh. “Fine. Just a long day.”
Charlie’s hazel eyes narrow slightly. She knows I’m lying, but she doesn’t push.
Not with Marcus watching.
Not with the weight of discovery hanging over us like a sword.
Elijah appears in the doorway behind Marcus, his golden hair slightly mussed, wearing jeans and a t-shirt instead of his usual formal attire.
He’s carrying sheet music, probably coming from the choir loft, but he stops when he sees us.
His gaze tracks the tension crackling through the small kitchen.
“Did I interrupt something?” His French accent thickens slightly, the way it does when he’s tired or emotional.
“No,” I say too quickly. “Charlie was just stress-baking.”
“Again.” Marcus moves into the kitchen, and suddenly the space feels too small for all of us. He stands close to Charlie, not quite touching but near enough that I can see her body angle toward his instinctively. “What is it this time?”
“Brownies.” Her voice is steadier than mine. “Double chocolate. They’ll be ready in about twenty minutes.”
I watch her hands as she speaks, those graceful fingers that create such beautiful things.
I remember how they felt tangled in my hair, how her nails dug into my shoulders when I made her come on my desk.
The memory makes my cock throb painfully, and I shift my weight, trying to find relief that doesn’t exist.
