“Oh, this?” She does a little spin, and the teddy flares slightly at the hem, offering a glimpse of black underwear that matches. My mouth goes dry. “Do you like it?” I think she’s trying to smile sexily but it’s coming off like she’s in pain.
“Are you okay? Did you sleep enough?”
“Yeah. Taio.” She holds her palms to the ceiling. “I’m trying…to seduce you. I read a couple articles about how to get his attention and take your relationship to the next level.” She shrugs innocently. “It was either this or BDSM.”
I blink slowly. “Our relationship? Next level?”
She shoots me a cool glare. “Please. Sit. Down. I’ve been practicing this all morning. Just let me do my thing. Please?”
Oh, fuck me.I sit.
The chair creaks slightly under my weight—these decorative pieces aren’t exactly built for function—but it holds. I’m positioned about six feet from the bed, giving me a clear sightline to what is apparently about to be a show. Charlie pulls out her phone, scrolls through something with the focus of a surgeon selecting their instrument, and a moment later music starts playing from the bedroom’s built-in speakers.
The opening notes of “Gangsta Lovin’” fill the room.
“Old-school. Okay, I’m feeling it,” I say, as she tosses the phone onto the bed and turns to face me with determination etched across every feature. “You really don’t have to do this though. We can talk.”
“We’ve been talking…a lot.” She rolls her shoulders back, like she’s preparing for an athletic competition. Cracks her neck side to side. Shakes out her hands. She looks less like a woman about to perform a striptease and more like a boxer entering the ring. “And plus, you gave me that whole speech about confidence and not caring what people think and being unforgettable…”
“Yeah, I have a feeling I’m never going to forget this.” Except I’m staring at her in deep concern. “You sure this is how you want to go aboutseducing me? Because I know dancing isn’t your favorite.”
“It’s fine. There’s this stripaerobics instructor that does tutorials on TikTok. I watched her routine to this song like fifty times. I mostly learned it. It’s going to be spectacular.”
“I don’t think spectacular is where this is heading.”
“Rude.” She points at me sternly. “No heckling from the audience. This is a supportive environment.”
“My apologies. Please continue.”
“Thank you. I will.”
When the bass line throbs through the room, that unmistakable groove that’s launched a thousand amateur stripteases, Charlie starts to move.
Move is a generous term.
What she’s actually doing is a sort of aggressive hip sway that looks less like seduction and more like she’s trying to dislodge something stuck to her lower back. Her arms come up over her head in what I think is supposed to be a sexy stretch, but the movement is jerky and uncoordinated, like a marionette being operated by someone who’s never actually seen a human body in motion.
“How am I doing?” she asks breathlessly, attempting to body roll and mostly looking like she’s experiencing mild gastrointestinal distress.
“You’re doing great,” I manage, biting the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper. “Very…athletic.”
“Athletic wasn’t the vibe I was going for.”
“Sexy. I meant sexy.Incredibly sexy.” Maybe if I keep saying it, she’ll believe me.
She shoots me a suspicious look but continues her routine, now attempting to incorporate my chair into her performance. The idea, I believe, is to drape herself seductively over the back of it while I watch in stunned appreciation.
What actually happens is she misjudges her balance, rolls off the back, and hits the ground with an audible thunk, then lets out a very unsexy “ow, shit, motherfucker.”
I leap up only to find her clambering back to her feet. “You okay?”
“Fine. Sit back down.” She rubs her hip vigorously, wincing before retreating back into position. “It’s part of it.”
“Injury is part of it?” I ask over the thumping music.
She ignores me, refocusing as the song swells into the chorus. Charlie makes her move toward me. This part is actually working—she’s got a decent walk when she commits to it, all swaying hips and deliberate steps. The lingerie helps. Thelighting helps. My pulse picks up despite the comedy of the situation.
She’s beautiful, even when she’s being ridiculous. Maybe especially when she’s being ridiculous. Her complete commitment to this disaster makes my chest tight in ways I’m not prepared to examine.
