Page 62 of Freedom’s Inferno

He kissed me again, drawing it out, memorizing the taste. His lips traced the corner of my mouth, the edge of my jaw, the hollow of my throat—each movement reverent.

My fingers trembled against his chest, caught between the instinct to pull him closer and the lingering fear of what closeness might cost.

His fingers clasped the hem of my blouse, pulling it above my navel, before he hesitated, eyes lifting to mine. “Is this okay?”

The question pulled at something fragile in me, like picking at a hanging thread. No one had ever bothered to ask before. I nodded, unable to speak.

He didn’t move. “I need to hear it.”

“Yes,” I whispered. The word left me aching, a pulse of anticipation in my core that drew my thighs together.

Charlie’s chest rose with a measured breath, like he’d been holding himself back, before his hands slipped beneath the fabric and eased the blouse over my head.

We found a rhythm in the silence, in the slow, tentative exchange of trust. Pieces of fabric shifted, the air between us cooling and heating again.

Charlie’s movements were unhurried, his hands never demanding, until we were separated by nothing but our skin.

My lungs stuttered, catching hard, the hitch traveling all the way down my spine; my body forgot how to function at the sight of him.

Charlie was lean, every inch of him defined, his body earned, not sculpted. Dark hair dusted his chest, disappearing down his abdomen in a line that made heat curl low inside me.

My gaze dragged lower.

God.

Nothing about him was shy or uncertain.

His hungry gaze slid over my body, devouring me.

I wasn’t prepared for the way I felt his eyes everywhere.

Instinct took over, and my hands rose, crossing over my chest to cover myself. Modesty didn’t drive my actions. Something deeper did, something wired into the part of me that had learned too well what it meant to be looked at. I couldn’t meet his eyes. Every breath, every flicker of movement too magnified. The vulnerability had nothing to do with my body and everything to do with trust. Silently, I cursed myself.

Charlie stilled, his eyes softening. He didn’t reach for me, didn’t try to coax my hands away. He sat back, giving me space, his breathing steady, his gaze soft in the low light.

“It’s okay. We can take our time.”

My throat constricted, my heart hammering loud enough to drown out the silence. Something about the way he said it made my chest ache, as if time itself would wait if I needed it to.

“Charlie,” I breathed, the name slipping out before I could stop it. The moment it left my lips, I regretted it. I’d done it again. I’d used the name he hated, the one that reminded him of everything he was trying to escape. “Chuck,” I corrected myself, shaking my head as if I could undo the slip.

He leaned in close, his lips finding mine again, gentle and grounding. “No,” he murmured against my mouth. “Call me Charlie.”

“But you said‒”

“I know what I said.” His voice came out rough, threaded with something like contrition. “I like hearing it the way you say it.”

Something in me shattered at that. For so long, that name had been a wound. I had said it at times just to get under his skin, to remind him I could, but somewhere along the way, it stopped being a deliberate jab. It became the only name that felt right in my mouth. I’d given him a piece of himself he thought he’d lost. That name was mine to say, and the meaning behind it hit so deep it left me unsteady.

I lowered my hands with a kind of trembling resolve.

His dark eyes lingered on me for a long time, painting me with his gaze.

I forced myself to resist the urge to snap my eyes shut, goosebumps prickling my skin.

He looked at me like something to be studied, a sunset or a landscape he might never see again.

The color rushed to my cheeks, and flushed across my chest. A small sound escaped me, more breath than voice—the soft exhale of a person taken by surprise. My heart kicked.