Charlie

Ever Carmichael is salvation.

I’m not just saying that because she calls me big man when we’re fucking.

I’m already unbuttoning my uniform shirt, even though I haven’t even reached her building’s lobby yet. My cock is so stiff, I think I might black the fuck out before I get it inside her. Here’s the thing, though. Ever will understand. She’ll take one look at the tented fly of my standard issue, police academy pants and let her slinky, bad girl panties drop.

This woman. You just can’t fathom the magic she wields.

I don’t want anything serious, ‘kay?

She said those words to me the rainy afternoon we met. At which point angels filled the bar and started singing. I’ve had women tell me before they didn’t want entanglements or relationships, too. My long line of law-enforcement ancestry, however, has honed my ability to differentiate between truth and fiction. And Ever is the first woman who actually meant those words. Nothing. Serious.

I’m right across the street from her building now—a four-story tenement on the Lower East Side. She works nights running her start-up catering company and sleeps late, so at noon on my lunch break, she’ll still be soft from bed. Freshly showered. I’m going to fuck her lights out, I swear to Christ. As soon as I walk in the door.

In the month since we met, the urgency to be inside Ever has only skyrocketed. The need to get my hands on her smooth skin, my tongue inside her bare pussy. You don’t understand—I’m a fiend for this woman.

And guess what? That’s perfectly fine, because I can have Ever any time I need her. Now, hear me out before calling me an arrogant prick—although I admit to being one on occasion. Ever can have me, too, when she needs me. This arrangement works both ways. After a Maroon 5 concert two weeks ago, she showed up at my apartment around midnight, high on Adam Levine—or whatever he’s called—and we didn’t even make it inside. I hiked up her tiny, leather skirt and gave it to her right there in the hallway. We weren’t quiet about it, either, not that I heard the neighbors complaining.

My point being, this arrangement I’ve made with Ever is what most men don’t dare dream about or even deserve at age twenty-three. For my species, it’s usually a choice between empty hookups or committed relationships, complete with updating your Facebook, Twitter and Instagram bios, but only after deleting from all of the above any photographic evidence that you ever used your dick. Don’t get me wrong. I’m all about commitment. Right now, though, my entire reserve of commitment juice is being poured into becoming a cop. A lieutenant, specifically, just like my older brother, Greer. And eventually a bureau chief like my father, his father before him . . . and back about four generations.

This thing with Ever? It’s neither empty, nor committed. It’s a fucking unicorn. It has made me a believer in life on other planets, Bigfoot and even the Jets winning the Super Bowl again someday. Apart from the Levine Incident, we haven’t spent any time at my place, because Jack or Danika are usually home. Not to mention, I covet this little slice of heaven I’ve carved out, and I worry my roommates will make some crack to Ever about wedding bells—which is never happening—and blow the whole perfect situation to hell. Plus . . . they don’t need to know a damn thing about Ever. She’s mine. I’m hers. We’re ours.

Unofficially, of course.

I’m halfway up the first flight of stairs now. Two more to go. There’s no one around this time of day, so I give my king-sized erection a nice hard squeeze through the panel of my uniform pants, groaning under my breath when I let myself imagine Ever’s hand replacing mine, somehow knowing better than I do how I like being touched. I only have an hour before the next training session begins up on East Twenty-First Street. If I want to graduate at the top of my program—which I will, come hell or high water—I need to not only show up on time, I need to be early. Which doesn’t give me enough time with Ever, but frankly, I’m not sure an amount of time exists that would constitute the description enough.

I can see her door now. Just a thin piece of wood separating me from paradise. She’s got a welcome mat that says “Come back with a warrant,” which I’ve seen—and laughed about—before. But today it gives me an idea. Might as well kill two birds with one stone by practicing my cop approach and getting her panties wet at the same time. Coming to a stop outside her door, I’m like a jungle cat, balancing on the balls of my feet, swaying in slow motion, just waiting, waiting, for her to open that door so I can pounce. Just as I catch a whiff of chocolate and raspberry, I lift my fist and pound on the door.

“NYPD. Open up.”

The blender that was whirring a moment before silences, and I hear her light tread traveling along the floorboards to reach me. Ever opens the door, but I can only see a sliver of her goddess figure because the chain is still on. “Oh. Is something wrong, Officer?”

“As a matter of fact, there is.” I tug my ever-present notebook and pen out of my back pocket, pretending to consult the first page, which sucks, since it means taking my eyes off her for a second. “We’ve gotten several complaints about the smell of chocolate coming from this apartment. You know anything about that?”

Without missing a beat, Ever bites her lip and throws a guilty glance over her shoulder. “Maybe. Maybe not. What’s it going to take to make this go away?”

I let my gaze wander down to where her thigh peeks out through the sliver of light and feel my dick protest this delay I’ve created. I wish I hadn’t played this game, because I’m impatient for the door to open so I can get two handfuls of her ass. Short skirts. Does the girl own anything else? Forget I questioned that. What was I thinking starting this game of role-play when I’m short on time? Ever knows I’m jonesing, too, because she’s trying not to laugh at me.

Oh yeah, cutie? Two can play at this game.

I prop an arm against the door jamb and lean forward, close enough to hear her breath go shallow through the crack. “What’s it going to take?” I drop my eyes to her exposed stomach where a rhinestone sparkles from its place of honor in her belly button. “We can start with a thorough inspection of the premises.”

“Yeah?” She kind of breathes the word. “And if I don’t cooperate?”

Pretty sure I’m dying. Or I’m already dead. “Then I’m afraid I’ll have to use excessive force.”

Oh, she loves hearing me say that. Did I fail to mention Ever likes it rough? She does. She likes it down and dirty. Sweating, swearing, filthy-talking, come-to-Jesus sex that leaves nail marks on my back.

“I have to admit . . .” Ever closes the door long enough to open the chain lock, then pushes it wide so I finally have my eyes on her. All of her. And it’s just like that scene from Weird Science, when the ultimate woman—conjured up by two perverted males—is suddenly real, standing in front of them, fog twisting in the air around her. And yeah, I’m only one guy, but I’m easily horny enough for two. “I’m feeling a little uncooperative right now, Officer.”

A unicorn, my friends. Nay, The Holy Grail. I’ve found her. She was right here in the Lower East Side this whole time I was growing up on the Upper East Side. But it doesn’t matter. Because I’ve found her now. And nothing—especially some misguided desire for commitment plaguing the rest of humankind—could possibly fuck it up.

Ever

Charlie Burns, you dirty, dirty man.

Look at him. Sauntering into my apartment with that male stripper grin like he owns the place. He’s already untucking his shirt, giving me an intentional peek at those do-me abs. This proprietary attitude is what I love about him, even though I should probably hate it. He was born to win. Someone told him on Day One: Post Womb, “Charlie, you can be any damn thing you want. It’s your world.”

He’s done nothing but act accordingly.

It’s what makes him perfect for me.

My mother taught me the same thing, although the sentiment was slightly different. On my sixth birthday, she took me to the mall to get my ears pierced. As I sat there crying—little ballerina slipper earrings that had seemed so harmless when I picked them out—now punctured through my lobes, my mother said, “Ever Carmichael, you can have anything you want in this world. But don’t you dare believe a man when he says he can give it to you.”

At the time, I never imagined how often men would make those claims when I got older. It doesn’t hurt that I look like that girl. Oh, you know the one. She’s dancing in the background while Calvin Harris spins records at a Vegas club opening. Drink in hand, not a care in the world, just working the ol’ bump and grind. I managed to sneak through the assembly line with normal-sized tatas, but had no such luck avoiding a Playboy-bunny shade of blond. That girl.

Charlie is getting closer, but I’m backing toward the kitchen, because someone should have to make him work for something, right? He doesn’t know which part of me to look at first. Tits? No. Legs? Hmm . . . no. Ahhh. It’s an ass day. Should have known, considering it’s a day that ends in Y. The way he spins me around is aggressive, leaving no more room for playfulness. He pushes me forward over the kitchen table, which is unstable to begin with, and the legs kick up a groaning protest. Or maybe that’s Charlie. Yeah, it is. His calloused palms, roughened from constant training with firearms, are raking up my bottom, pushing apart the flesh, squeezing it back together.

“There’s only one way these cheeks can get any sweeter.” Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him dip a finger into my bowl of melted semisweet chocolate. When I feel him drawing a C on both sides of my bottom, I shake my head. Proprietary motherfucker. I love it. Especially when he scoops his hands beneath my knees, lifts with zero damn effort and props them on the table’s edge, putting me in a very provocative position and Charlie mouth-level with his handiwork.

My pulse grows erratic under his inspection. What thong am I wearing? Blue? No, the red satin one. Nice. An appropriate choice to accompany the chocolate. It’s like freaking Valentine’s Day on my ass right now—and this is as close as we’ll ever come to celebrating such a couple-esque holiday together.

Especially because our month is up. Today.

It has been exactly thirty days since we tumbled out of the bar together into the rain, beginning an affair that has gone by in the blink of an eye. I’ve managed to keep him at a distance, every way but sexually, but it gets harder every day. Thank God he is forever on the clock and racing back to the academy. His schedule means no cuddling, no pillow talk. And I don’t yearn for those things at all.

I don’t.

Ahhh. Wow.

I’m distracted from troubling doubts when Charlie peels down my thong. He gives my bottom a little slap that tells me without words what he wants. But I love when he commands me—perks of seeing a future cop—so I arch my back and give him a questioning look over my shoulder.

“Tilt your fucking hips and spread your thighs, Ever.” He snaps my thong against the back of my thigh. “I skipped my lunch break for this, so give me something to eat.”

That’s what I’m talking about. I’m rewarded for following his directions when he spreads a line of chocolate through my dampening flesh and licks it up with his tongue, not slowly at all. Greedy. So greedy. I fall forward onto my elbows to give him more access, and he sinks his tongue into me with a growl. Oh Godddd. My mouth is open, sucking in oxygen, heartbeat pounding like the bass of a Nicki Minaj song in my ears. “Charlie.”

Charlie’s blunt fingertips massage the inside of one thigh, right below the juncture where his tongue slips up and back, like an erotic seesaw. He nudges my clit a few times until I slap the table . . . and he finally sucks the bud between his lips. Twice, three times. That’s it for me, folks. I’m done. I’m so done. I’ve had the entire day to anticipate this, allowing myself to get worked up, and the fantasy doesn’t even compete with reality. The way he groans as if he’s the one shuddering and sobbing through an orgasm with his bottom in the air elevates it to the next level. My arm flails out on its own, knocking the bowl of chocolate onto the floor and I don’t care, I don’t care, it’s so good. I think I might be screaming that sentiment into the table’s surface, because my throat feels scraped raw.

The flesh between my legs is still clenching when Charlie jerks me off the table, back against his chest. His mouth moves in my hair while he applies the condom, whispering disjointed, erotic promises. Then a chair scrapes across the floor and he sits, taking me with him. “You’re going to lap dance me, cutie.” His fist moves beneath my backside, positioning his erection and—

“Charlie.” He’s inside me. Thick and solid. “Oh my God. Big man.”

Confident hands grip my knees and drag them wide, levering me down even farther. “Move, Ever. I’m sick. I’m sick from needing this. Needing you,” Charlie rasps against the side of my neck, baring his teeth and pressing close. “Move up and down on it. All over it. Make me better.”

Yes yes yes. I love this. I love being the only thing who can heal him. The promise of being deliverance to such a driven, self-assured guy is what keeps me answering my phone when he calls. That’s all it can be. Mutual satisfaction and nothing more. I have no choice but to enjoy, to give and take, because the feel of him is nothing short of incredible.

Big hands glide up my legs and grip my hips as I start to move. Lean forward, hold the table’s edge and start to dance. My head falls forward and I can see him entering me, his demanding erection extending from ruddy, rugged, nonmanscaped male—completely unrepentant in his masculinity—and the sight turns me on like a 10,000-watt lightbulb. I lift my head and glance over my shoulder, finding Charlie’s mouth open on a silent moan, eyes rolled back in his head. As though he hasn’t had sex in five years. As if we haven’t been attacking each other like animals for four solid weeks.

“Harder,” Charlie grits past stiff, sweat-dappled lips. “Oh fuck. Please, Ever, harder. Stop pretending you want it any other way.”

My eyelids flutter under the heat of being called out. Seen through. It should scare me—maybe it does a little—but I shove the unwanted emotion to the sidelines and ride Charlie’s lap. Knowing he wanted this particular view for a reason—it’s an ass day—I loosen my hips and let just my backside bounce up and down, my flesh glancing off his muscular thighs with a smack.

“Dammit,” Charlie grates, lifting me with a violent upthrust. “You have me so fucking close. Get the hell back here.”

He hooks his right hand around my throat, pulling me back so I’m flush with his chest, still moving, still climbing up and dropping down on his erection, my feet slipping on the floor to maintain purchase. It’s a race, a frantic straining of bodies. The same point we reach every time. His shallow breathing has turned into all-out panting, grunting, filth. That hand around my throat is cutting off just enough oxygen to make it interesting, a little dangerous. His other hand finds my clit and steals what was left of the air. I can’t breathe, I can’t think. He’s owning me.

“You won’t take your sweet time opening the door tomorrow.” The hand on my throat gives a quick squeeze, his hips undulating beneath mine. “Will you, cutie?”

My climax is even fiercer this time around. I turn my head, whimpering and moaning against Charlie’s stubbled jaw, my legs stiffening, pressing me back against his lap, taking him so deep—so deep—that he follows me onto the other side. My name is growled over and over into my hair, his fingers still stroking between my legs as heat blooms where our bodies join, signaling his release. For a brief period of time, there is nothing else. A gilded space with no sound or responsibility. An experience singular to Charlie. To us.

My eyes fly open at the mental uttering of the word. Us. Us?

I’m off Charlie’s lap like a shot.

I turn in a circle, as if I’ve forgotten I’m inside my own apartment. He’s watching me from his sprawl on the chair with a half-grin, probably too deep in postorgasmic dude-glow to notice anything amiss. Okay. Okay, good. Because nothing is amiss. It was a stupid, one-off thought from which I’ve already completely recovered.

Charlie stands and swaggers toward me, sliding a palm over the curve of my backside before stooping down to tug up my thong, move my skirt back into place. “Damn, Ever,” he whispers against my mouth, just before we both sink into a wet, languid kiss. “Damn,” he says again, before pulling away.

I give him a teasing peck on the cheek and shove him away. “I guess vocabulary isn’t part of your academy training.”

He reaches over and pinches my waist. “Smart ass.”

“Much better.”

Charlie fixes his clothing, watching me all the while. Closely. Like he’s already a cop and I’m a suspect. Not wanting him to notice anything off about my behavior, I grab some paper towels and kneel to clean up the spilled chocolate. I’m not surprised when he hunkers down to help me. For all his arrogance and commitment-phobic ways, he was raised right. But what he asks next? That’s new. “Anything you need done around the place? Creaky floorboards? Leaky pipes?”

“Leaky pipes. Really.” I lift an eyebrow, trying to make light of the unexpected offer. “Too easy.”

His laugh is as rich as the chocolate we’re cleaning up. “Come on, Ever. I know you don’t like gifts, but let me do something for you.”

A fluttering occurs in the general direction of my chest. Oh. Ohhh no. This is bad. I’m not going to pretend I haven’t gotten a little attached to Charlie. He makes me feel safe. We have fun, with the little time we allot ourselves. His lop-sided smiles are the highlight of my day. But now he’s starting to feel guilty about leaving after sex. Have I projected my sort of attached-ness and he’s just responding out of decency? Legend has it, that’s how the decline starts. Decency. Then decency turns to responsibility. Also known as The Mistress Kiss of Death.

This is why the one-month rule exists. Leave them before they leave you.

There’s nothing but earnestness in Charlie’s blue eyes trying to see right through me. But I know the stories. When a mistress becomes an obligation, instead of an outlet, that’s when the fun stops. That’s when men stop calling you, stop wanting you, and find greener pastures. Being discarded is a mistress’s ultimate fear, and I may not be a mistress in the traditional sense, but I’m no different.

My concerns are only valid with guys like Charlie. And I chose Charlie for a reason. He won’t hold me back on my path to catering company glory. He won’t hog tie me and drag me to the suburbs or slowly become a fixture on my couch. I’m aware that men exist in Manhattan whose faces don’t transform into Edvard Munch’s The Scream at the prospect of commitment. So the fact that Charlie—who has shared my distaste for couplehood on numerous occasions—is causing a flutter? That’s alarming, to say the least.

One more time with Charlie. Then I’ll end it.

“I have a super who fixes things,” I murmur around a smile, gaining my feet. “Go ahead and catch the train. I’ll see you next time.”

“Okay.” He’s still watching me as he backs toward the door. “Ever?”

“Yeah?”

He looks puzzled for a split second, but he rakes a hand over his dark, police academy crew cut and continues toward the door. “Nothing. Just . . . see you next time.”

When the door clicks shut behind him, it takes me a while to get moving again. Minutes. And when I finally kneel to finish cleaning up the chocolate, footsteps move outside the door toward the stairs, as if it takes Charlie a while to get moving, too.