God, I hate him. I hate that he made me feel so invisible at dinner. I hate that when we start talking, getting away from all the bullshit, he makes me feel like I’m being seen for the first time in years.

I hate how good he is at what he’s doing to me.

Charles Cash is a fucking virtuoso at me. Every touch, every stroke of his hands on my skin, is setting me ablaze, and just when I think it will consume me, he’s licking another sensitive space, kissing a place that nobody has ever discovered before. He’s everywhere, and I want him to stay there.

I hate that I want him to stay there.

I hate that every nerve is crackling under a cascade of pure, sharp desire, like I’m back underneath the rush of the waterfall next to the trail. The hum of it takes over all my senses. I am stripped to the core, and then I am stripped again, a live wire that would kill anyone else to touch. Not Charlie. He feeds off the energy, meeting me head-on like we’re battling, weapons locked together.

Do I invite him in? Yes, I do. I tell him I hate him, but I want him so badly that I’m soaking wet. I don’t push him away. No. Not a chance on earth. I feel it, that moment that he loses control, and I throw any remnants of control that I have remaining to the ground along with his.

Then he’s thrusting inside me, and the moan that escapes me sounds like someone else. Low. Throaty. Almost pleading. I’ve been with other men, but I’ve never been with a man like this. It’s like he was made for me, for the version of me dripping with desire, because I have to stretch to let him in, and God, does it feel good. It feels so fucking good, my body fitting around him. 

“You can’t do this to me.” I force the words out through gritted teeth, my nails digging shamelessly into his back.

“I can, and I will,” he growls, his lips close to my ear. He nips at my earlobe and catches my trembling in his hands, the pad of his thumb circling my nipple. “I’m going to ruin you for anyone else, and you’re going to love it.”

“No—” I breathe out the word on the next thrust.

Charlie reaches up and curls his hand around my jaw, turning my head so that I’m looking directly into his eyes. They’re blue with a lightning bolt of white circling his pupils, and for once they’re totally unguarded. It’s all I can do not to gasp, seeing him like this. Juices pool between my legs. “Yes. You. Will.” He slows the pace, letting me feel every inch of him drilling in and out, every ridge, every pulse. “That’s the thing.” A wicked grin flickers across his face, and he leans down to say the words into my ear. “You already do.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and twist in his grasp. He follows my lead, but I know, I know, that he’s the one who’s completely in control. He’s the one radiating strength, exerting power in every touch, and I don’t care at all.

He’s right.

I do love it.

I find and grasp the edge of the headboard and spread my legs wider, but Charlie doesn’t need prompting. He’s already behind me, his hands firm on my hips.

There’s a moment of stillness, of waiting. He runs his thumbs over my hip bones, slowly, and I’m bent before him, the headboard a lifeboat that I’m not willing to let go of. 

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he says.

The moment breaks open under his next thrust. I lose myself in it. It’s an intense, glowing pleasure that peaks and peaks without seeming to settle. I think it’s peaking, at least, until the moment Charlie reaches around, finds my clit with his fingertips, and draws a circle that sends me spiraling over the edge. 

I come so hard I can’t keep my mouth shut. I can’t even let go of the headboard to muffle the sound with my hand, and Charlie doesn’t bother to silence me either, though in the back of my mind, I think I could be pretty fucking into that, his hand closed over my lips.

How many times does it happen?

I lose count. 

It’s endless, ceaseless, until I feel the shift. He pounds faster, harder, his movements wilder, and now I do let go of the headboard. I brace myself against the pillows and arch my back. He’s like the ocean, crashing over me, wave after wave right up to the moment he tenses with a guttural groan.

My legs are trembling so much that when he pulls away from me, I fall sideways onto the bed. Charlie, far from being a prick, puts his hands on me again, and this time he does it delicately, as if he knows how my skin is on fire, how any touch now could cross the line into pain. He tugs me gently down the bed until my head is resting on the pillow. It’s cool against my cheek.

I wait.

The thoughts float absently through the haze that is my mind. Is he going to leave? Is he already gone? I hear the sound of water running, but it seems far away. Then the bed dips again, the covers rise and fall, and then Charlie is curling up against my back.

Disappointingly, he’s put his boxers back on.

I open my mouth to make some cutting comment about it, but nothing comes to mind.

It’s enough to lie here, listening to him breathe.