Chapter Twenty
CHARLEE
I’m so turned on, so lit up inside that I might actually combust. My nipples are hard, my pussy absolutely aches with need, and my stomach is bouncing, playing with my emotions as I try to navigate the one and only Rath Westin.
After night one of my sex dream with him as the main character—don’t know where David Hasselhoff came from—I haven’t been able to control myself. There’s a line I didn’t want to cross, but after seeing him with his shirt off and spending the night with him, I couldn’t stop myself if I wanted to.
So, I started dressing extra slutty and going to bed naked in the hopes that he would finally crack and make a move.
He hasn’t. And it’s not like I don’t know he wants me. Trust me, I do. I’ve seen that man’s bulge more this week than I’ve seen any man’s bulge. I’ve seen it in his trousers, in his boxer briefs, in his towels. It’s there, all the time, looking ready to be taken care of and I haven’t had one opportunity. And holy shit, the man is so goddamn sexy, I’m a quivering mess. At work, I’ve managed to be an efficient, unaffected assistant, but that’s been a lie. Even when I’ve checked in with Grandma, worked through Rath’s daily lists, or gone through the preparation with the art team for the company planner, thoughts of him haven’t been doused. I get why he’s working late. I get why he’s pushed me each night to visit Grandma—and I’m thankful.
But, he’s lethal. Physically lethal. I’m willing to cross the line, even though it might be my heart that’s shattered down the track.
Frankly, I think I deserve to touch him, kiss him, fuck him, because I’m going to be his wife. I should get more out of this than just a happy grandma. What about a happy Charlee? At least that’s the reasoning I’ve given myself for my one-eighty on the decision to stay away.
I thought tonight was going to be the night. I made sure to get naked early, lotion, and then offered the whole massage thing, thinking maybe he would lay me down on the bed and want to massage other things.
That fantasy quickly vanished when he practically leapt to the other side of the bed after I said I was good. And then when I was deliberately missing his nipple by a few centimeters, I thought he’d growl and pin me against the mattress and start making out with me.
No such luck.
I’m so close to pleasuring myself right here, right now, that I give it some serious thought. What would he do? Lie there and watch? Ask me to stop? Lend a hand?
There’s only one way to find out.
But can I really do it?
I nibble on my bottom lip as I consider it.
The relief would be amazing.
God, but masturbate in front of Rath while we share the same bed? I can’t.
My thoughts are broken when he shifts on the bed and for the first time this week, I can feel him turn his body so he’s facing me rather than staring at the ceiling or facing the opposite direction.
My breath stills in my chest. Is he . . . is he going to touch me? Is he finally going to make a move? I count to twenty, the seconds ticking away to the beat of my heart, and when he doesn’t move or make a sound, my hope falters.
What’s he waiting for? What’s he scared of?
Getting tired of this game, I decide to give him a small push. With my backside facing him, I scoot backward so I’m closer to him in this large bed.
“Cold,” I mumble, and then wait on bated breath to see if he spoons me, wraps his arm around my waist, and pulls me into his chest.
But I come up short again.
Absolutely nothing on his end.
No words. No touching. I don’t even hear his breath. Is he dead over there?
God, he’s infuriating.
Just touch me. For the love of God, just touch me.
He shifts.
I still.
My cheeks heat up, my toes tingle, and the juncture between my legs throbs so unbelievably that I might start crying from how much I need his touch.
I’m going to count to twenty again, and if he doesn’t touch me in the next twenty seconds, I’m going to touch myself. No shame, no holding back anymore. I’m going to ease this deep ache.
One, two, three . . .
Come on, Rath, please touch me.
Five, six, seven . . .
I might hyperventilate from need, from the raging pulse in my body.
Ten, eleven, twelve . . .
Tears form in my eyes.
Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen . . .
I lower my hand just as the mattress shifts again.
I hold my breath, my heart pounding in my throat, my anticipation so heady that I can feel it deep in my bones.
And then . . . the lightest, featherlike touch runs along my side.
If I wasn’t so acutely aware of his every move, I may not have felt it, but it was there. Wasn’t it? Was I imagining that?
I start to doubt myself as I feel it again. This time it’s two fingers along the slope of my side.
Now three fingers.
Four . . .
His palm drags along my skin and my body screams in joy. He runs his hand up my side and down to my hip, then back up again.
Wanting to encourage him, I groan and shift backward again, landing my bare ass right against his hard erection.
“Fuck,” he mutters on an exasperated breath. “I’m . . . hell, I’m sorry, Charlee. I shouldn’t be touching you,” he whispers, his mouth close to my ear. “But I couldn’t hold back any longer. I need to know what your skin feels like.”
“Then feel it,” I say, turning on my back so his hand lands on my stomach.
My eyes have adjusted enough to the dark to see the burning in his eyes. His large hand spans across my stomach, his touch causing me to hollow out in anticipation.
“Charlee,” he breathes.
Not saying anything, I take his hand in mine and ever so slowly lower it to my waistline and then back up.
“Feel me, Rath. Explore me.”
“Fuck, I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.”
“But you want to.”
“So fucking bad. I want you,” he growls, his mouth pressed against my ear as his hand slips to my side and he grips it. “I’ve never wanted to fuck anyone as badly as I want to fuck you. I’ve never thought about anyone as much as I think about you. And I’ve never wanted to claim someone’s mouth more than I want to claim yours.”
“Then do it,” I say in desperation, as I try to move his hand again, but it’s motionless like a viselike grip on my hip.
“Can’t,” he says, making every nervous flutter inside me die instantaneously. “Swore I wouldn’t.”
Unsure of what to do, but amped up nonetheless, I hold back the tears of frustration and resort to the last tactic in my toolbox.
If he’s not going to give me relief, then I’ll give myself relief.
I push away from him as he says, “Charlee,” in a whisper, but I don’t pay attention. I spread my legs and reach between them, not surprised at my arousal, and how turned on I am. The minute my fingers connect with my pussy, I start rubbing my clit.
It doesn’t matter that he’s right next to me, hearing what I’m doing, feeling the movements of the covers. What matters is that I’m seeking the relief I deserve. Need.