Her body is like water, like fire. She is all the elements, all woman, all vulnerable, soft, strong femininity.
She cries out—a long, low, endless, gorgeous cry. She raises her face to me, clutching her hands around my neck, hunting, and searching. In a flurry, her lips are on my ear, and she whispers, as if I needed the corroboration, “I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming.”
Like a chant.
And, fuck, I was wrong if I thought this moment couldn’t get any sexier. It did. It has. Hearing her say that in my ear, hearing her tell me she’s there even though I already know, is the hottest thing ever. Because she simply had to voice it.
I join her, fucking her hard to my own release, inside her at last.
A minute later, after our breathing settles, I brace for the awkward to set in. But it doesn’t arrive. Not as I pull out, grab the condom, and toss it into the trash can. Not as I return to her and kiss her eyelids. Not as she heads to the bathroom to clean up. And not as I ask her if she wants to watch another episode when she walks back into the living room.
Still nude.
We watch Castle and Beckett attempt to solve another murder.
We return to who we were, munching on gummy bears and pouring more margaritas and guessing plot twists, until I tug her close and Charlotte Viagra kicks back in. Soon, we’re going for round two, this time on my couch, and it’s not long until I hear my new favorite song as she does that thing again where she moves her lips against my ear to tell me she’s coming.
After, we crash, and I wake up to Fido playing the piano on my head to let me know he’s hungry, Charlotte sound asleep snuggled in my arms, and the morning sun streaming across the terrace.
We’ve already broken our first rule.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I get the Bat-Signal in the early evening after two glorious days of nearly non-stop fucking, with occasional breaks for work and the bare minimum of sleep.
The alert comes via text as I’m running along the West Side Highway.
At the gym in my building. Dipstick is here. He’s staring at my ring.
I sniff opportunity, like a dog. Bradley is why she said yes to being my fake fiancée in the first place, to ward off his obnoxious gift attacks, and to exact her clever revenge. Thank god he lost her. But still, he’s scum, and now I get to rub his loss in his face.
I break right and sprint across town, dodging pedestrians, guys in suits, women in dresses, construction workers, and everyone else in New York on this Tuesday evening as I make my way to Murray Hill. Once I reach her building, my breath coming fast, sweat streaking down my chest, I tell the doorman I’m here to see Charlotte. Since I’m on her list of approved-at-all-hours visitors, he waves me in. I head to the elevator and downstairs to the gym.
I find her in seconds. She’s jogging on a treadmill at a light pace, and Bradley watches her from the exercise bike as he pedals.
I lock eyes with him, give him a quick tip of the hat, and march over to Charlotte. After I hit stop on her machine, I kiss the hell out of her. She’s not expecting me, but she doesn’t question it. She goes with it, melting into my kiss, and soon the kiss moves from PG to PG-13. It veers into R territory when she hops off the treadmill, wraps her arms around me, and tells me to come upstairs for a quickie before we have to go to The Lucky Spot.
That’s me. Captain Fiancé at your service.
As I leave, I take a gander at Bradley. He’s huffing and puffing, and looks mad as hell.
I jut up my shoulders.
What can I do? The woman wants me.
* * *
The next Bat-Signal comes from my mother later that evening as I’m working in the small office at the back of our bar, surrounded by boxes of cocktail napkins and cabinets where we store our top-shelf liquor.
At first it appears as an invitation via text. Hi dear! We have tickets for the Fiddler revival tomorrow night. Two extra. Can you and Charlotte attend? We can all go to Sardi’s beforehand.
To say I’m not a fan of musicals would be a gross understatement. In fact, I’m surprised my mom even asked, because I’m known in the family circle for my variety of unapologetic excuses for declining all invitations to anything involving song-and-dance numbers, ranging from I’m watching paint dry, I’m busy rearranging my ties, to I’ll be having elective dental work done instead.
But none of these excuses makes it from my brain to my fingers to the phone, because my first thought is that Charlotte adores Broadway. I pop out of the office to find her manning the taps at one end of the counter. “Weird question,” I say as I join her. “Would you want to see Fiddler on the Roof tomorrow? With me?”
She studies my face, then places her hand on my forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”
“I’m serious.”
“Maybe it hasn’t set in yet.”
“I mean it.”
“Should I take you to the ER now to get checked, or wait for the chills to start?”
I tap my watch. “The invitation expires in five seconds. Five, four, three…”
She claps. “Yes! Yes, I want to go. I love revivals. That would be amazing. I’m not even going to ask where your bag of excuses is. I’m just going to enjoy myself.”
“Good,” I say, and I’m stepping closer to drop a quick kiss on her cheek when I stop myself in the nick of time.
Panic flickers across her eyes, and she makes a small jerk of her head. Jenny’s here, and so are waiters and waitresses on the floor, taking drink orders.
Shit.
How the hell did that almost happen? I’m not averse to PDA, but not here at work with customers, our manager, and staff circulating.