Best Fake Fiancé: A Single Dad Romance (Loveless Brothers Romance Book 2)
Best Fake Fiancé: Chapter 18

THANK GOD, the next stop doesn’t have delicate, flowered teacups and saucers set up at their tasting table, just three plates with forks. Everything about this already makes me feel like a bull in a china shop: the beautifully, carefully crafted cakes; the signs on the wall with sweet sayings like Live, Laugh, Love; the other patrons who are inevitably women and inevitably have their hair and nails done and keep saying things like lemon chiffon Victoria sponge.

I’m not particularly delicate. I’m not great at being careful, unless it’s around power tools. I’ve never in my life had a manicure that lasted longer than three hours without chipping, not that I’ve painted my nails in at least five years.

Also, I’m wearing a dress, so I’m constantly afraid of accidentally flashing people, and Daniel won’t quit staring at my back and then saying that he’s not. I’m starting to think I’ve got a KICK ME sign back there.

But despite all my discomforts with traditional markers of femininity, this is the best day I’ve had in weeks. Cake is delicious. Rusty’s being her usual precocious, hilarious self.

And I think I might jump out of my own skin if Daniel touches me one more time. I don’t know how I’m supposed to wait until Monday afternoon when Rusty has her ballet lesson for him to come over. That’s over forty-eight hours away.

Maybe one of his brothers will take Rusty for a while tomorrow. I love the kid, but I’m trying to jump her dad’s bones over here and she’s not helping.

“All right,” says the woman at The Cake Walk as she brings out a platter of cake pieces. “Here’s our sampling of wedding cake options. All the way on the left is our basic white cake, which we’ve spruced up with a little bit of coconut to make it extra moist, and then there’s our raspberry chiffon, a really moist cake that we usually serve with a simple buttercream, and third is the angel’s food cake, which is dense but moist and really holds up well as the bottom tier of a cake.”

I shoot Daniel an alarmed glance.

How many times is she going to say the word ‘moist’?

“Next is our bakery specialty, the pistachio mint cake, which is probably our moistest and most popular…”

Oh, God.

She says the word moist at least five more times. She describes the red velvet cake as moist twice in the same sentence. I can no longer concentrate on cake. I can only wait for her to say the word moist again.

Midway through, she gasps. The three of us freeze, me with a bite of cake halfway to my mouth.

“That’s a beautiful ring,” she says. “Is that a ruby?”

I lower my fork.

“It’s a garnet,” I explain. “Family heirloom.”

Daniel briefly tells the story, and the woman is now sitting with her chin on one hand, leaning over the table.

“That’s so romantic,” she sighs. “How did you propose? I’m sure it was amazing.”

Daniel and I look at each other.

Is everyone going to ask us that? I wonder.

Before I can say anything, Daniel alights one hand on my shoulder, his rough hand on my bare skin. I take a deep breath and ignore the sizzle it sends along every nerve in my body.

“Charlotte loves to tell the story, so I’ll let her do it,” he says. There’s a gleam in his eye that I don’t like. “And don’t forget the part with the skywriting, sweetheart.”

I reach up and put my hand over his and smile at him sweetly, because I know I probably deserve this.

“How could I forget?” I ask.

THERE MUST BE some wedding cake marketing seminar where they teach people how to make small talk during cake tastings, because the same thing happens at every single bakery. It’s bizarre. It’s also kind of hilarious.

First, there’s some variation on, “What a beautiful ring!”

Then, the big one: “How did he propose?”

If we were smart, we’d have come up with a story ahead of time. We didn’t.

First was the ceramic angels. I have no clue where he got that idea from.

Next, at the Cake Walk, he threw it to me and I told the nice lady all about how Daniel took me for a picnic on a lake, and when we went out on a rowboat, a skywriter wrote MARRY ME CHRALOTTE overhead, and I said yes despite the misspelling.

“I know how to spell your name,” he says as we walk out, his hand steadily on my lower back, and I. Am. Losing. My. Mind.

“Of course you do,” I say. “The skywriter made the typo.”

“That was also a lie,” Rusty points out as she climbs into her booster seat. “You’re lying to people.”

“Think of it as telling stories,” Daniel says, and Rusty considers this all the way to the next bakery.

AT FRANCESCA’S CAKES, Daniel puts a hand on my knee and tells the lovely older woman who admired my ring that I really, really love sloths, so he took me to the zoo, then disappeared and came back wearing a giant sloth costume and proposed.

At the Magnolia Bakery, we’re standing at a counter, and he slides his arm around my waist while I detail the elaborate treasure hunt that he sent me on, which ultimately culminated in replaceing him on one knee in his back yard.

None of us is very hungry for lunch, but we get sandwiches and replace a park by a river. Daniel teaches Rusty to skip stones, or at least, he tries. I just watch them, shoes off, toes in the grass, and try not to notice that Daniel’s extra-hot right now.

At Sugar Momma, Daniel tells the woman that he organized a flash mob for his proposal, but then the joke’s on him because he has to explain what a flash mob is. The whole time he’s got one hand on my back, one thumb stroking the triangle of bare skin right below my shoulder blades.

At Cherry on Top, I tell them that we’re both total adrenaline junkies, and he proposed while bungee jumping off a bridge in West Virginia. When I’m done with the story, including a description of how romantic the bouncing was, I lean over and give him a quick kiss, right on the lips.

It’s a mistake. I want more. I want to climb onto his lap and wrap my legs around him, but we’re in a bakery with plenty of onlookers and a seven-year-old, so I quietly pull away and pretend I’m not clenching my toes.

By the time we get to the Frosted Fig, our last cake stop, we’re all tired. If there’s such a thing as too much cake, we’re approaching it. Even Rusty’s enthusiasm is waning slightly, though she’s still through the door before either of us.

At the Frosted Fig, there’s a counter with stools. We sit. We each take bits of cake from the same tray, and when the inevitable question comes, Daniel quietly laces our fingers together.

“We took a hike to her favorite waterfall,” he says. “When we got there, I asked her to marry me. Then we went skinny dipping.”

I take a bite of cake, waiting for the punchline, but Daniel’s just watching me as I chew and swallow red velvet.

“That’s so sweet,” the woman says. “I always like hearing about the simple proposals. They’re the most heartfelt.”

I nod, Daniel’s hand still in mine. He’s still looking at me, his face oddly serious, thoughtful.

“Yeah,” I say, quietly. “It was really nice.”

DINNER IS the rest of the sandwiches we got for lunch, eaten on the back porch of Daniel’s mom’s house as the sun sets. It’s early May so it stays light pretty late, and long after we’re done eating, we sit there, carefully reviewing the day’s cakes.

Well, Rusty is doing most of the reviewing. As much as I like cake, they all kind of blended together after a while.

“I liked Sugar Momma,” Rusty is saying. I wonder, briefly, if she has any idea what that means, but I don’t think so. “Their chocolate was good. And they had the best chocolate frosting, too. There should be more chocolate wedding cake.”

“Well, people always want it to be white,” I say, lazily, my feet up on the low glass table, my shoes off, a slight breeze pushing against my hair.

“Why?” Rusty asks.

“White’s the wedding color,” I explain. “Wedding dresses are white, the cakes are usually white. Lots of wedding stuff is white.”

Even as I’m saying it, I’m perfectly aware that this explanation isn’t going to cut it with Rusty.

“But why is white the wedding color?” she asks. “How come everyone wears a white dress?”

I open my mouth, then close it, suddenly aware that I don’t want to be the one who explains the concept of virginity to Rusty, nor do I want to explain the fact that almost everyone wears white, and yet, almost no one is actually a virgin when they get married.

So instead, I look over at Daniel.

“It’s tradition,” he says smoothly. “Like eating ham on Easter.”

“But why is it tradition?”

“Why don’t you research it?” he suggests. “I bet there’s an interesting answer to that question.”

Rusty just looks thoughtful.

The subject changes. Daniel reaches over, takes my hand in his like he’s been doing it for years and it almost feels like he has.

Finally, he glances at the time, then looks up at Rusty.

“All right, kiddo,” he says. “It’s shower time.”

Rusty makes a face.

“You need me to come start it for you?” he asks, not moving.

“Dad. No,” she says, as though he’s asked if she’d like to lick a beehive. “I can do it.”

“All right,” he says, a little wary. “I’ll be up in fifteen minutes to check your progress.”

“Don’t come in the bathroom without knocking,” she orders, standing from her chair.

“Do I ever?”

“Just don’t, okay?”

Daniel holds up one hand.

“I won’t,” he promises, and Rusty heads back into the house.

“When did she become a teenager?” I ask, and Daniel just sighs.

“She gets mad when I insist on double-checking her shower progress,” he says. “But if I don’t, she’ll just stand under the hot water until the well runs dry, pretending to be a mermaid werewolf or whatever it is this week.”

“You mean a were-maid?”

“That just sounds like she’ll clean the house during a full moon.”

“I’d take it,” I say, and Daniel laughs. He pulls out his phone, sets the timer for ten minutes, and tosses it onto the table in front of us.

“You told her fifteen,” I point out as he stands, our hands still linked.

“She needs a five-minute warning,” he says, and pulls me up, catching me by the waist. “I’ll go knock on the door.”

The sun went down half an hour ago and it’s nearly dark, but not quite, the forest and the house all draped in the indigo of nearly-night. My arms are around Daniel, our bodies pressed together. His fingers replace my chin, the rough pads skipping along my jawline.

“I shouldn’t kiss you,” he murmurs.

The words tug at me like a string, a jolt I feel in my chest.

“Why?” I whisper.

If he’s about to tell me we should just be friends, I might punch him.

“Because in ten minutes I have to go hassle Rusty for taking too long in the shower,” he says. “I’m going to have to stop kissing you and go be a responsible father, and I’ve been a responsible father all goddamn day.”

“Language,” I tease. His thumb replaces my cheekbone, and I can’t help but lean into his hand, his touch electric.

“Exactly,” he goes on, his voice low, deep, quiet. “When I first saw you this morning, I should have said that you look goddamn amazing, but Rusty was there so I said nice instead of fucking incredible.”

His thumb replaces my lower lip, traces it, and my eyes stutter closed.

“Now we’ve got nine minutes,” I whisper.

He kisses me. It’s gentle, slow, full of barely held restraint, like a horse straining at a harness.

We press our lips together, stop. Separate, millimeters between us. Kiss again, lips at a new angle by a few degrees, then stop. Separate, stop, each new kiss an adventure, an exploration. I want to map his mouth, chart his lips, discover him inch by inch and I’m starting here, now, with this single chaste kiss.

The kiss is glacial, an aeon, because Daniel’s timer is ticking and soon we have to end this and it’s better to not get too far. It’s better to not get too breathless, better to not push my hands under his shirt, better to not straddle him in this chair.

So we’re patient. The minutes tick down. I spent years waiting for this, not knowing that I was waiting; I can last a few more minutes.

Finally, the timer goes off. Daniel’s hand knots in his hair, his forehead held against mine. We’re both breathing hard and trying not to. I relax my hand when I realize I’ve got his shirt tight in my fist.

“I gotta go wrangle the merwolf,” he murmurs. “Charlie, you’re staying, aren’t you?”

“Here?”

“Until she’s asleep,” Daniel says. His alarm is still going off, quiet beeping on the table below us.

“She can’t put herself to bed?”

“I don’t even fully trust her to rinse shampoo out of her hair,” he says. “Just say you’ll stay.”

“Of course,” I tell him, and he gives me one last, light kiss, then releases me. He grabs his phone off the table, shuts off the alarm, and vanishes back into the house.

I take a deep, deep breath of the twilight air. It even feels purple in my lungs, and I rub my hands together, calluses skipping along each other, trying to quell the rising wave in my body, the feeling that I’m buzzing like a high-tension powerline.

I grab the plates we used for our sandwiches, the glasses we drank lemonade from. I take them inside, decide not to bother with the dishwasher, and wash them by hand. I can hear Daniel and Rusty upstairs, the old wooden floor creaking above my head, occasional snippets of conversation — pajamas, did you get your molars, I need the tortoise pillow.

I can’t hold still. When Daniel’s voice leaks down to me it’s low, steady, calm, just like always. I bite my lip and remind myself to breathe.

I replace myself putting away clean dishes. I wipe down every surface: the counters, the table, the sideboard, even though they’re already pretty clean. I replace myself on the back porch with a broom in my hand, sweeping at the light dusting of bright green pollen that’s collected in the corners, because I feel like a shark: if I stop moving I might die.

The porch is practically sparkling when I hear the scrape of the screen door opening.

“What the hell are you doing?” asks Daniel’s slow, deep voice.

I turn, the broom still in one hand.

“There was pollen?” I say.

“Yeah, it’s outdoors,” he says, and then he’s crossing the porch to me, taking the broom from my hand, tossing it down with a clatter. “Who are you, Cinderella?”

He grabs me by the waist, sliding his hands up my ribcage, and already I’m hanging onto his shoulders, the thick muscles there moving and flexing under my hands.

“You just think that because I’m so meek and tidy,” I say, and he laughs.

“My two favorite things about you,” he teases, his nose brushing mine, his fingers replaceing the bare skin on my back. “You never speak your mind and you’re never a mess.”

I kiss him, and this time it’s like floodgates open. He leans into me, pushes me against the porch railing, the wood solid against my back. I wrap an arm around his shoulders and an arm around his waist and already the kiss is deeper, hungrier, my tongue against his.

Daniel sinks a hand into my hair, tilts his head, presses himself against me. I realize with a warm jolt that he’s already hard, his length pressing against my hips, and the knowledge is a shockwave. I pull him even closer, hook two fingers through a belt loop and tug.

He crashes against me, a low sound coming from somewhere deep in his chest. He skims one hand along my thigh, grabs my skirt in his hand, hikes it until his fingers can steal underneath it and I sigh.

I reach a thumb underneath his shirt, right above the waist of his pants, brushing the fuzz there and the kiss slows, suddenly less furious as Daniel’s hand moves to my inner thigh and I shift my stance, hoisting one leg, a noise escaping my throat.

“What was that?” he teases, his lips still brushing mine. Now my hand is fully under his shirt, and I can feel the vibration of his voice there.

“Shut up,” I whisper, taking another kiss.

His thumb brushes the edge of my panties, and I bite his lip, but he doesn’t go further. I’ve got one foot propped against the porch railing, my knee against his hip, balancing on one leg. Daniel presses into me again, harder, his thumb still teasing me, his length like iron.

Then he pauses. His thumb sneaks under the elastic of my panties, the pad rough against the soft skin of my hip.

“This was a bad idea,” he says.

I go rigid instantly, his thumb still stroking my hip underneath my underwear.

“What?”

“I thought this would work better,” he says, and lets me go.

For a second, I’m completely dumbfounded, and then Daniel catches my hand, backs up, pulls me along.

“Daniel, what the fuck are you—”

He backs up against the wicker couch, sits, pulls me so I’m straddling him, my skirt covering his lap.

“You’re an asshole,” I laugh, his hands already up my skirt.

He grabs my hips and pulls me down, against him, and I have to bite my lip so I don’t make a noise.

“Why, you don’t think this is better?” he says.

I kiss him again. I can’t stop. I roll my hips against his erection, separated by what feels like a hundred layers of fabric, the friction delicious. He pushes back, sits upright, anchors me tightly to him. For one wild second I think we could just do it right here. I’m wearing a skirt. There’s no one around, the farmhouse surrounded by forest.

Except Rusty’s upstairs, asleep, and sometimes kids wake up.

Daniel breaks the kiss. He leans back, heavy-lidded eyes looking up at me, one hand on my ribcage as his thumb traces along the bottom of curve of one breast. I’m breathing hard, and with every swell of my chest his hand moves more until he’s cupping me with one hand, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“You are wearing a bra,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

“Of course I’m wearing a bra,” I say, my own hands on his chest.

“I couldn’t tell,” he said. “It drove me crazy all day long.”

“You think I’d go cake tasting with no bra on?” I tease, bending down. He palms my breast harder, grins, shrugs.

“I entertained the thought,” he says. “And I kind of enjoyed imagining that your nipples were just one layer of fabric away.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble,” I murmur, teasing.

His other hand is on my thigh. It slides up and I lean my forehead against his, my hips rolling automatically, my own body out of my control.

He skims a thumb along my panties, right over my clit, my swollen lips, nothing but a single layer of thin cotton separating us, and I gasp. There’s a hitch in Daniel’s breathing, and then he does it again, this touch slower, more deliberate.

“That much, Charlie?” he murmurs. I’m pretty sure my panties are soaked straight through, and all I can do is nod and then he’s kissing me again, pulling me in, his thumb tripping over my clit, moving to one side, swiping under the fabric and suddenly there’s nothing at all between us.

I grab his hair. I make a noise into his mouth, a single note of a moan, and he answers me with another low rumble. I’m a ticking time bomb. I’m a powder keg. Primed, ready, dangerous, about to alter myself and everything around me when I explode.

This is the cliff’s edge: this touch, this moment, this heady rush of skin to skin.

“Daniel,” I finally whisper. “We can’t undo this.”

His hand stops moving.

“Do you want to?” he asks.

I’m still over him, the porch light off, everything draped in the blue-black of night. It feels like we’re wearing a cloak, like we’re alone in this world of our making.

“No,” I say. “But I just—”

I take a deep breath. I have no idea how to say what I’m about to say. I just know I need to say it.

“—this will change things,” I say in a rush.

“I know,” he says, his voice low, soft, steady.

“Before, the one time we kissed, I could forget that,” I say, the words still spilling out of me. “But this is more—”

“I didn’t forget it,” he says.

“I didn’t forget it forget it,” I say. “I moved on. Life moved on and I pretended it didn’t happen and after a while everything was fine, it was better than fine, but I can’t forget again.”

“I don’t want to forget anything,” he says. “I’ve got no intention of forgetting this, or of undoing it, or of letting this slip through my fingers again.”

“You had a good excuse,” I say, mostly teasing.

“I want to change us,” he murmurs. “I know there’s no taking it back and I want this anyway, Charlie.”

We kiss again. I think I’m trembling, a seismic shift somewhere deep inside my core.

“I want this too,” I whisper, and I kiss him, a kiss that turns into a full-body plea, Daniel’s hands on me. He moves me to one side, tangled in my legs, until I’m on my back on the wicker couch and he’s on top of me, skirt hiked around my hips as I tug it down on one side because despite everything I know that Rusty’s in the house, and I know she cannot learn about the birds and the bees from witnessing us.

Finally, Daniel rises, holding himself up against the arm rest, his powerful arm stretched over my head.

“Come on,” he says, and stands up, holds out one hand.

I take it, rise, my skirt falling back to my knees.

“Where are we going?” I ask, still breathless.

“My bedroom,” he says, hand on my back, pushing me toward the house.

I stop, stiffen, look at him.

“The door locks,” he says, opening the sliding screen door.

“She won’t hear us?”

“Not if you’re quiet,” he says, one eyebrow raised.

Now we’re in the kitchen, and he kisses me, up against the counter.

“Is that legal?” I ask, but Daniel just laughs, pushes a hand up my skirt.

“It’s safer than the kitchen, that’s for sure,” he says. “If we fuck in my bedroom she at least has to knock. And don’t you dare say ‘language’ right now, Charlie. We’re clearly having a very adult moment.”

I laugh as I kiss him, even as he snaps the elastic of my panties against my hip and makes me gasp.

“I would never,” I protest between kisses.

“You would and you have,” he teases, and now both hands are under my skirt, the hem going higher and higher. I’ve got one hand under his shirt again and I slide it down until I replace the hard ridge of his cock, and I squeeze.

Daniel groans, both hands closing around the flesh of my upper thighs, pushing me so hard against the counter that I’m sure it’ll leave a bruise. Not that I care.

“I wouldn’t when you’ve got both your hands up my skirt in your mom’s kitchen,” I manage to say against his ragged breathing.

He just presses against me harder, leaning me back over the counter until my head hits the cabinets and he presses his lips to my neck, his beard tickling me. Another noise escapes me, and I clench my teeth together, trying to control myself.

Be quiet be quiet be quiet.

Then he pulls back, lets my skirt fall. He gives me one more firm kiss and pulls me away from the counter, spins me, smacks my ass.

“Go,” he orders.

We’re up the stairs in ten seconds. In fifteen he’s closing his bedroom door quietly, clicking the lock into place, twisting it once.

“See?” he murmurs. “Locked, and I’m pretty sure she hasn’t even opened the lock-picking kit I got her last Christmas.”

He’s next to me in three strides and he hasn’t even kissed me when I’m taking his shirt off, desperate to feel his skin on mine.

“Tell me that was a joke,” I ask between kisses, my mouth still pressed against his, and I can feel his smile.

“Fuck yes, it was a joke,” he growls, his hands roaming my back, pulling me closer. His skin is warm against mine, intoxicating, and already I’m pulling at the button on his pants, trying to get them off without looking down.

I yank it. The button finally pops off and I get the zipper down and Daniel groans quietly as his boxer-clad cock springs into my hand, long and thick. His head drops to my shoulder as I stroke him once, twice, hard, root to tip. He’s big, but I’ve seen him in gym shorts before so it’s not a surprise.

I stroke him again and he inhales sharply, kisses me on the neck, puts his lips to my ear.

“Charlie,” he whispers, his fingertips climbing the column of my spine. “How the fuck do you get this dress off?”

I let him go, lift it over my head.

“Oh,” he says, as I reach behind myself, unhook the strapless bra, let it fall to my feet.

For a long moment, he just looks at me. He looks at me like he’s taking notes, like he’s memorizing. His gaze feels like a caress, like a kiss, like some sort of worship and at the same time I take him in: the wide shoulders, the thick arms, the muscled chest, the dusting of light brown hair that thickens at his bellybutton, leads below the band of his boxers, his pants splayed open around his cock.

Then he reaches forward, the backs of his hands against my breasts, pinches my nipples between two fingers, flicks them with his thumbs.

“Oh fuck,” I say, my own hands reflexively going to his wrists as he captures my mouth with his. He pushes me backward and then his bed is there, behind me, and then I’m on my back, Daniel on top of me, my blood rushing through my veins with the pounding, unceasing rhythm yes please, yes please, yes please.

I grab his pants and shove. Somehow, they come off and he’s kneeling between my legs, boxer-clad, one ankle in his hand, resting on his shoulder, the other roaming up my thigh. This time he doesn’t hesitate, but slides his fingers under the thin fabric instantly, his eyes on my face.

I’m soaking wet. I know it. I know my panties are soaked through and I know that Daniel’s fingers are already slick as he runs a thumb over my lips.

I gasp when he replaces my clit, reflexively grab the bedsheets and Daniel leans in, my ankle still on his shoulder as he massages it again, the thick pad of his thumb sliding over the sensitive nub with a jolt. His eyes don’t leave my face as he does it again and again, pushing my leg to one side, leaning down, planting himself on one elbow.

Now he’s rubbing me with his soaked fingers, panties shoved to one side. He lowers his head, takes one nipple between his teeth and I grab his hair in one fist, fighting the urge to shout as he moves faster and faster, one of my legs flung over his back.

Suddenly, he stops. He sits up, grabs my panties, yanks them off and I kick, sending them flying into some corner and then we’re both kneeling on his bed, torso to torso, my hand wrapped around his cock.

Not good enough. I reach into his boxers, grab him bare, bring his head down to mine for a deep, hard kiss as I pump him slowly, listening to the noise he makes.

It’s beautiful, a low growl, a note I’ve never heard before. I want to hear it a thousand times, want to feel the vibration of it echo through my own mouth that many times again. His hand is tight on my hip, on my lower back, his fingers leaving divots.

I let him go. The boxers come back and we move until I replace myself against the brass bars of his headboard, cool stripes running the length of my back. Daniel’s on his knees and he lifts me, mouth on mine, my legs splayed, until I’m sitting on him.

I’m stroking his cock again. He’s pinching a nipple with one hand and holding onto the bars with the other, pressing me back, pressing me against them. He’s brutal and soft all at once, gentle, teasing, rough.

He reaches between my legs again, and this time he replaces my clit instantly and I sigh, my head back against the bars, my hips bucking against his hand as he kisses me, drags his lips against my jaw.

“You like that,” he says into my ear. It’s not a question. I nod anyway.

He pauses, strokes my entrance.

“You’re so wet,” he whispers, his voice wondrous.

Daniel slides his fingers into me smoothly, slowly, and I grab the top bar of his bedframe, somewhere over my head. I make a noise, eyes half open, and Daniel kisses me.

His cock is in my hand, hard and thick, a drop of precum running down the tip as I stroke it. It’s taking all my self-control not to guide it to my entrance, not to lift myself up and lower myself onto him even as his hand moves inside me, stroking my front wall, thumb still massaging my clit.

Then he pulls away from the kiss for a moment, pauses. There’s a flash of foil, a flutter, and then his mouth is on mine again as we’re rolling a condom over him, his hand over mine. He groans softly into my mouth and I let the sound wash over me, through me, his fingers still spiking pleasure through my nerves with every stroke.

He pulls them out, grabs my hip, pushes me harder against the bars and I hang onto his shoulders, lift my hips. I kiss him again, nearly out of my mind with need as the tip of his cock replaces my clit, parts my lips.

“Charlie,” he whispers. “No takebacks?”

I can’t help but smile.

“No takebacks,” I whisper, and he eases into me.

My body feels like someone flips a circuit breaker, all the lights suddenly ablaze.

“Oh fuck,” I whisper, one hand in his hair, clutching his face close to mine.

He stops.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I whisper, and he moves again, sinking into me, pulling back, pushing me against the bars, going deep and hard and slow and leaving me breathless. “Oh fuck, Daniel, I’m fine, I’m fine.”

He grabs me, pulls me down, kisses me hard.

“Fine?” he asks mid-kiss, his voice a growl.

“It’s good,” I manage to get out, my voice barely working as he hilts himself again, so deep it makes my toes curl.

“It is,” he says, and then we stop talking. We move together like two parts of the same machine, like we were designed with each other in mind. It’s better than fine, better than good, better than great.

I can’t keep my mouth off his. I can’t stop whispering his name, usually with some version of oh fuck thrown in there. I keep telling him not to stop, chanting it over and over even though I know he won’t.

He’s whispering my name back, his face buried in my neck, his lips on mine as we hold onto each other, entangled, still trying to get more and more and more. The wave inside me crests, higher and higher, the feeling that I’m floating, flying.

I grab the top rail on his headboard, the cool metal anchoring me to reality as he hits that spot over and over again, my whole body attuned to his like a radio antenna.

“Daniel,” I whimper. “Fuck, Daniel—”

He claps his hand over my mouth just in time, because a second later I explode, a chain reaction that rattles through my body, all the way to my fingers and toes, a cataclysm from somewhere deep within. I clench my teeth against the noise, but it escapes me anyway, bubbling up unbidden.

“Holy shit, Charlie,” Daniel gasps, his hand still over my mouth, as he thrusts so hard I see stars. “Holy fucking shit—”

I grab his shoulder, tighten my legs around him, draw him in as if to say come inside me please God come inside me but he’s already there, holding me so tight I can barely breathe, rocking like the aftershock of an earthquake, every muscle in his body tense and rigid.

It’s beautiful. It’s mesmerizing. I want to make him come a thousand times. I want to feel every single one just like this, the two of us together, so close that I can feel every single jolt as it travels through his body.

He finishes but he doesn’t stop. He kisses my neck, bites my earlobe, takes his hand off my mouth, replaces it with his own. I can’t stop touching him. I can’t stop needing him, wanting his body to still be on mine, craving this closeness, this oneness.

He bites my lower lip. He pinches a nipple, rolls it between his fingers, my body jolting at the sensation and I laugh, softly.

“You’re addictive,” he murmurs, then pinches it again and I gasp lightly. “See?”

“Is that bad?” I whisper.

He slides his hand down my torso, and I realize I’m damp with sweat and so is he as he pulls out of me carefully.

“Fuck no,” he says, and before I know it his thumb is on my clit, rubbing me slowly, firmly.

I lean my head back against the brass bars. My breathing gets shallow, my legs still splayed around his waist, my hand still on the top bar.

It doesn’t take long. Neither of us says a word as he watches me as I come apart for the second time in three minutes, exploding again, this time with my own fist jammed against my mouth. I’m gasping when I finish, eyes closed, one hand in Daniel’s hair because I can’t stop touching him.

He kisses my neck. I’m still breathing hard, fingers and toes clenched, and as he kisses me again, I unfurl, breathe deep, his hands on my legs, waist, his arms around me, his mouth on mine.

We untangle, kiss again, untangle some more. Finally, we’re sitting up in his bed, backs against the brass bars of the headboard, his arm around me and his other hand in mine, my head against his shoulder.

“Are we different now?” I murmur.

I feel him press his lips against my hair, keeping them there for a long moment.

“Not in the ways that matter,” he finally says.