Page 172 of False God

The man who’s smirking as he undoes his belt and unzips his slacks.

My heart rate accelerates even more, my inner walls clenching around nothing as I grasp at the marble counter. “This doesn’t seem like very duke-ly behavior, Your Grace.”

“It is if I say so. And I can’t watch you drink champagne without getting hard, thinking about that mouth around my cock, so I say it is.”

He bunches my dress up and yanks my underwear to the side, letting out a rough, approving groan when he feels how wet I already am. I moan when he reaches my clit, my grip on the marble tightening and my hips bucking back.

“Do I need a condom, Lili?”

My eyes snap up to meet his in the mirror. “What?”

He hasn’t brought up what happened in the barn yesterday. I haven’t either. It was an impulsive, lust-soaked suggestion with a humiliating conclusion. Whatever his reason for hesitating, it clearly wasn’t a step he was willing to take. We used them last night.

“Do I need a condom, Lili?” He repeats the question a little more urgently.

I can feel his erection pressed against my ass.

“No. I’m on?—”

I can’t finish the sentence because all I’m aware of is the stretch as he fills that empty ache.

I’m expecting a quick, fast fuck. None of the guests will miss me, but I’m positive everyone outside is wondering where Charlie is.

His thrust is swift, but the slide out is leisurely. A slow drag, during which I can feel every ridge and vein on his cock. It’s an entirely new experience.

He keeps that pace—rapid, then relaxed—and it’s driving me insane. I hold his gaze in the mirror, the expression on his face impossible to look away from.

Charlie’s fucking me like he owns me. Like I’m his.

It’s intoxicating and overwhelming. Completely consuming. I feel like I’m floating, no longer anchored to any reality.

Until he comes inside of me.

We lock eyes in the mirror as his dick jerks inside my spasming pussy, filling it with spurts of cum. It’s the first time I’ve ever had sex without a condom, and I wasn’t expecting it to feel any different. Just messier.

But the sensation of warmth? The extra slickness as he keeps pumping into me, prolonging the high? The severe possessiveness on his face?

It all feels different.

It all feels right.

It all feels real.

41

Charlie insists on driving me to the airport the following morning, even though I offer to use the car service that brought me to Buckleby. We leave extra early so we can detour in London and visit some of the landmarks. I caught a quick glimpse of the London Eye when we were in the city yesterday, but that was it for sightseeing.

We roll along the long, straight street that ends at Buckingham Palace, pass the fountain in Trafalgar Square, spot the Tower of London’s four peaks, cross the Tower Bridge, and then end up on Westminster Bridge to look at Parliament, Big Ben, and Westminster Abbey.

Charlie manages to find a parking spot near the cathedral, so we climb out to explore the area on foot. I’m acting like a tourist, asking questions and snapping photos, but he doesn’t seem impatient. He indulges me. Reads the plaques aloud so I don’t have to squint at them. Laughs, when I start talking in my best imitation of his accent to better blend in with the locals.

British will always behisaccent, in my mind. Just like London isn’t the place where Chloe lives or where Cal goes to school anymore. It’s the city nearest to Charlie.

My favorite photo from the brief stop is a picture in Big Ben’s massive shadow. The background is mostly the massive clock, the foreground our faces. Charlie’s kissing my cheek, which is creased because I’m smiling so wide.

I’m staring at the snapshot of our happiness when a car gets cut off one lane over from us on the highway. A flurry of honking follows the near collision.

When I glance at Charlie, his jaw is clenched tight.

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