Page 42 of False God

“Actually, I do.”

“I promise I won’t slap you this time, okay?”

One corner of Charlie’s mouth lifts. “That’s not why I want to hear you say yes to me, Lili.” His voice is low and husky.

The tone hits me like a strong dose of a powerful drug. Proof that I really,reallywant to kiss him again.

“Yes,” I whisper.

He kisses me.

But it’s my tongue that seeks his. My hands that yank his button-down free from his slacks so that I can explore the taut muscles ridging his stomach. My hips that rock forward, grinding against his thigh to chase more delicious friction.

“You’re soaking my favorite trousers, Kensington.”

“Are you complaining?” I pant the question, too distracted to come up with anything wittier. Lust is coiling tight low in my pelvis, my muscles clenched in anticipation of a release.

Charlie started this, and he’d better let me finish. I’ve had sex with several guys since Cal and I broke up. None of those encounters were this satisfying, and I haven’t even come yet.

He’sbarelytouching me. I’m basically getting off on his proximity. Under any other circumstances, I’d be self-conscious. Right now, I’m too consumed to care.

“It was a compliment,” Charlie informs me.

I huff a laugh. “Thanks?”

“Of me,” he continues. “You must want me bloody bad to be this wet without my fingers or tongue.”

I should probably slap him again. Instead, I almost smile. The fact that I’m finding his conceited charm entertaining is a bright red flag.

But he’s right. I want himbloody bad. Badly enough that my pride has left the premises.

His fingers skim up my left arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. They stop at the strap of my dress, toying with the thin strip of fabric keeping the top up.

Charlie holds my gaze, waiting for me to decide.

Some people think I’m shy. That I act poised and proper in public because I’m not brave enough to be bold.

Really, I’m scared. I was born on a pedestal, automatically elevated. I’m terrified to mess up and embarrass my family. It takes me weeks, months,yearsto fully trust someone. Almost all of my closest friends are people I’ve known since preschool.

But I barely think before nodding.

For some reason, I trust Charlie. Even though I hardly know him. Even though he’s given me reasons I shouldn’t.

The top of the dress droops just low enough to expose my left breast.

He stares at my heaving chest for a few seconds before cupping the curve in his palm. I whimper when his deft fingers toy with the nipple, then groan when his hand falls to my waist. The warmth of his touch is replaced by the brush of his suit jacket against my bare breast when he pulls my mouth back to his.

There’s something dangerously erotic about imagining what we must look like—me half dressed and humping his leg, Charlie fully covered and in control.

His lips move to my ear. “Show me how wet you can get, Lili.”

My muscles tremble, my oncoming release so close that it feels tangible. The edges of my vision shimmer, and my head tilts back as waves of heat wash over me. I ride his thigh as hard as I can, clenching around nothing.

It’s incredible and consuming, convulsions continuing to tumble through me, even as the strongest rush fades.

But I want more. I want him inside of me, filling that emptiness.

Charlie steps back before I can suggest we sneak upstairs. Aside from his eyes—which have a feral glint—and the bulge in his pants, he appears unaffected.

---