Page 67 of False God

Charlie was right—I don’t want a gentleman.

I think that’s part of why I came so hard the last time, because he seduced me effortlessly. Because I never had to explain what I wanted. He pleasured me like he’d planned out every touch.

The conceit that’s annoyed me at other times is an aphrodisiac right now. I’m a sure thing. Our interests are aligned, and I don’t care if he’s bossy about it.

Iwanthim to be bossy about it.

He stalks toward me, looking every inch the god Chloe called him earlier. Imperious and unattainable. Too devastatingly attractive to be real flesh rather than chiseled marble.

Even in my high heels, Charlie towers over me. His fingers trail across my collarbone, leaving goose bumps in their wake, before stopping at the strap.

Rather than flick it off my left shoulder, he uses the thin strip of fabric to haul me closer. My hands land on his bare chest, encountering warm, firm skin. They spread, seeking more contact, my nails scoring crescent-shaped marks.

Charlie steps back so fast I stumble.

“Get naked and get on the bed,” he demands roughly. “Unless you want that dress ruined.”

I don’t. It’s one of my favorites.

But it might be worth it, to witness Charlie lose control. I’m heady with the power of affecting him, my gaze trailing from the half-moons indented on his chest to the carved topography of his stomach. Lower, to the growing bulge in his pants.

I knew hooking up with Charlie wouldn’t be a fumbling encounter, but experiencing it is something different.

“Lili.”

My flower-painted Oscar de la Renta dress flutters to the floor a few seconds later, pooling in a satin puddle at my feet.

It’s very satisfying, watching Charlie’s hands still in the midst of unzipping his pants. He stares at me, standing in a strapless bra and matching thong. I step out of my red-bottomed stilettos like I don’t notice or care about his reaction. I was tempted to leave the heels on, but my feet hurt. The silent pad of my bare feet takes a little away from the dramatic effect of strolling past Charlie like I’m a model on a catwalk, but not much. I can feel his eyes on my ass as I saunter toward the bed, the lacy underwear I’m wearing invisible from his angle.

He stalks toward me as soon as I’m perched on the edge of the mattress.

A couple of rejected dresses lie in a heap on the quilt beside me. My entire room’s a mess. Charlie doesn’t appear to notice. Or care.

My legs spread to accommodate him, the ironed fabric of his suit pants rasping against my bare skin.

I’d rather he was naked. But there’s something insanely sexy about this view—the tease of seeing his sculpted abdomen and happy trail, but nothing more scandalous.

“You didn’t follow directions.” His hand slides up my ribs, making me shiver.

“Sorry. I assumed you knew how to take a bra off.” The tremble in my voice when his palm cups my breast spoils the sarcasm that’s supposed to be there. And the effect is totally ruined when his other hand strokes the damp lace of my thong.

“Are you always this wet, Kensington? Or is this just for me?”

I swallow the truth with the plea for more that wants to spill out. This is already the best sex I’ve ever had, and I’m not sure if that’s pathetic or optimistic.

The thick ridge of his erection is right against the throbbing ache that’s all I can focus on. I’m soaking another pair of his pants.

I’d rather be dripping on his cock.

Charlie yanks my thong to the left and circles my clit with his thumb. I moan—loudly—and his smile is smug.

Whatever. A nun would have filthy thoughts about him.

His thumb leaves my clit, and I open my mouth to protest. I’m falling backward before I can say a word, a light shove of his palm splaying me flat on my back. He unhooks my bra with an impatient flick and a pointed look. The lace joins one of the piles of clothes around my room. Then, his hands move lower, pulling my thong down and opening my thighs wide. I can feel the sting of the stretch in my hamstrings. So much for weekly Pilates making me more flexible.

Excitement reaches a fever pitch, overwhelming the vulnerability from being on display this way. I’ve never had a guy justdecideto go down on me. There’s always been some suggestive maneuvering or not-so-subtle request involved.

But there’s no question about Charlie’s intention. He props one of my legs over his shoulder and licks the length of my slit. Two of his fingers press inside of my opening while his tongue flicks my clit. Swirls and sucks. He’s playing my body like a maestro, hitting each sensitive spot precisely.

---