Page 131 of The One I Hate
I slam into her, and her scream is so loud I’m sure anyone standing outside could have heard her.
Let them hear. Ask me if I care.
I don’t. Let them hear her scream for me. Let them hear the sounds I make because this woman’s cunt is holding onto me so tight it might never let me go. Let them know we want each other so much that we’re fucking in a coat closet because we can’tnotdo this.
“So good,” I say as I reach around, holding each of her dangling tits into my hands. “Do you know how much I fucking love you?”
“Yes…”
“How much I need you…”
“Yes…”
“That I can’t breathe without you…”
“Yes, Simon. I love you…”
“You’re mine, Bug.” I pick up the pace of my thrusts, and I feel my balls tightening with every push. “Do you hear that? Mine.”
“Yours…Forever.”
Those words coming off her tongue is my undoing. I feel her also coming apart around me, and I hold her tighter as our orgasms chase through us.
That might have been the most intense thing I’ve ever felt in my life. Which makes sense.
It’s Charlie. My Bug.
Intense is the only word that even comes close to describing what I feel for her.
The sound of our breaths is interrupted by a banging on the door—and a very pissed off Shane yelling at us.
“Simon! For the love of God! I know you’re in there, and we need to get our coats. Get the fuck out.”
“Hold your fucking horses!”
Charlie starts giggling as I slide out of her. She adjusts herself as I pull my pants back up, but I don’t walk to the door yet.
“Come here,” I say, pulling her into my chest. “Happy New Year, Bug.”
She places a gentle kiss to the corner of my mouth, and somehow that hits me just as hard as what we just finished doing. “Happy New Year, Daddy.”
Maybe the four best words I’ve ever heard…
Chapter 31
Charlie
“What’s this?” I kick off my shoes as I enter Simon’s house—which I guess is now my house—to see that multiple pans are on the stove and steam is coming out of them. “Are you cooking?”
Simon turns to me as he pulls a sheet pan out of the oven. I don’t know what’s on it, but it’s burned. And he’s wearing a “Kiss the Chef” apron I didn’t know he owned.
“I was. I’m not anymore.”
I laugh as I make my way to one of the stools at his kitchen island. This kitchen is a dream. Double ovens. Plenty of prep space. The handy water spout at the stove. Storage that never ends. And in the now month I’ve lived here, I’ve never seen him use it until right now.
“Where did you get that apron? And why are you cooking?”
“Well,” he pauses to come over and give me a kiss. “I originally bought it for you since you are the chef in the house. And I’m a fan of kissing you. But since I decided today I was cooking, I figured I’d try it on to see how it feels. Turns out, just wearing an apron that says you’re a chef doesn’t make you one. So dinner is being ordered from The Joint and will be delivered in an hour.”
