Page 22 of Whispers in the Dark
The hotel was quiet, night settling into the polished hallways and soft overhead lighting. He checked them both in, took the key card, and led her to the elevator. Neither of them spoke, but Charlotte’s eyes flicked to the shadows in the corners, her instincts working overtime. Bailey was also awake and alert.
Alex wanted her to sleep tonight. He wanted her to feel safe. At least for a little while.
Inside their king room on the eighth floor, Charlotte set her overnight bag on the chair and exhaled. Alex slid the deadbolt into place before turning the secondary lock. That wasn’t enough. He took the desk chair and wedged it under the door handle. Then he checked the entire room.
After setting up a bowl for Bailey in the bathroom and placing his bed by the door, Charlotte sat on the edge of the bed and watched as Alex literally took the place apart with Bailey instep with him. He checked for a physical intruder first—in the bathroom, under the bed, inside the closet. Then he checked for an electronic one—examining ceiling tiles, outlets, the coffee maker, the alarm clock, the hotel phone. Every drawer and every conceivable hiding place.
Charlotte didn’t tell him to stop. She just let him work.
When he was finally satisfied, he exhaled and turned back to her.
Charlotte watched him carefully, her face unreadable. "Feel better?"
Alex sat beside her. "Bailey seems to.” The dog curled up in his bed, his chin resting between his two front paws. “But I don’t.”
Her lips curved slightly. "Didn’t think so."
He shook his head, reaching for her hand. "Charlotte…"
She squeezed his fingers. "I know."
His throat tightened. She had spent decades taking care of everyone else. Tonight, he needed her to let him take care of her. He reached up, brushing a hand over her cheek, his thumb tracing along her jaw. "You’re one of the strongest women I know.”
Her exhale was slow, measured. "Alex."
"I mean it."
She swallowed, and for the first time since she’d awakened that morning, her shoulders relaxed.
Alex tilted her chin up, studying her, searching her expression for the walls she always kept up. And then he kissed her. Slowly. Not with urgency, not with need. But with intention. He kissed her like he wanted her to feel this. To know he was here, and she wasn’t alone.
Her breath hitched, and then she kissed him back, fingers curling into his shirt. Alex deepened it, his hand sliding along her spine, pulling her closer. She melted into him, letting him hold her, letting herself go.
He wasn’t in a rush. Neither was she.
She was sixty-two. She bore it like a soldier—strong lines at the corners of her eyes, a few silver strands threading through her deep red hair. But he didn’t see age when he looked at her. He saw everything she had carried. Everything she had survived. And how hard she tried not to need anyone.
He slid her into his lap. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
Charlotte looked up. Her eyes were tired, wary, but they softened when they met his. “You can’t promise that.”
“I know.” He brushed a hand against her cheek. “But I’m here.”
She didn’t speak, just leaned into his touch, eyes closing as he pressed his forehead to hers. When he kissed her again, it wasn’t frenzied or fast. It was reverent.
He took his time, fingers at her jaw, his other hand resting lightly on her hip. They undressed unhurriedly. He slid her blouse from her shoulders, kissing the skin as he uncovered it. Her body wasn’t flawless—neither was his—but he kissed every part of her like it mattered. Because, to him, it did.
He laid her back on the bed, following her down, never breaking contact. The bed creaked quietly around them, but in that moment, the world had narrowed to just the two of them.His hands moved over her body with reverence, not rushing, not claiming—just knowing.
He mapped her curves slowly, fingers brushing over softened skin, pausing at each place that had changed with time. The gentle swell of her breasts made his breath catch as he cupped them, kissed them, then lowered his head and drew one nipple into his mouth.
Charlotte let out a quiet sigh, her hand sliding into his hair, the other curling around his back, anchoring him. Her skin was warm and faintly scented with lavender. He lingered, moving from one breast to the other, laving them with his tongue, letting her feel how deeply he adored every inch of her. Nothing about her felt less—only more. More real. More earned.
He slid down her body, his lips grazing the soft lines of her stomach, the stretch and give that spoke of life and history—five daughters, a full life lived. He kissed each mark like a promise before parting her thighs gently, his hands under her knees. The gray in her pubic hair didn’t jar him. It moved him. It was her. Still beautiful. Still herself.
He let his mouth lead, tongue tracing slowly over her, coaxing her open, attentive to the way she shifted and gasped under him. When he felt her starting to soften and bloom for him, he spat lightly on his fingertips, mixing it with the wetness his tongue had drawn, then carefully slid one finger inside her—slowly giving her body time to receive him.
Charlotte let out a soft, broken sound, her hips tilting toward his hand.
