Page 103 of Charlotte's Reckoning
“Because I ran a whorehouse?” She shrugged one elegant shoulder. “As part owner, I decided what was on the menu. When I came to Laramie, I decided it would no longer include me.”
He drew away, incredulous. “But that was ten years ago.”
“It hasn’t been quite that long. I’m human and sometimes—”
“You must scratch the itch,” he supplied.
“Must we talk about this now?” she asked impatiently. “I’ll explain later, but what’s important right now is for you to do this at any speed except slow.”
“I can do that,” he agreed, shifting above her, his knee separating her thighs as his mouth covered hers and his tongue swept inside. In response, she wrapped her leg around his hip, opening herself to him.
Seth positioned himself and entered her, going slow as much for her sake because of the “years” that had transpired and his own, wanting to savor the feel of her velvety soft heat and wetness closing around him.
She sighed, savoring along with him, but not for long. Her heel dug into his ass, urging him to move. He obliged, and their bodies quickly found the perfect rhythm. Lips melded, tongues tangled, hands searched, nails dug into skin—hers into his, but he wasn’t complaining—as their passion soared.
The bed creaked noisily beneath them, and Charlotte’s moans of delight soon eclipsed his own. As they each reached their peak, their bodies shaking with the intensity of their passion, they found their release.
Afterward, Seth kissed her tenderly then shifted onto his back, taking her with him. Usually in the aftermath, he was relaxed, his brain shutting off, but something she said stuck with him.
“Charlotte,” he said softly.
“Mmm?”
“I don’t need an explanation.”
It took her a moment, but she figured out what he meant. “I wasn’t planning to go into all the details, but I think I owe you—”
He cut her off, the arm around her squeezing her. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“But it’s important to me that you know some of it.” Her hand tightened into a fist on his chest when she continued, “Thorn made me a widow at nineteen. Carson and I were only married for a month. We were so young.”
Lost in memories, her voice trailed off, then she shook her head as if to clear it before continuing.
“After spending a wretched week at Heloise’s, which I try hard not to think about, I couldn’t find a job that paid enough to avoid sleeping on the streets and starvation. So, I worked at a parlor house, where at least it wasn’t an endless sea of nameless men. That’s where I met Fenton.” She shiftedrestlessly, almost squirming, clearly uncomfortable. “Our, um, let’s call it closeness, continued in Laramie, but he had an aversion to commitment, and I ended it. In ten years, there was no one other than Fen, and after the first few years, no one at all—until you.”
“Why did you feel the need to tell me all of that?”
“I’ve learned to tune out what others say. In my line of work, thick skin is essential. But I care what you think.” She freed herself from his arms and sat up. “I grew up in rural Virginia and was raised to believe ‘the act’ is a duty and for procreation. Outside of marriage, it’s wrong. Ladies aren’t expected to find pleasure in it. Because of those beliefs, places like the Red Eye continue to exist. Even though it’s been going on for centuries and isn’t illegal, the women who work there are called every name for a whore, looked down on, spat on, and treated like less than filth. Society doesn’t judge a madam any differently than a whore—worse even—but you better believe when I had the chance to make a change, I took it, and it was thanks to Fenton Sneed.”
He was heartsick that her life had been so tragic and grateful to the man who’d given her a leg up. “I’m glad Sneed was there when you needed him.”
She twisted and looked down at him. “What I’ve done doesn’t bother you?”
“I’m no saint, either,” he replied, not giving a direct answer.
He couldn’t say he liked the idea of her with other men, but he wouldn’t condemn her for something that wasn’t her fault, and he admired her determination to keep fighting when others would have given up.
“You didn’t sell yourself for cash,” she challenged.
“No. I stole people’s life savings with no one holding a gun to my head.” He sat up, face-to-face with her, to emphasize what he was saying. “How do I know I didn’t leave someone destitute and force them into your situation? I wasn’t proud of what I had become, and, like you, when I had the chance to get out of that life, I did.”
Eyes wide with wonder, she said softly, “You’re the most understanding person I’ve ever met.”
“That’s not always the case,” he admitted. “There have been times I lost my temper and let my stubbornness get the better of me. But I’ve seen a lot in my travels—joy and suffering, poverty and wealth, kindness and cruelty—and I try not to judge others too harshly.”
He reached up, tracing her swollen lips and the pink marks on her cheeks from his beard, enticed by one and regretting the other.
“It’s late. You must be tired,” he said, noticing the dark shadows under her eyes. “Living out here alone without the least modern convenience can’t be easy.”
