Page 48 of Charlie Sunshine
He looks at me, concerned. “You okay, Charlie?” he asks. “Are you cold?”
I nod quickly. “I’m fine. You’re right. I am a bit tired, I suppose.”
He squeezes my shoulder and looks at the picture. “Okay, tell me quickly why you’d steal this picture.”
A woman standing nearby gasps, and I shake my head in apology at her. “He doesn’t mean it.”
I push my focus towards the picture and away from my wildly inappropriate desire to kiss my best friend. “Erm.” I stop and clear my throat. “It’s a picture of Gainsborough’s daughters. He painted it himself and never finished it.”
“So why do you like it?”
“Because they’re soreal,” I say, enchanted by the lush golden colours of the painting. “It’s painted with such love and affection that you can feel it. They’re just so lovely, and they look full of life and slightly naughty. A bit like your sisters.”
He groans. “Poor Gainsborough, if he had two like Teddy and Anya. Bet he took loads of jobs away from home.” He narrows his eyes at the painting. “They look like they could step out of the picture and run around.”
“Iknow,” I say, excited that someone finally gets it. I’ve brought dates here before, and the men have, by and large, towed me around at top speed, giving me their own opinions and ignoring mine. “They look like they’re about to run off, and I can imagine him getting exasperated with them because they wouldn’t sit still.” I sneak a look at his face. “I also really like the fact that it looks like they’ve walked onto the pages of ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,’” I say almost shyly.
“What?” His brow furrows as he leans closer to the picture. “Is that the shape of a… cat in her arms?”
I nod and laugh. “He never finished the portrait, probably becausethey ran off to play. That’s their cat, but you can only see his outline, so he looks like the Cheshire Cat about to disappear.”
He grins, delighted with the discovery. “This is my favourite too,” he declares. “It’s got a bit of magic about it.”
“The most mundane things often do,” I observe and, without thinking, I raise my fingers and brush back the lock of jet-black hair that’s fallen over his eyes.
He looks at me in query, and suddenly his full lips are a few centimetres away from mine, his eyes huge and the pupils dilated. We both freeze, and the gallery falls away. All I can hear is our breathing, fast and far too loud.
I drop my hand, and, as he steps back, I see the quick rise and fall of his chest.
What the fuck was that?
“Okay.” He clears his throat. “Okay, time for the cakes and pints you promised me.”
He’s talking way too fast, but I cut him some slack because it takes me several moments to speak at all. “Yes,” I manage, my voice hoarse. “Definitely time to get out of here.”
NINE
MISHA - ONE WEEK LATER
I put down the stack of paperwork I’m supposed to be concentrating on and swivel my chair to look out of the window. It’s not a particularly inspiring view, consisting mainly of an office block and someone’s conference room.
However, it wouldn’t matter if this morning’s vista included a naked Channing Tatum cleaning the windows. All I can see is Charlie’s face in the gallery last week, all soft and warm. I can almost feel his hand on mine as he towed me around, lecturing me on whichever piece of art caught his fancy. I’ve visited plenty of museums and galleries with Charlie in the past. But Saturday’s visit was different because I spent most of my time observing Charlie—his bright eyes, lush mouth, golden hair—instead of the exhibits and tourists.
I also spent a highly inappropriate amount of time wondering if he was wearing lace knickers. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t stop the images that come every time I let my guard down. Images of him wearing those knickers, his lean body glowing, his cock rising behind a layer of cherry-red lace.
Harry opened Pandora’s Box that night I’d dumped his case in the corridor, and now I can’t lock my thoughts away.
The knickers are in my bedside table drawer. I should give them back to Charlie or stuff them in his laundry basket while he’s not looking. I need to remove temptation, but I can’t return them until I’ve washed them.
I groan in despair. The first time I wanked over them was entirely accidental. Okay, not accidental. I didn’t slip and end up with them wrapped around my dick. But it had started out innocently. I’d been lying in bed, and, after deciding to take care of my hard cock in the usual way, I’d reached for the lube in the drawer. However, my fingers had encountered lace, and before I knew it, I’d drawn out the knickers. Sniffing them was probably a bit perverted and wrapping the lace around the length of my dick while I masturbated and thought of my best friend riding me was definitely wrong. It hadn’t stopped me though, and I came so hard I saw stars. I snort. Of course, it’s alsoentirelyinnocent that I called Charlie’s name at that moment and that I’ve done the same every night since.
“It’s a dry spell,” I say out loud.
I wasn’t joking when I told Charlie I hadn’t shagged anyone while he was gone. My libido has flipped a switch. It’s no longer on the Target Everyone setting, and has been firmly notched onto the Shag Your Best Friend setting, instead.
The last week has been difficult, to say the least. I’ve tried so hard to behave like normal, but fail constantly. Last night we sat on the sofa having a conversation about a film we wanted to see. He leaned into me and I inhaled his vanilla scent and my brain went completely offline to the extent that I couldn’t even remember my own name. It’s happening all the time. I keep looking at his mouth and forgetting my words. It’s full and looks so soft and…
“A dry spell,” I mutter again desperately.
