Page 13 of Charlie

I sob his name, needing something I can't name. It's never felt like this before.

The sensation is too much and not enough. It's everything and nothing. I'm floating in the ether between worlds when he moves his hands, one gripping my hip. He reaches behind me with his other, swirling a finger where we're joined before sliding it over my back entrance. He jerks me forward, fully seating me on his cock as he pushes his finger in.

Oh my fucking God. My back feels like it's breaking. He sets a hard pace, his hand bruising as he pulls and pushes me to meet him. My body convulses around him, a sob clawing its way out of me as everything turns black.

Never could I have imagined it could be like this.

My vision returns just as he starts to come. His head is thrown back, his bottom lip held tightly in his teeth. He snaps his head down suddenly, our gazes locking. One more jilted thrust, and he's exploding in me, his hand leaving my hip to cradle the back of my head, his mouth crashing to mine.

We stay pressed together for a couple of minutes, harsh breaths puffing against tender skin. "You know what you're doing, don't you?" I mumble into his shoulder.

He eyes me. "And you took it like a fucking champ, Charlie."

I groan, his words making my pussy clench around him. He chuckles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes as reality crashes around us.

10

The days drag by. It’s been three weeks since Cameron left, but it feels more like three months. I spend mornings at the cafe, the tiny tables limiting me to my laptop. Every day around eleven, I grab a coffee and head to the pub where I can spread out a little. I'm trying not to dwell on the fact that I haven't heard from Cameron yet. It hurts more than I want to admit. Funny how hopes can rise to ridiculous heights without even realizing it. However, I find the more time I spend out in nature, pouring myself into my work – living – the more my perspective shifts. I begin to recognize my relationship with Cameron for what it was: the perfect person, the fucking wrong time. It was the best summer fling I could have ever hoped for.

I roll my shoulders, my muscles aching from the hours I've spent in this stupid booth. Frustration is beginning to set in. I'm still not making any progress on Arty's maternal side. My stomach grumbles at me, and I acknowledge it with a long sigh. I slide off the bench, careful not to disturb my papers, knowing one errant draft could send them flying. I lift my arms above my head and stretch, my back thankful for the respite.

One more day gone with almost nothing to show. Hmph.

As I hoist myself onto the stool at the bar, I realize that the energy is a little different tonight – a little darker. A lot edgier. Then I spot the reason why. Someone who is definitely not the normal wrinkly bartender is at the other end of the bar, his back to me as he pours a beer. He's not like anyone I've seen my entire time here. For one, he isn't over sixty. Secondly, his clothes are not typical – or maybe it's the body under them; gray jeans hug thick thighs, the bottoms shoved into beat-up leather boots. Tattoos shift over his muscles as he eases the tap closed.

"Charlie!" A regular raises his glass to me from across the bar, a wide smirk on his face.

I jump in my seat and grimace sheepishly, knowing I was caught.

The bartender glances over his shoulder at me, his eyebrow cocked with curiosity. He sets the beer down and wipes his hands, flipping the towel over his shoulder as he turns toward me.

My heart stutters in my chest. Holy God. I forget how to breathe.

Perfect white teeth flash from the depths of a dark beard. He pulls his hair into a bun as he stalks my way, his shirt riding up just enough to make the saliva evaporate from my mouth.

"What can I get you?" he asks, leaning against the bar, ducking, so his face is level with mine. Whisky eyes pull me into their depths without warning. I'm drowning.

"Lass?"

"Uh—um—" I stammer, heat rising in my cheeks. I break eye contact, desperately trying to get my mouth to work.

He lowers his head even more, looking me in the eye. "I won't bite ye, lass." His brogue skitters over my skin.

His gaze drops to my lips as I lick them. I take a deep breath, but it's filled with him. I can't escape. I push back, the stool cracking against the floor like a gunshot. He plants one hand on the bar, swings his legs over, and lands beside me.

"Easy," he whispers, righting the stool. I sway a bit, and he grasps my upper arms gently, either to hold me upright or to stop me from running – they both seem equally likely.

I must look positively feral looking up at him, my heart galloping in my chest.

I needed to get a fucking grip.

I blow out the breath I hadn't meant to hold and force myself to take deep, controlled breaths.

"Sorry about that." I pray to God he can't see my stained cheeks in the low light. "May I have the fish and chips, please?" I force a smile.

"Aye. Are you feeling well?" He looks me up and down, worried.

"I'm fine, thank you." I jerk from his grasp and turn back to my table, my senses jumbled. I don't dare look back as I slide into the booth. A thousand bees buzz under my skin. Breathe in. Breathe out. Is this what a panic attack feels like? I massage my temples, forcing myself to focus on the notes in front of me. Tracing Arty's lineage helps to center me, my breathing slowly returning to normal.

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