THE KNOCK COMES AGAIN, THIS TIME MORE FIRMLY, AND CHARLIE hangs his head.
“Shit, I forgot. I ordered room service,” he says, breath warm on my chest.
“At midnight?”
His eyes lift to mine. “I wanted that chocolate soufflé thing.”
There’s a third knock. He huffs in dismay, then leans in close, his stubbled cheek against mine. “I will be . . .” He tugs at my right earlobe with his teeth and quickly releases. “Right back.” He’s off the bed in an instant, grabbing his robe from the floor and heading to the door.
When he is gone, I throw my head into the pillow, trying to catch my breath. My body is pulsing and I can’t focus on much else besides the slick of desire between my legs. I press my knees together.
I hear Charlie’s muffled interaction with the waiter just steps away and I’m certain our visitor can feel the heavy residue of our want in the air upon entering the suite.
As Charlie handles the situation at the door, I burst out of bed and into the bathroom, begin frantically opening cabinets. They’re all either empty or contain products that don’t help me. Extra towels. A hair dryer. Q-tips. Individually wrapped soaps the size of dinner mints. I swing open the doors under the sink, the last stop in my search. The romance package offered champagne, chocolate-covered strawberries with white drizzle, rose petals. If Charlie found lube in here, then maybe, just maybe—
A triumphant cry escapes me when I see the basket with a stack of gold squares. I tear one from the strand, but not before noticing it’s cherry scented. Whoever at the resort is responsible for the romance package clearly has a cherry fetish.
By the time Charlie closes the suite door and turns around, I’m standing in the living room. We stare at each other across the space, his back pressed against the front door, room service cart pushed to the side. He rubs his hands in that circular motion of his in front of him. The smell of burnt sugar invades the space, and it’s as if we are baking in an oven alongside the chocolate soufflé.
I’m panting.
Is it possible to crave something you’ve never had? Because I crave him with such force it seems implausible to want something this much without having previously devoured and revered it.
Charlie’s eyes flicker down and he sees the condom wrapper pressed between my fingers. His chest heaves. We’ve had seventeen hours of unintended dom/sub foreplay—a long few days of rapidly mounting attraction—and have reached the unignorable climax.
There is nothing soft, hesitant, or subservient about his actions this time. He takes one giant step toward me and the force pushes us both onto the couch, all his glorious weight atop me. He sits up, discards his robe, and hastily removes mine in complete opposition from how he did just a few moments ago. I pull my bra over my head as he removes his boxer briefs and then heads for mine. We claw at each other with sublime carelessness. His hands are everywhere, so quick and effectual that I almost believe he’s got another pair. They run through my hair, down my back, across my stomach and thighs—as though his gluttonous fingers have hungered for the feel of my skin in every second since we first met.
When I am certain I cannot take it any longer, I impart one final order for his extended day of servitude. “Fuck me,” I say, barely audible through a sharp breath.
He exhales forcefully and sits up, unwrapping the condom with his teeth. I throw my head back in anticipation and arousal. When he doesn’t immediately make contact, I pull my head forward to find out why. He’s looking down at me, a seriousness across his face. He’s gentle again, slowly pressing down on top of me.
“You’re everything,” he murmurs, his lips touching my ear before he enters me with his full length. My hips lift in response. His whispered declaration could mean a variety of things. That I’m everything he has been missing. That I’m everything he’s ever wanted. As I look into his vast blue eyes, I believe he means I’m everything he wants—needs—in this moment. This belief serves me the confidence to fuck him without insecurity.
He thrusts forcibly just a handful of times then pulls away. Before I can question why, he has shifted his body downward, his eyes locked on mine as his mouth makes contact between my legs. My immediate instinct is to dissuade him—to allow in the unreasonable discomfort that has urged me to prioritize my partner’s pleasure over my own in the past. But something about being with Charlie is different. I’m not in my head.
“You taste like cherries,” he says, lifting slightly to look up at me.
“It’s the condom,” I manage to say. “Weird. Cherry. Fetish. Here.” I force each word out on its own exhale. He grins and gets back to work.
Charlie pleasures me in a way I hadn’t thought possible. At least not for me. And when I am on the brink of orgasm, without my having to voice it, he spreads back out on top of me and enters me again. This time, he does not stop.
The rest of the night is a dizzying blur of competing sensations. His breath on my neck. My hands cuffing his flexing biceps. His length pressed inside me tightly. The shudder of his body upon its release.
It’s not until we are back in our robes eating chocolate soufflé on the scene-of-the-crime couch that I begin to feel something like worry.