| |
When Charlotte and Mike returned to the house, her parents had not, unfortunately, taken up golf or croquet or a similar hobby that would get them outdoors. Instead, they insisted on—horror upon horrors—looking at old photo albums with Mike. As he’d noted when drawing his portrait of six-year-old Charlotte, she hated having her picture taken, and she was scowling in nearly every picture from her childhood.
Although there was one of her and Mike, sitting on the front steps, in which she didn’t look completely miserable.
By the time they’d eaten dinner, played mahjong with her parents, and gotten ready for bed, it was eleven o’clock. As soon as Charlotte returned from the washroom, Mike scooped her up and placed her on the bed.
“So, we’re doing this?” he whispered, covering her body with his. “In your parents’ house? I’m willing to wait until we get back to Toronto, if you’d prefer...” His lips twitched.
She kissed him to put an end to any other silly things he was going to say, and he kissed her back just as eagerly. He shifted against her, his cock hardening.
There was something perversely thrilling about doing this on her childhood bed, after her parents had gone to sleep, even if she was thirty-two years old. She’d never had sex on this bed before, but she didn’t tell Mike that.
She just pulled his T-shirt over his head.
She’d seen him without a shirt earlier, but now, she slid her hands over his abs and pecs and around to his back, reveling in each inch of him she got to touch.
When she started bucking against him, he gave her a lopsided grin and rolled off her before removing each flimsy piece of clothing she was wearing. Sometimes he practically tore her clothes off, but not tonight. They’d been waiting all day to be together like this, but he removed each one slowly, kissing her skin as it was revealed to him.
Once she was naked, he slipped his hand between her legs and parted her folds. She whimpered as he slid his finger inside her, rolling his thumb over her clit at the same time.
But her parents were just in the other room. She had to be quiet.
She pulled down his shorts and boxers and wrapped her hand around his erection. She saw heat flare in his eyes, but he made no sound as they stroked each other.
And when she knelt beside him and took his cock in her mouth, he made no noise then, either, but she was an expert on reading his body now, and she could tell how he felt.
Oh, who was she kidding. She was giving him a blowjob. He was obviously enjoying himself. But she could see it in every move and look he made, too.
When she took him particularly deep in her mouth, she heard his sharp intake of breath, saw the way he was gripping the sheets, and God, she wanted him.
She hopped off the bed and grabbed a condom and lube. He prepared himself, and she couldn’t help squirming. He positioned his cock at her entrance, and when he slid inside, she had to cover her mouth because it felt so amazing and she wanted to make noise.
He bent down to kiss her, and she savored his taste, his soapy scent.
He pulled out and thrust back inside her.
Screech.
That wasn’t her; her gasp had been muffled by the sound of the bed.
He thrust inside her again.
Screech.
He silently shook with laughter, as did she.
This was what she got for never having sex in her childhood bed before; she hadn’t known it would be so damn loud. The screeches pierced the silence of the night in Ashton Corners.
He pulled out of her and tugged her out of bed, maneuvering her in front of the desk. He bent her over it and slid into her from behind.
“Okay?” he murmured in her ear, the first time either of them had spoken in a long time.
She nodded.
He pumped into her, and her fingers gripped the edge of the desk. Her breasts were pressed against the surface. She just felt so much, and it was all part of being with Mike.
She pushed her ass back against him and he growled—quietly, of course. He leaned down and swept her hair to the side before pressing kisses up and down her neck, her jaw, her shoulder. His hand slipped between her legs again and rubbed her clit, and it didn’t take much before she was gripping the desk even more tightly and shuddering against the surface. He sped up his pace and came a moment later.
After cleaning up, they put on their pajamas and returned to bed. It screeched a bit as Mike got on, and they both smiled. He turned Charlotte onto her side and held her from behind—it would be impossible to sleep any other way on the small bed.
She wanted to break the silence.
I love you, she wanted to say.
But she could tell he wasn’t ready to hear it.
Instead, she said, “Sleep well.”
Even though they’d had a fun day together, even though he’d laughed and teased her and carried her into the lake, she had her doubts that his mind would let him sleep.
It was painful to know someone so well, but although he was turning her insides to mush, she wouldn’t have it any other way.
* * *
It was three in the morning, and Mike still hadn’t slept.
Hello, insomnia, my old friend.
Back in the days when he’d lived with his parents, he’d often had trouble sleeping. When they’d found him wandering the house in the middle of the night, they’d say he wasn’t working hard enough and that was why he wasn’t tired and couldn’t fall asleep.
But insomnia didn’t mean you weren’t tired; you could be exhausted and unable to sleep.
He extricated himself from Charlotte’s limbs and sat at her old desk. He flipped on the small lamp, looking over to make sure it didn’t wake her, and studied her childhood drawings again.
And his childhood drawing of her. Scowling because she didn’t like pictures. Ha.
Charlotte had always been so sure of who she was, and she hadn’t tried to change it, hadn’t made apologies for it.
Mike, on the other hand...well, whoever he was, it wasn’t enough for his parents, and so he’d wanted to be someone else.
Charlotte was smart and talented, and he’d known, when he developed a massive crush on her all those years ago, that she could do much better than him.
Quietly, he got up from the desk. He opened the window, the side where there was no screen, and stuck his head out.
After two decades of living in Toronto, it was almost eerily quiet.
And if he stuck his head out farther, he could see what had been his bedroom window.
He glanced back at Charlotte’s desk. Along with the old drawings, there was a box of Laurentien pencil crayons, which she’d gotten for Christmas one year. It was the only thing she’d wanted for Christmas. Sixty colors—it had seemed magical when they were little. She’d let him use them, of course.
His parents had never bought him a gift that he’d wanted, not even a small one. Sometimes they’d buy big gifts that they knew he’d hate, then make him feel ungrateful.
God, he was so messed up.
He was a fucked-up ordinary guy, and Charlotte...she was extraordinary.
He carefully shut the window, turned off the lamp, then climbed into bed. She made a soft sound in her sleep as she rolled over.
She’s too good for you.
He’d spent years working on getting those stupid thoughts out of his head.
He was a decent person, and he’d never treat anyone the way his parents had treated him and Angela. Their actions had nothing to do with his value as a person. Plus, Charlotte brought out the best in him and showed that she liked him in every little thing she did.
Mike knew this.
But.
Romantic relationships had scared him for years. Even after he’d started feeling better about himself, the idea of that kind of intimacy had made him uneasy.
With Charlotte, it was simple, yet at the same time, it wasn’t.
Looking at the house next door—it had given him a full-body shudder. Yep, Ashton Corners made him feel like more of a mess than he’d been in years.
Today had been such a fucking roller coaster. Memories tied up in so many things, like a box of pencil crayons.
New memories, too. Like bending Charlotte over her childhood desk.
Seeing her in a bikini.
Playing mahjong with her parents like he belonged there. They were excited that he was with Charlotte, but he still had trouble truly believing it.
He carefully, so carefully, wrapped his arm around her, and she made a sound of contentment. Like even in her sleep, she enjoyed being next to him.
But would she always?
You don’t deserve this. What are you thinking? You’ll screw it up. You have no experience with these things.
He hadn’t heard his father’s voice in real life in eight years, but he could still hear it, clear as day, in his head.
As he finally, finally fell asleep, doubts still crowded his brain.
Could he really do this?