The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

“Another time,” he promises and then spreads my closed legs apart. The gaze he runs along my body is as erotic as any caress. “If the lights were off, I won’t be able to see how pink you get everywhere.” His hands slide from my inner knees to my inner thighs until his thumbs meet at my core. “Or how very wet you become.” In agonizingly slow measures, he inches his thumbs inside me. Every part of me begins to tingle. Sucking in his lower lip, he hisses. “Or how fucking sexy you look with me inside you.”

“Or my scars?” A little self-consciously I rub my finger over the scar where my port once sat, receiving injections of drugs that tried hard to kill off only the bad cells and preserve the good ones.

“I love your scars.” He presses a hot open kiss against the shiny, slightly puckered skin. “It tells your story—one that involves me, the beginning of us, your survival.”

I throw my arms around him and tug him to me until the sparse, coarse hair of his chest rubs against my sensitive breasts. My nipples tighten upon contact, and my eyelids start feeling too heavy to hold open. “I love you, Nathan Jackson,” I whisper.

“I love you, Charlotte Randolph soon to be Jackson.” His mouth muffles any response I might have. He places light licks against my lips and resists my lures to deepen the kiss. Teasingly he nips at the corners of my mouth, my eyelids, and my cheeks. His touch is tender, and the love is evident in every stroke and heated whispered endearment.

His thumbs leave my sex as his hands travel north to cup my breasts in his large palms. He holds my sensitive flesh and bends his head to suck on the peaks he’s created with his rough palms and heavy thumbs. The devoted attention he gives them sends ripples of pleasure throughout me.

Gently pushing me against the bed, he takes himself in hand and slowly pushes inside me. When he enters, it feels almost as reverential as our first time. His possession of me, the ecstasy he pulls from my body is a graphic reminder that there will never be anyone for me but Nate. Careers, geographic differences, nasty people will never be more important than being together.

He latches onto a nipple again, sucking it hard into his mouth as he thrusts all the way to the hilt. I can’t keep my cry of abandon inside. It wails above us, and he responds with a deep, hoarse groan of his own.

“You okay, baby?” His voice is strained as if it is difficult to give volume to each word.

“Yes, more please.” I squeeze my thighs against his hard hips, and my fingers dig into his shoulders.

His strokes are slow and measured, as if he is trying to discover every nerve ending with his shaft. Each movement of his body rubs against my clit and my breasts until I’m drowning in the vortex of dark sensation where there is nothing but Nathan and me and pleasure.

His mouth is wet and hot on my neck and shoulders. Then he’s kissing me again, his tongue thrusting hard as he pounds into me. I pant meaningless pleas and writhe on the cotton under my body, begging for release. My legs hook around his hips as I try to keep him deep within me.

“Open your eyes,” he commands. I hadn’t realized they were closed. His teeth are clenched, and the skin is pulled taut over his cheekbones. He has never looked so commanding or so fierce. I’m helpless under his orders. Our eyes catch, and I see the fire of his love and his passion—all for me. “I love you,” he shouts. “Goddamn, I love you.”

His thrusts become ragged and disjointed as he jets his release inside me. His words, his utter love for me, his hot, wild release triggers my own orgasm. The friction of our bodies hurtle us over the cliff together, and our mouths find each other in a messy, breathless benediction of our love.

A minute, twenty, an hour? I don’t know how long we lie together in sweaty satisfaction. With my head against his chest, the reassuring and steady beat of his chest soothes me.

“Don’t worry about it, Charlotte. We’ll work it out.”

He sounds so confident. How can I do anything but believe him?

40

Nathan

My body wakes up at dawn as it always does. Charlotte is on top of me, legs sprawled on either side of my hips and her head tucked under my chin. I’ve a raging boner and an equally strong need to piss. With great reluctance I shift her to her side, but the motion wakes her.

“Go back to sleep,” I say, and she responds by mumbling something into the pillow.

In the bathroom, I take care of business, splash water on my face, and brush my teeth. As I turn to leave, the jetted bathtub catches my eye. It’s about the only thing worthwhile in this entire dismal apartment.