The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

The doctor warned me that we’d have to use prophylactics, as birth control pills couldn’t be trusted during treatment. He’d also suggested that sex might be too tiresome for her. In fact, his whole private discussion with me while Charlotte was receiving treatment was how I should keep my dick in my pants.

I had to stifle my urge to punch him. I went nine years without. A few months of celibacy while I still get to hold my girl in my arms? That’s a cakewalk.

For now, though, I’m taking advantage. This is our goddamn honeymoon after all.

Charlotte lies in boneless repletion next to me. As pretty as her underwear is, I know she’ll be more comfortable out of it. Besides, I have a strong yen to see her tits unbound and suck on her nipples.

A perusal of her front reveals no obvious fastenings. As I turn her over, a murmur of protest escapes.

“I need a minute,” she sighs. “Maybe ten.”

“Take all the time you need.” I kiss her bare shoulder. “But I bet you’ll be more comfortable if we take this straight jacket off.”

“I thought you liked the straight jacket.”

“I love the straight jacket, but I think your squashed internal organs probably need to breathe.”

“You just want to look at my breasts.”

“That too.”

The corset has a silk cord interwoven between tiny eyelet holes and fastened at the base of her spine with a familiar mooring hitch with the one tie serving as the stationary object. A quick tug on the loop releases it. A shudder of relief chases up her spine. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say a sailor was in the sunporch tying these knots.”

“It was your mom. Maybe it’s all those years of sailing.”

A memory flashes before me of a rope lying half under the bed in my parents’ room. I shake my head quickly to dispel the image of my mother, rope, and a bed all in one setting. Instead, I concentrate on the pale skin before me. The corset sides fall away to reveal deep red marks running vertically along her frame.

“Poor baby. Do these hurt?” I press my thumbs against her shoulder muscles in long sweeping motions from the curve of her neck to the arm and back again.

She groans in delight. “No, but that feels good. Don’t stop.”

I apply myself with dedication to kneading out any soreness or cramping. Along the bruises made by the corset, I soften my touch. Around us is our wedding finery—my uniform that I’ve never treated so callously, her expensive dress, and fancy underwear.

“You’re my wife, Charlotte,” I exclaim in quiet wonderment.

After all this time, all of our years apart, after her disease, my fucked up head, we’re together. Mr. and Mrs. Nathan Jackson. She’s mine until time folds this world up and moves on. And even then, I imagine we’ll be two atoms bonded together floating out into the great unknown.

“Mmmhmmm,” is her sleepy response.

I keep massaging until her breath evens out and deepens and I know she is asleep. The bed in here is destroyed, but I manage to set one side to rights and tuck her in. Folding my body around her, I close my eyes and follow her down with a smile.

We make love for the next two days, stopping only to rest. The rest of the time, I’m touching her, inside of her, covering her. When we have breakfast, I hold her on my lap and feed her with one hand while the other one fingers her curls and rubs her pussy. When we shower, I take her up against the tiles, my arm holding her tight against my body as I pound into her from behind. The water sluices over us making everything slippery and wet.

This place has six rooms and a dozen flat surfaces. I’ve fucked her on all of them at least twice. By the day of her treatment, she is bruised, worn, and never looked more gorgeous.

When a knock on the door sounds, I think it’s room service and open the door. Leaving it ajar, I walk toward the bar where my wallet is. “Come in. You can put it on the coffee table by the sofas.”

“Chief,” the voice at the door says. I spin around because no room service wait staff is going to call me chief. The gold bars on his uniform mark him as a lieutenant junior grade.

“No.” It slips out involuntarily.

“Sorry.” And he is. The officer rocks back on his heels, as awkward and unhappy as I am.

“Is it room service?” Charlotte calls. She meanders out of the bedroom, swallowed up in the hotel robe and looking sexy and disheveled. Her hair is a rat’s nest, and her gorgeous skin is flushed with exertion.

The officer can’t stop gawking at her. I clear my throat, and his gaze falls to the floor.