The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

The birds stop chirping. The wind stills. Everyone holds their breath as the weight of his promises sing through the air.

His eyes cling to mine as the vows he wrote weave through our bond, the one that was created when I was born, that was tested when we were teenagers, and that hardened as adults. What God has bound together, no one can sever.

I fight back tears and grab the last tendrils of composure.

“I, Charlotte Grace Randolph, pledge my troth to you. I adored the boy, and I love the man. I followed the boy but respect the man. I believed in the boy and trust the man. I pledge my eternal faithfulness, my undying love, and my forever devotion. Our journey has been long, but we have found our way into each other’s arms, and I will never leave you, never forsake you, never stop believing that you are the greatest thing that has happened and will ever happen to me. Our love will never die.”

45

Charlotte

Nathan carries me over the threshold of the presidential suite at The Drake Hotel. With its six rooms, it’s likely bigger than my condo. “Princess Diana stayed here you know,” I tell him as we sweep by the living room. I catch a glimpse of pale blue velvet covered sofas and ornate floor-to-ceiling drapery before I’m whisked into the bedroom and deposited onto a beige and white striped coverlet.

There’s a bowl of roses and a champagne bucket on the glass coffee table. None of that interests Nate. He deposits me on my feet next to the bed but doesn’t allow me to sit down. He kneels in front of me and lifts my skirt, slipping one shoe off and then the other. They are tossed carelessly to the side as if they didn’t cost a fortune. Still kneeling, he struggles out of his jacket.

“What are you doing down there?” I can’t keep the wide grin from my face as I watch his muscles bunch and move as he discards the coat. The tie, the shirt, and his undershirt follow leaving his gleaming chest highlighted by the golden lamplight.

“What do you think?” he says.

“Shouldn’t I be removing my dress too?” I’m anxious to love him. I lift up my skirt, but he stays my hand.

“Undressing the bride is the groom’s job.” His hands slide up my stockings, stopping at the garters. “So old-fashioned. I like,” he murmurs. A finger traces the tops of the silk stockings, pausing to climb over the small bump made by the clip of the garter and then continuing around. He does this again and again until the sensations make me dizzy, until my thighs are on fire, and he has barely touched me. My legs can’t hold me, and when I begin to fall his strong hands encircle the backs of my thighs and thrust me upright.

“Whoa there, baby. You’ve got to be standing up for this.”

“I can’t,” I whimper. It’s not a plea, but a statement of fact. I can’t stand up. My legs are jelly, my core is aching, and desire is making me cloudy headed. His features are carved out of stone. His jaw is solid granite and his nose a sharp blade. He’s beautiful and harsh like the mountains and yet, there’s softness in his lips and tenderness in his eyes.

I am your shield. Your weapon.

I am the Nathan of the Charlotte and Nathan we were meant to be.

Our love will never die.

Can I come just from a touch, a look, a word? Perhaps. If the touch is Nathan’s, if the eyes are his, if the words come from his mouth. My breaths come in short, shallow pants, and the ache in my stomach spreads.

“You can,” he replies implacably and moves my feet shoulder-width apart. “Hold your skirt, baby. My hands are going to be busy.”

I crumple the expensive fabric between tight fists and rest them against my waist. One broad palm at the base of my spine steadies me. His other hand? One long finger rubs along the edge of the silk panties—the ones I have ruined by my inability to resist even one caress from this man’s hands.

“Nathan, stop teasing me,” I demand. I may even stomp my foot.

“No,” he replies, but his finger slips under the sodden fabric to stroke my swollen flesh. The contact is electric, pulling a soft gasp from me. I feel the heavy pulse of my heart at every juncture—on my neck, in my wrists, between my legs. My knees threaten to collapse, and I rock backward against his firm hand. Two of his fingers bracket my sex, moving molasses-slow along my skin. “I’m here, on my knees, showing you my devotion.”

“Show me your devotion while we’re lying down and I can feel you,” I beg.

He ignores my pleas.

“All day and night I thought about what might be under this froth of a dress. After we walked down the aisle, after we were pronounced man and wife, I wanted to whisk you off to a private room. During the infernal never-ending dinner, sitting beside you, I wanted to ruck up your skirt and touch your knee, your thigh, your pussy.” He plunges both fingers inside me, and only because of his hands do I remain upright. A high-pitched cry escapes me, and I drench his hand. He laughs, a dark, throaty noise of satisfaction. With a twist of his fingers, he tears the delicate fabric and exposes me to his ravaging gaze. He attacks me with his mouth, sucking hard on my clit and thrusting his fingers inside me relentlessly until I hit the peak of ecstasy again. This time not even his hands can keep me upright.