The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

“Out of the zone of danger?”

“It seems to me that if you’re a recovering alcoholic, you don’t stay next to a brewery.”

This makes me laugh. “The naval base is a brewery?”

“I hear from Reese that they are churning out high-quality products on a daily basis,” she proclaims. I laugh a little more and say goodbye.

“Sorry, honey.” Reese kisses me on the cheek. “Call your LA guy. Go down to the Gaslamp district. Pick up a nice guy, take him to a nearby hotel, screw his brains out, and come back here for the night.”

“Sounds like a lot of work,” I say, hugging him back.

“Do something,” he orders. “Don’t stay here. Don’t go to the beach. Get out and enjoy yourself.”

“Yes, dad.”

He opens the door and leans down to give me another kiss on the forehead. “I hate leaving you.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine. Call me when you land.”

“I will.”

We hug again. I linger in the door as he walks down the hallway, past a few room service trays and a guy fiddling with a lock. The man, a big one with broad shoulders, watches Reese’s retreating back before turning to face me.

“Nate,” I gasp. My hand flies to my throat. Hurriedly, I back into my room, but I’m not fast enough. His foot and hand are in the doorway, and it flies open.

“It’s been a long time, Charlotte,” Nate says grimly.

29

Nathan

“What are you doing here?” she spits at me. I stalk her until she crumples into a nearby sofa. Leaning forward, I place one arm on the back near her head.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“Really?” She scoffs. “You had nine years to say something. The time for talking is over. Get out.”

Her arms are folded at her side, and she refuses to look at me.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me why you were on my beach.”

“Your beach,” she sputters, but I interrupt her.

“The only people that come to that part of the beach on Coronado Island are frog hogs, curious tourists, and wannabes. Which one are you?” I demand angrily. I want to rage at her that I’ve been faithful to her for nine years while she’s sleeping with some guy, sharing a hotel room with him, bringing him to my beach. Who is he? I want to howl.

“I should slap you right now.” She stands up, pushing my arm away. We’re about two inches apart now.

“For what? For not touching another woman in nine years? For thinking of you every minute of the day? For reading and re-reading your letters until they are almost worn through?” I want to shake her, kiss her, make love to her until we can’t move a finger.

She gapes at me in disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

“I haven’t slept with, fucked, had a blow job, gone down on another woman, brought her off, had a hand job by anyone other than myself in nine years. That’s what I’m talking about. I haven’t had sex. Not the Bill Clinton kind and not any other kind with another woman since I slept with you when I was seventeen and you were fifteen. No one. That’s what I’m talking about. Can you say the same thing?”

“Yes, dammit, I can,” she shouts back. She claps a hand over her mouth, but it’s too late. I don’t know who that guy is who walked out of the room, and I don’t care now because he never had her. He’s never been inside her. He’s never licked her sweet juice or touched her sweet pussy.

“You’re mine, Charlotte Randolph.” I pull her flush against me with one hand and drag her hand away from her mouth with the other. She says something, but I don’t know what it is because my mouth is on hers. My tongue traces the seam of her lips demanding entrance.

She tastes of salt.

And home.

And forever.

Her lips part, and I’m inside her. I’m licking every square inch, from her teeth to the cheek to the sensitive roof. Her tongue rubs against the side of mine. I can feel her lips moving when it hits me: she’s kissing me back! I spear my fingers through her hair to angle her head so I can kiss her deeper . . . I want to embed myself in her senses so that she can’t remember anything but me. We sink into the cushioned sofa until her whole body is pressed under mine. I can feel her from shoulder to thigh. Her hardened nipples jut into my pecs.

She kisses me, and I’m thrown back to a time in my life where everything was innocent and sweet. When I’d taken her virginity and wished I’d saved my first time for her.

Her fingers run restlessly along my waistband, as if she wants to touch me but is afraid. And I’m afraid. Afraid if I stop kissing her she’ll turn me away. I have to show her that she can’t live without me. I have to make her need me.