The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

I squeeze my legs together, turned on by the hardness of his erection and the desperate gasps he makes when his head hits the back of my throat.

So lost in the pleasure, he forgets my orders and his hand drifts down to the crown of my head, pushing my long hair aside. I stop immediately and release him with a pop.

I look up, and his eyes flick open. His gaze snaps to his hand, and he lifts it immediately back into place behind his neck.

“Good soldier,” I murmur.

“It’s sailor,” he corrects me.

“What?

“I’m a sailor. Army has soldiers, Air Force—you know what. I don’t really care. Call me a soldier. Will you just put your mouth back on me?” he begs.

With a wicked smile, I fist the base of him and attack, hollowing my cheeks and sucking harder and faster than before. His sounds take on a rough edge, and his legs become tense. Above me he spits out single syllable words as if breathing is an effort.

Charlotte.

Your mouth.

So good.

Fuck.

I can’t.

Don’t stop.

Yes.

I’m coming. Shit, Charlotte. Now. I’m coming now.

He tries to jerk away, but I follow him, drinking him down until every drop of him has slid down my throat. And with his seed spent, his knees give way. He crumples in front of me, collapsing onto his knees.

“Charlotte, your gift. It was too much,” he says.

“It was no gift,” I drawl and take his hand to press it between my legs. “I wanted to. I did it for me.” All my modesty and shyness are gone because I don’t fear him. I don’t fear his rejection. When he asked me the other night to tell him what I wanted, I was afraid. I’m not anymore.

I want him to know that I’m turned on by pleasing him, by being with him, by him loving me.

He stills at the evidence of my desire and then slowly rubs between my legs. A slow, dirty smile spreads over his face. “My turn.”

He cups my face and draws me in for a fierce kiss—uncaring that I still have the taste of him on my tongue. The way his lips press against mine—it’s as if he wants to breathe only if he is attached to me. He conveys so much need and love though his lips. His hands glide down my back and then, with a sharp jerk, pull me tight against him. My legs fold around his hips, and he rises in one swift, elegant move.

In another second we are on the bed, the weight of his heavy body pressing me into the downy comforter and the soft mattress. “Start counting, baby, because I’m going to show you exactly how long I can hold my breath.”

He moves down my body until his shoulders are pushing my legs wide apart, exposing my core to his gaze. He spends a long time taking me in long, slow licks, exploring every part of me, sucking my inner thighs, my sex, the tender crease at my hip. His ministrations are endless as he brings me to the brink time and again. His turn, indeed.

He slides a condom on and pushes into me, the ruddy head of his cock stretching the swollen tissues. I move restlessly under him, and he whispers sweet things to me.

Let me in. Relax.

Shh. Doesn’t this feel good?

Your pussy is so tight. So fucking tight.

I let my legs fall open as he pushes into place, thrusting in deep until his cock is fully encased inside of me. He begins to move in smooth, even strokes. Into my hair, he continues his litany of praise.

God, you’re beautiful.

You feel like heaven.

I don’t ever want to leave this place, this moment.

I love you.

“Love you too,” I answer back, squeezing him tight inside me. “Always have. Always will.”

“I was a fool, baby. Such a goddamn fool.”

The broken words elicit ones he’s been waiting to hear. The ones that have been on the tip of my tongue since I read his letter. “I forgive you.”

His sure strokes stutter, and his head falls to the comforter beside me. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

He repeats himself and begins to thrust harder, pulsing against me. His words are drawn out and guttural as if they’ve come from deep inside him, a well of need that is exploding.

A hand dips between us, and his sure fingers find me, pressing down, circling and bringing me over the cliff and into the free fall of space called ecstasy. His hips jackhammer between my legs as he finds his own release. He flops on top of me, a mass of unmovable man. He makes a half-hearted attempt to move, but I clutch him tightly to me. I want to be crushed into the mattress. I want to luxuriate in the weight of his body heavy against mine. I listen to his breathing and match him, breath for breath until it is as if we are one being, inhaling and exhaling together.