Page 50

Story: Caged By the Stranger

He grunts an annoyed sound as though he’s perturbed I’ve interrupted his sleep, and yet, he turns his head toward my touch like he wants me to stay close. He’s going to be the death of me, I swear. Leaning over, I place a soft kiss on his lips. If anything can get him to reconnect with his fight-or-flightresponse, it will surely be a kiss, judging by the way he looked when I first tasted his mouth a little while ago. I don’t want him to regret anything or think I tricked him into staying. As my lips dust his, however, he lets out a sleepy little moan.

Charlie in my bed for the night it is, then. I’m certainly not going to complain.

I go to the bathroom and wet a cloth, returning to find him on his side, hugging my pillow underneath his head. “Settled right in, didn’t you?” I murmur.

I do my best to gently clean him up. When I get to his cage, though, I cringe. How long is he going to think he needs it?

I have yet to see him come to me without it once. I suspect for him it’s like a child’s teddy bear, bringing him a false sense of comfort for the things he fears. Charlie is, without a doubt, a man who needs an excuse to experience intimacy—something he can blame for letting his hair down.

As I turn out the lights and slide into bed behind him, I can’t help but wonder if there’s more to it. Is it the letting go he fears, or is it me?

CHAPTER 17

Charlie - Three weeks later

Fuck. I need to see him.

Not because I want to, but because I have to. The news I overheard about the Divine family considering selling is too big to pass up. If Amor acquired their company, we’d be an international chocolate empire. Rory would want in on that, right? Never mind how amazing it would be if I were the guy to make it happen—that’s not the point.

Staring across the parking lot at headquarters, I tell myself to just grip the car door handle and open it. Nothing happens, though.

“Who cares? You’ve been working under him for months now, and you both manage it just fine,” I reassure myself aloud.

I try to ignore how that phrase ‘working under him’ always makes my cock stir. But I’ve managed it…sort of. Well,hemanages it just fine. I’ve been struggling to be honest.

Anytime I have to interact with him, whether it be via email or in person, it’s like I lose all common sense and become a scatterbrained airhead. And the bitch of it is that I know why. It’s because I haven’t had a fix of him in three weeks. It’s killing me. It shouldn’t be, but it is.

That was the last time, Charlie. I repeat the words to myself, hoping the message sinks in this time.

He…kissed me. And I…kissed him back. A lot.

And then I fell asleep, and I’m pretty sure he cleaned me up. We…slept together in the same bed. All night. I saw his sleeping face in the morning when I woke up, curled into him like a baby kangaroo, gripping onto its mother. Things were getting way too complicated.

I thought I could just sneak out, but no. I’m not that lucky. He sat up with sexy bedroom hair and offered to cook me breakfast. Breakfast! Like…like a boyfriend or something.

What would I do with a boyfriend? What would my brothers say if I had a boyfriend? How would I work for a boyfriend?

See! Complicated. Way too fucking complicated.

“It’s a three-billion-dollar deal, Charlie,” I inform myself. “Just get out of the car, march in there, anddo notstare at his mouth or think with your ass.”

Wrenching the door open, I move on pure willpower toward the entrance. I hope it doesn’t run out before I get to the third floor. By the time I make it to Rory’s assistant’s desk, I’m trembling and want to throw up.

He greets me chipperly, and an ugly thought clouds my brain. Has Rory fucked him? Does hewantRory to fuck him?

Ugh. I hate this.

Luckily, he tells me I can go in. I want to snort and inform him I don’t need permission to storm in and see the man I let fuck me, but I haven’t lost all my marbles just yet. As soon as I’m inside and the door closes behind me, however, my piss and vinegar dissolve. I hate how the sight of him is like a damn sedative to my system. It turns me into some dopey-eyed, smitten fool as though he’s an aphrodisiac.

“Charlie,” he greets from his desk chair, looking way too good in a dress shirt and tie. I want to tear it off with my teeth and ask him to tie my hands up with it.

Jesus fucking Christ. What is wrong with me?

“I didn’t know you were in the neighborhood today,” he adds, tossing a file to the side.

“I…I wanted to discuss something with you,” I manage, taking a few steps closer.

He motions to the chair on the opposite side of his desk, but I forgo the offer. Instead, I stuff my hands in my pockets and look out the line of windows in his office.