Page 38 of Charlie Sunshine (Close Proximity #2)

FIFTEEN

CHARLIE

I crouch over Misha, panting and riding his cock hard. I can already feel the tell-tale tingle in my balls, and I lean back, clutching his thighs and feeling my hair hit the sweaty skin on my back. “Oh God,” I groan.

I spread my legs wide and strong hands grip my hips, guiding the fast and dirty grind I’ve instigated.

Misha grunts as I squeeze my muscles tight around his cock.

“Fuck,” he mutters and gives a low stuttered groan as his cock jerks inside me.

I watch his face contort, his mouth open as he pants through his climax, and then I close my eyes as he grabs my dick in his big hand, and I spurt over his fingers.

For a long few minutes, the room is silent as we lie panting and occasionally groaning as aftershocks hit us, and then I grab the base of his cock, securing the condom as I lever off him.

We both moan, and I collapse into the sheets next to him as he removes the condom and ties a knot in it before throwing it into the bin next to the bed.

“I’ll clean up in a minute,” I mutter.

“No need.” He grabs the base of the duvet and dabs my stomach and hand before wiping his dick. I chuckle and he shoots me a look, his eyes bright in his face. “What?”

“Haven’t you ever read any romance novels, Misha? This is the point at which you’d go into the bathroom and get a wet towel and then clean me tenderly.”

“How do you clean someone tenderly?” he asks, mystification rich in his voice.

I smile. “I’ll give you a clue. Not with bedsheets.”

“Charlie, we’re going to stick this in the wash today anyway, and it’s king size.” He spreads his hands and shrugs. “Better than an itty-bitty Kleenex. At least you’re properly clean and not lying in a wet patch.”

He reaches over and adjusts the massive pile of books that have quickly accumulated on my bedside table since I’ve been spending every night in his bed.

“This is like the Leaning Tower of fucking Pisa, Charlie,” he says disapprovingly.

“One day, this will collapse and fall on you. It will instantly knock you out, and it will all be the fault of you and your bookworm tendencies, and I shall make sure to tell you that.”

“I need to read them,” I protest. “They’re the Printz Book Award entries.”

“Even worse,” he sniffs.

I look at him and smile. “You don’t like the Printz Award? Well, quelle surprise.”

He sits up to examine the top book, putting his hand out as the stack teeters. He shoots me a speaking glance, and I laugh. “Look at this,” he scoffs. “So pretentious. I always think the top book awards are like that story of the emperor’s new clothes.”

“Someone wanders around naked?” I ask, mystified.

He rolls his eyes. “No, just loads of top literary critics who proclaim that a book is good and everyone else immediately jumps up to say they agree, because they don’t want to argue with an expert and they want to appear literary. I prefer the awards voted for by readers. More honest.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” I say slowly. “I’m going to do a library book award and make up displays. We can have weekly voting.”

“Less librarianing and more loving,” he advises me quickly, because he obviously recognises that I’m about to become swept up with ideas.

He smiles at my grunt of disapproval and throws himself next to me before reaching down as my legs spread automatically.

I give a happy sigh as he pets the skin around my hole before pushing a couple of fingers gently inside me.

I hate the emptiness when we’ve finished fucking, and he knows it.

He kisses my neck and then my mouth before giving a contented rumble. After a few minutes, he removes his fingers and draws me next to him to lie in a patch of sunlight.

I nudge him. “Nice day for a white wedding.”

He groans. “Please don’t say that, Billy Idol.”

“But it is. Especially when it’s your mum.”

“Oh God,” he says faintly. “Charlie, can’t we say I have flu and can’t make it?”

“Even if you had flu she’d still expect you to walk her down the aisle.”

“What about Ebola? Would that matter to Bridezilla?”

I laugh. “Jackie isn’t Bridezilla. She’s very chilled.” I nudge him again. “You’re the one having a meltdown.”

“I do not have meltdowns ,” he says, sounding highly indignant. Then he catches my eye and laughs. “It was so much easier when I was sleeping with men I didn’t know. They couldn’t lecture me in any way.”

I still. “Do you mean that?”

He shoots me a surprised look. “Of course I fucking don’t. You know that.” He pauses. “You do know that, don’t you, Charlie?”

We’re interrupted when his alarm sounds, and a few seconds later the radio comes on. Misha has always hated the sound of an alarm. “Magic” by Coldplay starts to play, and I smile, rolling on top of Misha.

“What are you doing?” he asks, giving me the sleepy smile that’s so special. It’s soft, the edges blurred with sleep and a good orgasm, and I love that I’m the one who gets to see it .

I smile determinedly down at him. “This is my song for you,” I say.

He cocks his head to one side. “Does Chris Martin know that you’ve nicked it?”

I pinch his side. “I mean it.”

He stills and looks at me. “What?”

I take a deep breath. “The words of the song. I really mean them.”

He cocks his head to one side, listening for a few minutes, and then he smiles at me, pulling me down to kiss him. “Really?” he asks almost bashfully.

“Really,” I whisper. “My song for you.”

We look into each other’s eyes as Chris Martin sings about love. It’s a word that hasn’t passed our lips since we’ve entered this new phase of our relationship. I’ve skirted close a couple of times, because of course I love him. How could I not?

He’s always been the most important person in my life, but I’d always thought that eventually, I’d have to make my partner number one. I never thought Misha would occupy both spots, and I’ve never been happier. He’s everything to me now—best friend, lover, sounding board, and cheerleading squad.

However, because it’s so good I’m also half waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It’s a fact that Misha has never stuck around long enough with any of his lovers to develop feelings.

Will he be scared if I tell him what I feel?

It’s a strange situation in that he’s the first person I tell my worries to and now he’s part of the problem.

He looks up at me and smiles.

“What’s your song for me?” I ask, rather abruptly.

“Erm, let me think.” He winks. “‘I Wanna Sex You Up.’” I frown, and he laughs. “No, hang on, it’s ‘Fuck Forever’ by the Libertines.” I manoeuvre off him, stung, and his laughter dies immediately. “No, wait,” he says. “Where are you going, Charlie?”

I stand up. “For a shower.”

“No, don’t go.”

His words fade away as the aura rises, clouding all my senses. The next moment, darkness descends.

When I come to, I lie there for a second, taking stock of the situation.

I’m completely naked, as is Misha. He’s sitting on the floor cradling my head in his lap and stroking my hair, and I know he’s been talking.

I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve come round to hear the comforting rumble of his voice.

But this is the first time it’s happened when we’ve been naked, and I’m oddly embarrassed and vulnerable—feelings I’ve never had around Misha before.

“Hey, you,” he says softly. “You’re back.”

I struggle up to a sitting position, feeling his hands support me. His touch and his voice are easy and soothing, but I feel a wave of shyness cover me, and I stagger to a standing position and climb onto the bed. I reach for the duvet, and he tucks it carefully around me.

“You alright?” he asks, stroking my hair back.

I swallow, grimacing at the horrible taste in my mouth, and he reaches for my water, helping me to a sitting position and pressing the glass into my hands.

“How long was I out?” I croak.

“Only a couple of minutes,” he says brightly.

How is it that he’s so at ease when I’m not? Oblivious to my strange turmoil, he carries on talking. “I caught you before you went down, so you never banged anything.”

Silence stretches, becoming almost awkward, and a frown appears on his face.

“Thank you,” I say finally, sipping my drink and trying to parse my mood. It seems to be hovering somewhere between gratitude and mortification and maybe nestling into a bit of grumpiness. My mum always described it as being out of sorts, and that’s exactly how I feel right now.

I know Misha has always taken care of me during the turns with no sign of any turmoil and I’ve never felt a jot of embarrassment, even when I pissed myself once. But I’m not sure how I feel to have him taking care of me now that we’re lovers. If I were a cat, my fur would be raised.

I open my mouth to say something to break the silence, but instead I yawn widely. My head is throbbing.

“Why don’t you sleep?” Misha says. His voice is confident and warm, and his expression fond. He pushes my hair back. “You always feel terrible after one of these turns. ”

“I need to record it,” I mutter. “For Freda.”

“Will she up your meds?”

“I don’t bloody know,” I snap. Where did that come from? “Sorry,” I mumble, grabbing his hand as he goes to move away. “I just want to be rid of them. I want them to stop like they did last time.”

“But Freda said it would take time to get you stabilised again and this is the first time you’ve had one in a week. That’s good, isn’t it?” he says coaxingly like he’s talking to a seven-year-old.

“I suppose so,” I whisper and close my eyes, the image of me lying naked in front of him while I had a seizure playing in my head. Not exactly sexy. For a split second I think of all the perfect-looking men who’ve patrolled through his life. Immediately, I wince and force my eyes open.

He’s watching me steadily. “Why don’t you stay in bed?” he says softly. “Get some sleep.”

“But the wedding?”