Page 27 of The Rest is History

Elodie

‘ C ome on,’ I tell him. ‘I need you.’

I do. I need Charlie buried deep inside me. I need the pressure. The thrusts. That feeling that it’s almost too much to bear, that I’m on the right side of overwhelm.

And after the things he’s said to me tonight, things that suggest he’s held a torch for me for some time and that made my insides go hot and melty, I can’t wait to see how he’ll do this.

Whether he’ll rail me, as Zara predicted, or make love to me.

Whether he’ll be dirty or intense or both.

Talkative or silent but deadly. Whether?—

Oh, fuck. Fuck . He pulls up and thrusts, and I gasp.

Spread my knees so I can fit him. My eyes go wide and I hold his gaze.

His expression tells me he means serious business.

He bites down on his full lower lip as he thrusts again, and holy mother of God.

He’s in, and I’m so full my skin beads with sweat despite the cool evening.

I adjust my position a little. Stretching myself.

Accommodating him. Suspended for a moment in the most incredible limbo, where the sensation of fullness is so great that it feels like a great load is bearing down on my chest. I can scarcely breathe.

I reach up to cup his jaw, our eyes meeting in an I can’t believe this is finally happening moment of triumph.

His stubble is growing already. The friction of it when he went down on me was amazing.

He begins to move. Slow, lazy thrusts like he’s getting his bearings. Seeing how much I can take. Refusing to let me look away from those dark, hooded eyes.

As if I could look away.

I clamp down on his muscular shoulders and hang on. It’s like the beginning of a roller coaster ride, when it starts off gently, but you know it’s going to show no mercy once it builds.

‘Last weekend,’ he huffs out. ‘At the palace.’

‘Yeah?’ I squeak.

‘I have never wanted anything in my life’—thrust—‘as much as I wanted to fuck you up against that wall.’ Thrust. ‘Or at least get my cock out and shoot my load all over those gorgeous bare ass cheeks of yours.’ Thrust.

Okay then.

I’m getting an idea of which approach he’s going with.

And I like it.

The memory of when he had me up against that wall hits me afresh. I definitely imagined things going that way too, both when he was bringing me to climax and pretty much every night in bed since then.

‘I wanted it, too,’ I manage. Now that my muscles have relaxed enough to accommodate him, his drives are bold, smooth, but his size and the impact of having him move inside me makes it hard to breathe, let alone speak. ‘Is that what you thought about, when you got yourself off afterwards?’

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. ‘Fuck, yeah, but also I thought about how you felt when you came. Clenched around my fingers. The noises you made. How I couldn’t survive without hearing them again.’

‘You’ll hear them again.’ I dig my nails into his shoulders. ‘And it’s still three-one to me.’

He groans and dips his head, kissing me hungrily.

I let my hands roam over him. His arms are braced either side of my face, his triceps rock-hard.

His back is flawless, his bum clenched hard and so divine I remind myself to get closer to it later.

There’s nothing else but him. On top of me.

Surrounding me. Consuming me from the inside.

The pressure is building. Morphing into something, the edges of which shimmer at the edge of my consciousness as Charlie moves slickly against me. Again. And again. And again.

‘Let’s make it four-two,’ he grits out, sliding a hand under my knee and tugging my leg over his shoulder.

Wow. The change in angle gets him even deeper than I would have thought was physiologically possible. The tightness in my chest is greater. The shimmering pleasure builds. I’m pure sensation. I feel it everywhere in my body.

‘Amen,’ I croak. We’re both slick with sweat. Tingles light up my body, inside and out. Charlie’s mouth is on mine, his tongue matching his dick stroke for stroke, his hand clamped down on my bum, holding me flush against him as he bottoms out deep within me, over and over.

And I break. The pleasure that’s built somewhere far inside me courses over me in a spectacular tidal wave that renders me blind and dumb, my mouth stretched open in a silent O as I arch and buck against Charlie.

‘Fucking hell,’ he groans. ‘I can feel you coming on my cock. Jesus Christ , sweetheart.’

As I come down from my blinding orgasm, Charlie digs his fingers hard into my ass and lets himself go over the top, dragging out my name in an agonising groan as he shudders and empties himself into me. I cling to him, my lips dragging over his skin as he pulses inside me.

Holy shit.

I’m glad I held on tight.

Post-double-orgasm Charlie is a different creature from the anxious Charlie who greeted me an hour ago.

This guy’s so laid back he’s practically horizontal.

He’s in shorts and a t-shirt that reads I HAVE A HARD-ON FOR REVISIONIST HISTORY.

Apparently, one of his classes presented him with it last year.

He’s dressed me in the shirt he was wearing, and I quite like it.

He’s only fastened a couple of buttons. He said there’d be nothing sexier than me completely naked in one of his shirts, but we compromised.

I’m wearing a pair of his boxer briefs too—men don’t seem to get that no condom equals leaky love juices after sex. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.

He won’t let me out of his grasp. The sea bass is baking happily in its parchment parcel, and right now he’s grilling vegetables on the barbecue with one hand in between swigs of his wine.

He has the other arm wrapped lazily around me, gluing me to his side.

He keeps raining kisses down on the crown of my head, my forehead, and, when I lift my face to his, my lips.

The dogs have materialised and are sitting watchfully, their noses twitching constantly.

I love it. I love the closeness, the post-orgasmic cloud we’re both on, and most of all, I love his easy, carefree manner.

Charlie scared the living crap out of me earlier.

I’m not sure exactly what was going down—either serious anxiety or the beginnings of a full-on panic attack—but I’m really glad he was able to snap out of it, and that I was able to help him, even a little.

It was surprising to see him like that, given how outwardly wooden he’s been for the vast majority of the time I’ve known him.

But then again, his inability to show emotion isn’t the healthiest of behaviours.

I’m just glad he can find it within himself to show me his true self—the good stuff and the bad.

‘If only I’d known sex was the answer to your can’t-smile-won’t-smile problem,’ I tell him, ‘I might have just given you a blowjob in the interview.’

His hand runs over my upper arm, cupping my shoulder. ‘That would have been incredibly unprofessional and immoral of me, and I would, of course, have been completely open to it.’

‘You should know that now I’ve tricked you into relaxing, I’m going to bombard you with intrusive questions.’

‘I’d be disappointed if you did anything less.’ He releases me with a sigh and picks up a platter. On go the grilled peppers and courgettes.

I watch him and say, ‘Okay. I’ll lead in gently. You mentioned the other day that Martha’s your niece. Does that mean you’re related to the Fisher massive?’

He chuckles. ‘Yeah. Her dad’s my brother. Jack. Well, half-brother, really, but that’s academic.’

‘I need more info. And I’m not stopping there.’ I take a sip of my utterly delicious wine. I could get used to this: excellent wine, alfresco orgasms, and a devilishly sexy man cooking for me.

He mock-rolls his eyes and carefully lifts the parcel of fish onto another platter. ‘Here. You take the veg; I’ll take this.’

The dogs scurry behind us as we go to put the food on the enormous wooden table just inside the curved wall of folding doors.

His kitchen is outrageous—a long space taking up one whole leg of the L-shaped house.

It finishes in a semi-circle of bi-fold doors, which are completely open now, looking out onto the lush gardens.

Charlie has already brought in the wine and laid out a couple of jewel-coloured salads.

Once he’s unwrapped the fish and cut it up with a fancy-looking fish knife (something tells me he’s a gadget guy), we sit and dig in.

‘Your brother,’ I prompt him.

‘Right.’ He spoons some pomegranate-studded couscous onto my plate.

‘We have the same mum. Jack’s dad died when he was really young, and Mum met Dad a few years later.

I’m seven years younger than Jack. He doesn’t really remember his dad, though he kept his name.

But he calls my dad Dad, and to all extents and purposes, we’re brothers. ’

‘Wow. And they have loads of kids, right? Him and his wife?’

‘Kind of. He has four with his ex, Stacey. Glamorous, blonde, American. Ring a bell?’

I nod. ‘One of her twins, Augie, is in my class.’ And I crush hard on almost everything Stacey Fisher wears.

‘Of course he is. Well, I’ve known Stace for twenty years.

She and Jack met at uni. But then they split up, and he met Emmy.

She was pregnant at the time—Bertie’s father’s a bit of a prick.

He’s in the picture, but Jack is very much bringing up Bertie.

And then they had another, Aurelia, just for the hell of it. Leia. Shoo. ’

‘Wow. So six kids.’ I inadvertently press my thighs together as the spaniel shoots Charlie a look equal parts mournful and resentful and slinks outside. ‘I’d counted five.’