Page 36 of The Rest is History

Charlie

‘ W hat’re you two up to for half term?’ Zara asks, swivelling around in her chair. ‘Apart from the Zooms of doom, I mean.’

I glance at Elodie. Next week is half term, but we haven’t really discussed our plans.

All three of us have a few revision sessions via Zoom over the week with our Upper Sixth classes, as A Levels start next month.

I have a few ideas, mainly involving luxurious country house hotels with good food, nice walks and a lot of nudity, but I haven’t pitched these to Elodie yet.

‘Not sure,’ I say. ‘Decompressing, hopefully. A bit of nature. You?’

‘Cheeky week in the Canaries with a few mates.’ Zara wriggles in delight. ‘I can’t bloody wait.’

‘Nice,’ Elodie says. ‘Whereabouts?’

‘Gran Canaria.’

‘Gorgeous. I could do with some sun, but I’m looking after Olive all next week.’

‘Are you?’ I ask. This is news to me, though I’m not sure why it hasn’t occurred to me that Elodie will be looking after her niece. After all, her sister works full-time and Olive will be off school.

‘Yeah.’ She twists around and shoots me a smile, and my day gets that little bit better. ‘We’ll do some day trips, though.’

We’ve been inseparable these past couple of weeks, and I have no intention of spending half term without some serious Elodie time. ‘Did I mention I’m far better with children who aren’t my pupils?’

Her eyebrows shoot up, hope flickering in her eyes. ‘Seriously? I mean, you were lovely with Olive at my parents’, but I didn’t know if you’d want to spend time with us.’

‘Of course I do. And she’s a cool kid. Quiet and thoughtful and smart—what’s not to like?

’ I actually enjoyed spending time with her at the barbecue.

She doesn’t shriek or spout crap, and I always appreciate meeting a fellow introvert.

‘And in case my mere presence isn’t enough of a draw, I’m also happy to offer my driving services. ’

I mention this because I can’t bear the thought of Elodie having to trek all over the South East of England on the train, and maybe if I tag along I’ll get away with paying a few of the entrance fees for whatever places they’ve got planned.

‘That would be amazing.’ She pushes her chair back and comes over, laying her hands on my shoulders. ‘Are you sure? And your presence is always enough of a draw.’

I cross an arm over my heart so I can lay a palm on top of Elodie’s and caress her fingers. ‘She can obviously chill at ours, too. If it’s nice, she can use the pool. I can heat it up a bit. We could get a couple of floaties, even.’

She’s silent, and I look up at her. She’s staring down at me.

‘You’re a good, good man, Charlie.’

‘Not really.’ I attempt to brush off the compliment. ‘It’s selfish, really. I want to see you. And if you’re a package deal next week, so be it.’ I squeeze her fingers, and we gaze longingly at each other’s mouths.

Zara interrupts our little moment. ‘Honestly, thank you, Elodie, for bringing this incredibly well-hidden part of Charlie to life. It’s like you’ve given him a lobotomy. Who’s up for some lunch?’

We show Olive a spectacular time during half term, and I thoroughly enjoy myself.

I persuade Elodie to spend practically every night with me, and we get into the habit of driving back to her sister’s house first thing to grab Olive before Grace runs out to work.

Olive turns out to be incredibly self-sufficient—surely the best type of kid there is?

She amuses herself for hours in the pool with an ice cream-shaped floatie or at my kitchen table with those intricate adult colouring books.

We balance those quiet times with some full-on day trips, from the delights of the South Downs to the full-on horror of a theme park.

Olive is far more fearless than my darling girlfriend, which amuses me no end, and I find myself on ride after ride with her while Elodie watches us from a safe distance on the ground.

But, aside from her unwillingness to step up for scary rides, one thing stands out as I observe Elodie with her niece.

She acts like a mother to Olive.

They’re close in a way that speaks of years of familiarity.

We wait in a queue for a 3D ride, and Olive leans against Elodie.

Elodie buries her nose in her niece’s hair and wraps her arms around Olive’s narrow shoulders.

She holds Olive’s hand and laughs as the kid skips beside her.

They call each other goofy nicknames and taste each other’s ice creams. No onlooker would guess they weren’t parent and child.

And it fucking crucifies me. Watching my beautiful girlfriend being so naturally maternal is simultaneously the epitome of all my fantasies and some kind of twisted visitation from the Ghost of Christmas Non-Future. Because I’ll never have that.

I can never give her that.

I push the pain down, deep beneath the surface, and attempt to treat this week as the gift it is, rather than the torture it could be if I let it.

It’s Sunday. After a week of child-minding and Zoom sessions before a knackering day at the palace yesterday, it’s time for Elodie and me to have a quiet, indulgent morning together before we head to my brother’s.

He’s ostensibly invited us to a casual barbecue, but really, it’s obligatory attendance, jointly orchestrated and mandated by his wife and ex-wife in order to meet and scrutinise not only my new girlfriend but presumably my behaviour in the presence of said girlfriend.

The horror.

Meanwhile, though, I have a very clear idea of what an ‘indulgent’ Sunday morning looks like with Elodie.

We’re sitting out on my bedroom terrace.

It’s a bit fresh at this hour, but I’ve wrapped us up in fluffy robes, and there are hot coffees on the table next to us.

This is possibly my favourite part of the house.

My bedroom is over the kitchen, on the east-facing leg of the L-shaped footprint.

Above the curved bank of doors in my dining area sits this semi-circular-shaped terrace, where I can salute the sun from a yoga mat or the two heavy loungers.

The trees in my and my neighbours’ gardens are mature enough that all I really see are leaves and roofs.

It’s my refuge.

One lounger is empty this morning, because I have Elodie sitting between my legs, her back the perfect weight against my chest. She’s reading the Times Culture supplement while I catch up on the Financial Times , holding the folded-up paper out to one side so I can read while I snuggle with her.

Monday to Friday, my reading habits throw me back a few centuries, but I like to keep up with the markets on the weekend.

Usually.

Today, the usual op-eds don’t stand a chance of keeping my attention when there’s a beautiful woman reclining against me, her robe exposing tantalising slivers of thigh and breast. The newspaper print dances in front of me, and I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of her hair.

Christ, that long dark hair, and the things it does to me.

We had sex last night, but we haven’t touched each other properly this morning, and I ache for her. I drop my paper on the ground and slide my hand around her front so I can stroke her neck.

‘Mmm.’ She sighs contentedly. ‘What is it about you and my neck?’

‘It was the first part of you I fell for,’ I murmur.

‘Really?’

I’ve never told her that before. She knows I have a thing for her neck—I think I made the point pretty forcefully, that first time at the palace—but I’ve never told her how that initial glimpse made me feel.

‘Yeah.’ My fingers trail down to the dip at her throat.

‘You had your back to me in the interview room. I took one look at your neck and, I swear, my legs nearly gave out. I can’t explain how it made me feel, except to say I was completely transfixed.

I didn’t know what I was looking for until I saw that slim, white neck of yours. ’

‘That’s a sweet story, Count Dracula.’ She pats my thigh through my robe.

‘Actually, I felt more like Henry. I had a very specific jolt of recognition of how Anne must have made him feel. And then you turned around, and?—’

‘The rest is history?’

‘I decided I could probably cope with the front view, too.’

‘Such a charmer.’

‘The front view is pretty fucking spectacular.’ I slide my hand downwards beneath her robe, finding one perfect breast and cupping it.

Weighing it in my hand. Admiring how perfectly it fits the cradle my palm makes.

My thumb skims over her nipple, and she makes a little noise that goes straight to my groin.

Turning, she finds my mouth and kisses me.

I open my mouth and find her tongue with mine as my thumb rolls languorously around her nipple.

This is Lazy Sunday. We’re taking this slow.

As my thumb works her nipple, her kisses grow more heated.

The sucks of her lips on mine more desperate.

I pull my mouth away and settle her so her back is squarely against my chest. Reach down and tug her robe open.

‘Let’s see how slow we can go, sweetheart,’ I whisper in her ear.

She gives a little laugh, like you’re delusional , and arches her back. ‘Let’s see, indeed.’

She has a valid point. I’m already hard as rock.

I kiss down the side of her jaw. She obliges by letting her head roll to one side, exposing that beautiful neck for me.

I give it a little nip—nothing that will mark—and run my tongue over the same spot.

My other hand slides around her and I roll both nipples between my fingers, marvelling at how stiff and plump they are.

The sweetest fucking things. My fingertips graze their sensitive caps, and she bucks.

‘Pinch them for me, Charlie,’ she begs.

‘Like this?’ I pinch the swollen flesh.

‘Yes,’ she hisses.

‘Nope.’ I kiss her neck and resume my featherlight touches. ‘This way is better.’

‘Better if you’re a sadist,’ she grits out, and I chuckle. She has no idea what I have planned for her.

I shift slightly on the lounger, pulling my knees up so the soles of my feet are flat on the cushion.

She follows, but I clamp my knees together as tightly as I can, trapping her legs firmly shut between mine.

I release one nipple, sweeping a hand between her breasts.

Over her smooth stomach. Between her legs.

I have to loosen my grip on her legs slightly to even get my hand there, but they’re still closed so tightly I can barely swipe a finger over her outer area. The folds of wet flesh we both want me to touch are locked tightly away at this angle.

I loosen the tiniest bit more and slip a finger in, finding and stroking her slickness. God, she feels amazing. We both groan at the contact. I know I’m barely grazing the surface, doing just enough to tease her and nowhere near what she needs from me.

But I want to see how slowly, how maddeningly, I can wind her higher.

I begin to move my fingers.

The lightest rolls to her nipple.

The subtlest strokes between her legs. I can just make out the barest outline of her clit as I brush my fingers up and down. Up and down. She’s let her reading material fall to the ground.

I have her full attention.

Her breathing, and the little noises she’s making deep in her throat, are shifting from appreciative to frustrated. I grin to myself.

She arches. ‘Charlie.’

‘Yes, gorgeous?’ I press my lips to her neck.

‘It’s too soft.’

‘I know.’

‘I need more.’

‘I know.’

I blithely continue doing exactly what I’ve been doing.

Tiny movements. Next to no pressure from my fingertips.

She tries to wriggle in frustration. I can relate.

I’m rock hard against her. This is torture for me too—the temptation to nudge her forward onto her hands and knees and bury myself up to the hilt is overwhelming.

Her breathing is shallow, ragged, as I slide my finger up and down in a kind of trance. She’s pushing against my legs, trying everything she can to crank them open.

‘Charlie.’ Her fingernails dig into the skin of my thighs.

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m going to come in a minute,’ she grits out with effort, ‘and it’s going to be the least satisfying experience of my life.’

I won’t let that happen, but she doesn’t know that yet.

‘Charlie. I swear to God, if you don’t stop pissing around, I’ll never go down on you ever again?—’

I laugh and drop my legs to the sides, letting hers fall open too, and I let my beautiful girl have it.

I pinch her nipple hard, and my fingers work frantically, giving her swollen clit as much pressure, as much friction, as they can muster.

She falls apart almost immediately. Her head drops back against my shoulder, her entire body convulses violently, and her fingers grip my thighs harder.

Fuck, she’s so heavenly when she comes. We’ve been doing this for weeks, and I’m still in awe that she lets me anywhere near her, let alone that she lets me have this kind of power over her beautiful body. I bury my nose in her neck as her shudders subside and inhale so hard I snort.

And then she’s up and out of my arms, swivelling around to face me, her expression a mix of ecstasy and murderous intent.

‘That was way too fucking close, Mister.’

I laugh. ‘Got you there in the end, though, didn’t I?’

‘If you hadn’t, you would have spent the next month making it up to me.’

I stare up at her. ‘I would have done so happily.’

She pulls at the strings of my robe and tugs it open, eyeing my aching cock greedily. ‘Seems like I wasn’t the only frustrated one.’

I raise my face so I can kiss her on those plush pink lips. ‘Definitely not.’

She straddles me, grabbing my dick and sliding it through her wetness, and I suck in a sharp breath through my teeth.

‘I’d torture you,’ she hisses against my mouth, ‘if I didn’t want you inside me so badly.’

And then she’s sliding down, impaling herself on me, enveloping me in her warm, tight channel, and my last coherent thought is wondering is how the fuck I’ve ended up in heaven.