He held her elbow, drew close to her, and put his lips on her temple. Her eyes closed. His unshaven jaw abraded her cheek and his breath was hot in her hairline as his whispered, “Goodbye, Charlotte.” He didn’t withdraw, and Charlotte felt as though her feet were bolted to the floor. His lips stayed on her temple, his breath shallow and quiet. Gradually he began to brush his lips over the vein pulsing near her eye.
“Oliver…” started Charlotte, but there the thought ended. His lips traveled a little to the ridge of her brow, breath warm, lips just barely making contact with her skin. Charlotte tried to move away but her brain had disengaged and she could only stand and pray that he would stop.
“This is…” she tried again. But he didn’t stop. He placed soft kisses on the apple of her cheek, at the corner of her jaw, behind her ear, all slowly, slowly, waiting for her to stop him, not daring to believe she wouldn’t.
How far would he go, Charlotte wondered, if she didn’t say no?
With one hand still on her elbow, his other hand went to her face, fingers spread wide over her cheek, thumb on her chin, and his lips met hers. His kiss was patient, awaiting her invitation. It came. Her lips parted involuntarily and he deepened the kiss, thumb tugging her jaw downward. She knew she had to stop him, but her protest never made it to her lips. His mouth was traveling down her throat now, his hand bracing the nape of her neck.
Charlotte’s hands flexed with indecision–her arms wanted to wrap around him, but she wouldn’t allow it. His hand on her elbow moved to her waist and gripped her body against his. As a compromise, she put one hand on his bicep, feeling his muscles moving under the fine wool of his jacket.
“Oh no,” she whispered, and her mouth found his.
It’s just a fuck, she insisted to herself, and it echoed in her brain like a mantra. It’s just a fuck. It’s just a fuck. She wrapped her arms around his neck and drew his tongue into her mouth, fingers knotting in his hair. He let out a low noise, like a cat purring, and his hands traveled over her back, over the thin cotton of her robe, down and over her ass. The surface of her skin flared into sensation, too long deprived. Already aware of his erection pressed against her, she tightened her hold around him and pressed her hips against his.
His hands fumbled at the belt of her bathrobe as he kissed her; it fell open. He slipped his hands under the fabric, greedily and impatiently wrapping his arms around her waist, running his hands over her skin. Her exposed breasts pressed against the buttons of his jacket. She could hardly get enough air through the kiss to release the short, high-pitched grunt these sensations forced from her lungs. She pushed his jacket from his shoulders and he released her long enough to let it drop from his arms. Still kissing him, Charlotte attacked the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers, pulled the fabric from its neat tuck, and yanked the shirt away from his chest–only then remembering that he was wearing a tie.
“Ow,” said Oliver, smiling as he pulled out of the kiss, and he loosened the knot enough to pull the tie over his head. Now she pushed the shirt off his shoulders and put her arms around his neck again, to press her breasts against his bare chest. He pushed Charlotte away roughly, eyes blazing, jaw set in a fierce and wicked expression. In a rush, Charlotte worried that he would stop them as he did last night, but then in one movement he grabbed the lapels of her bathrobe, pushed the fabric from her shoulders, and trapped her arms against her body with it, pulling her against him, their faces not an inch apart. A little fear mingled with her arousal as she met the hard, intense gaze. He held her fast against him, eyes locked, and pushed her backward until her knees backed into the living room couch. She sank down. She watched as he stripped quickly, and she grinned in anticipation as the familiar erection emerged from his boxers–thick, long, straight, and rigid. Oh yum.