Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
When Charlie rolled his eyes, I tugged his hair playfully and pulled him against my chest in a fierce embrace. I kissed the top of his head before releasing him.
Oliver cast a curious gaze between us. “I knew it.”
I smiled and shrugged. We hadn’t gone out of our way to keep “us” on the DL, but I was usually reserved when it came to public displays. However, I was pretty sure the band knew there was something between Charlie and me. We didn’t grope each other or make out in front of them, but we didn’t keep our distance either. I firmly believed in doing what felt natural, and being with Charlie felt right and good and easy. But if Oliver knew, the cat was officially out of the proverbial bag ’cause there was no way we’d ask a nine-year-old to keep a secret.
“Is that cool by you?” I asked Oliver, lowering my hand to rest on Charlie’s hip.
“Yeah. As long as you guys don’t get weird. Don’t kiss too much, but don’t stop talking to each other either. That’s what grownups always do. They do too much or they don’t do anything at all.” He snapped his helmet on, then rode his skateboard a few feet away from us.
“Words of wisdom,” Charlie whispered. “FYI. Everyone will know now.”
“Fine by me.” I nodded as I bent to collect my stuff. “Come on. Let’s drop him at your dad’s and go to your place and do it. I’ll look up some dad jokes to entertain you on the way back.”
“Thank God we drove separately,” he snickered before leaning in to kiss me.
Fifteen minutes later, I parked my truck on the street in front of Charlie’s townhouse and met him inside his garage. He waited for me next to his BMW with a shy smile.
I pushed my hair behind my ear and stopped a foot away from him. “What are you thinking about?”
“You. Thank you,” Charlie said.
“For what?”
“For being kind to Ollie. For being patient. I’m sorry I doubted you when you suggested skateboard lessons. You were right.”
I cocked my head in surprise and pulled out my cell. “Hang on.”
“What are you doing?” he asked, setting his hands on his hips.
“Start over. I need to record this.”
Charlie swatted my hand away, then snaked his arms around my waist and looked up at me in pure adoration. “I take it back. I must be hungry. I think I should feed you to take away any weirdness. ’Cause if I attempt to seduce you with a grilled cheese sandwich and I misread the room, I can always say it was just a fuckin’ grilled cheese, you know?”
I nodded as I stepped into his space. “Yeah, but I don’t want a fuckin’ grilled cheese. I just want you.”
I slid my fingers through his hair, smiling when he leaned into my touch like a greedy cat. I massaged his scalp tenderly before sealing my lips over his. Charlie wrapped one arm around my neck to pull me to his height. I braced my hand on his car, caging him against the vehicle as I plunged my tongue into his mouth. I wasn’t sure how long we made out in the garage. We took our time with soft, probing kisses and roving hands. I ran my fingers along his throat and down his chest once or twice before I unbuttoned his shirt. That must have been the signal he was waiting for, because he broke the kiss with a gasp, then grabbed my dick through my jeans and squeezed me.
“Come inside.”
He paused to turn on the lantern-style lights over his kitchen island and shrugged his coat off, laying it over a barstool before leading the way to his bedroom.
Charlie’s townhouse was neat and clean and beautifully decorated with colorful but tasteful accents. In other words, he didn’t have a single poster hanging on his walls. And no instruments either. I bet if we lived together, he’d assign a designated area for my guitars and skateboards and—oh…fuck. I wasn’t ready for that. I didn’t do the live-in thing. I’d never wanted to. Charlie wouldn’t be easy to live with either. He was too picky, too prickly, too perfect. Except when he wasn’t. Because sometimes he was a fucking tornado. And he had rooms in his home that reflected that part of him. His master suite, for example, was pure chaos.
“Oh. Fuck. Gimme a second.” He clicked on the lamp on the nightstand, gathered the pile of clothes on his bed and dumped them on the already overloaded chair in the corner. He tripped on a pair of red high-heeled boots and landed at my feet on the plush white area rug in the middle of the room.
I offered him a hand but changed my mind and kneeled beside him. “This looks comfortable,” I hummed, pushing him flat and climbing over him.