“Better?” I asked. He took a sip, eyeing me warily.
“You really made an effort tonight, huh?” he said, gesturing to my outfit, a pair of ripped jean shorts and a gray sweatshirt. I’d thrown my hair up into a ponytail. It was only then I registered that he was wearing nice dark jeans and a new-looking polo shirt.
“Left my ball gown in Toronto,” I replied.
He smirked, his eyes dropping to my legs. “My dates don’t wear ball gowns, Pers,” he said, his gaze returning to mine. “But usually they wear clean clothes.” I looked down and, yep, there was an orangey stain on the leg of my shorts. “You know, as a sign of a basic level of hygiene,” he added. I could feel myself heating, and his smile split open.
“Told you,” he said, his voice deep and low. He put his bottle down and took a step toward me. “Red neck. Twisted-up mouth. And your eyes are even darker than usual.” We stood like that, neither of us breathing, for several long seconds.
“It’s sexy as hell,” he rasped. “You’re so fucking sexy I can’t stand it.”
I blinked once and then threw myself at him, slinging my arms around his neck and bringing his mouth down to mine. I wanted to be wanted so badly. He met me just as eagerly, grabbing my waist and pulling me against his hard body. He held my hips against him with one hand and wrapped the other around my ponytail, pulling my head back and then sucking on the exposed flesh of my neck. When I moaned, he cupped my butt and lifted me off the floor, guiding my legs around his waist, parting my lips with his tongue and backing me up so I was sitting on the counter. He spread my legs wide and stepped between them, trailing a hand up my calf.
“I didn’t shave,” I whispered between kisses, and he laughed into my mouth, sending vibrations through me. He crouched down, holding my ankle, then ran his tongue from my shin up over my knee to the edge of my shorts, eyes on mine the entire time.
“I really don’t care,” he growled, then stood and captured my face between his hands. “You could go a month without shaving, and I’d still want you.” I squeezed my legs around him and kissed him hard, then bit down on his lip, making him groan. The sound was catnip to my ego.
“Let’s go upstairs,” I said, then pushed him away so I could jump down, and led him up to my bedroom.
His hands were on me as soon as we passed through the doorway. I walked backward until my knees hit the bed, and reached for his shirt at the same time he reached for mine. We took them off in a tangle of arms and then he unhooked my bra in seconds, throwing it onto the floor. My hands flew to the buttons of his jeans, desperate to feel him against me, to erase all the sad parts, to feel wanted. He watched me take them off, then unzipped my shorts, sliding them over my hips so they hit the ground. We stood in front of each other, breathing heavily, and then I pushed my underwear down my legs and moved closer to him, brushing my fingers over his shoulders. I didn’t realize they were shaking until Charlie put his hands on top of mine.
“Are you sure?” he asked gently. In reply, I pulled him down onto the bed on top of me.
* * *
I MUST HAVE fallen asleep immediately after because when I woke, pink morning sky glowed through the windows. Still groggy, I felt breathing on my shoulder before I realized there was a thigh thrown over me. The box of condoms my mom had given me last year sat open on the nightstand.
“Good morning,” a gravelly voice rasped in my ear. It sounded so much like Sam. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping it was a bad dream. He shifted his weight over me and kissed my forehead, nose, then my lips, until I opened my eyes and stared up into a pair of green eyes.
The wrong eyes.
The wrong brother.
I inhaled raggedly, seeking oxygen, feeling my pulse, fast and uncomfortable, all over my body.
“Pers, what’s wrong?” Charlie moved off me and helped me into a seated position. “Are you going to be sick?”
I shook my head, looked at him wild-eyed, and gasped, “I can’t breathe.”
* * *
I MOVED THROUGH the final days of summer in a fog of self-loathing, trying to figure out why I’d done what I’d done and how I could possibly tell Sam about my betrayal.
After the panic attack subsided, I kicked Charlie out of the cottage, but he’d come back in the afternoon to check on me. I yelled and screamed at him through hot tears, telling him it was a huge mistake, telling him I hated him, telling him I hated me. When I started hyperventilating, he held me tightly until I’d calmed down, whispering how sorry he was, how he didn’t mean to hurt me. He apologized once I had, looking pained and flattened, and left me alone feeling even worse for having hurt him as well.