Chapter 5

five

. . .

Charlie

The restaurant is a study in shadows and whispers, intimacy carved out in mahogany and candlelight. Alex dominates the space across from me, his presence an indomitable force that pulls at every sense.

"Let's come up with our story," I suggest as I swirl the wine in my glass, watching the red liquid cling to the crystal. "If we're going to convince everyone we're dating, we need a solid story."

"Okay," he says, though he seems less than thrilled about the prospect.

In fact, he's been brooding ever since the limo ride.

I look at him curiously. Just what's up with him?

My heart falls. Am I really that boring?

I focus on the task at hand. "It has to be plausible but romantic enough to satisfy the skeptics."

"Romantic..." he muses, drumming his fingers on the table.

"An event," I start, my mind ticking through scenarios with practiced ease, "One of my planning, naturally. You're there, not expecting much beyond business networking."

"Until I see you," he interjects smoothly, blue eyes locking onto mine.

"Exactly," I say, a shiver running down my spine, though I fight to keep my composure. "Our eyes meet across the room. There's an instant...something. A connection neither of us can ignore."

"Compelling," he says, his gaze tracing the contours of my face as if committing each detail to memory. "And then?"

"Then, you approach me. Confident. Direct." My voice drops a notch, mirroring the intensity in his eyes. "You're not accustomed to waiting for what you want."

"True," he acknowledges, a smile playing on those full lips. "I insist on taking you out. You're reluctant at first, but eventually, you concede."

"Because deep down," I add, the character I'm creating bleeding into my own reality, "I don't want to resist the pull between us."

"Perfect," he pronounces, the word a low growl of approval.

We delve deeper into our fiction, crafting each moment with care, unaware of how closely the lie entwines with a truth unspoken.

Alex's gaze lingers on me, unblinking, as if he's trying to decrypt my every expression. It's unnerving but enthralling—like being studied by a predator that has chosen its prey.

"Tell me something real," he says suddenly, his voice threading through the restaurant's hum like a velvet ribbon.

I falter, caught off-guard. "Real?" I echo, my practical nature grappling with the intimacy of the request.

"Anything," he prompts, leaning closer, the table between us the only barrier.

There's a vulnerability in his blue eyes, a crack in the armor of the billionaire CEO who's accustomed to scripted interactions and calculated moves. I relent, letting him glimpse behind my professional fa?ade.

"When I was little, I wanted to be an astronaut," I confess, the admission feeling both insignificant and monumental under his intense scrutiny.

"Reaching for the stars," he muses. And then he smiles, "Yes, I can see that."

His words wrap around me, binding, possessive . The air shifts, charged with something.

"What about you?" I ask him.

He stares at me so long I start to wonder if I've offended him.

Alex

The question catches me off guard—a simple inquiry, yet it feels like a test.

What can I reveal to her that isn't already public knowledge, something personal that doesn't expose too much vulnerability?

My fingers tap rhythmically against the glass of my wine, the red liquid swirling like the tumultuous thoughts in my mind.

"I used to write," I confess, my voice steadier than I feel. "Poetry, mostly. It was a way to escape the pressures of my family's expectations."

Her eyebrows lift, a hint of surprise coloring her expression. It's satisfying, this small victory of revealing an unexpected facet of myself. "Really? I wouldn't have pegged you for a poet."

I chuckle, the sound more genuine than I intend. "Few do. It was a long time ago." I pause, considering how much more to share. "It was about capturing moments, emotions...things I found hard to express aloud."

Her eyes soften, and she leans in slightly, her curiosity piqued. "Do you still write?" she asks, her voice tinged with a mix of hope and something else—something I don't dare hope for.

I hesitate, the truth knotted in my throat. "Not for years," I admit, feeling a sharp pang of loss for the part of me that reveled in versed expressions.

But looking into Charlie's eyes, lines flow through my head unbidden.

I could write volumes about her .

Charlotte nods thoughtfully, her gaze not leaving mine. "It's never too late to pick it up again," she says softly, the encouragement in her voice warming something inside me that had long been cold.

And I know now that I'm completely fucking in love with this curvy beauty.

The drive home is silent, thick with the residue of unfulfilled craving. My cock is so fucking hard, it's all I can do to keep from dragging Charlie's sexy self over here and pulling her onto my lap.

I want to grind myself against her and kiss her lips, her neck, that delicious fucking cleavage that's been taunting me all night.

When the limo purrs to a stop outside her place, I adjust myself as discreetly as I can before getting out to walk her to her door.

"Goodnight, Charlie," I murmur. I want to kiss her, but something tells me she won't be receptive to it.

Not now

"Goodnight, Alex," I replies with a smile that makes my dick ache. She steps inside, and the click of the closing door severs our connection.

I make my way back to the limo and throw myself into the backseat.

"Drive!" I snap at my driver as I roll up the partition that separates him from me.

I don't need anyone witnessing my insanity as I press my face into the seat where Charlie sat moments ago.

I inhale the lingering scent of her perfume mixed with the leather as I unzip my trousers and free my aching cock.

A stream of precum leaks from my tip. I smear it all over myself and begin to stroke.

Fuck, being so close to Charlie all night yet unable to touch her…it was torture.

"Charlie," I groan into the silence, her name a talisman invoking visions of what could be.

My hand moves in fervent strokes, chasing release as I fantasize about possessing her completely, utterly.

All while I sniff where her sweet ass sat like a deranged lunatic.

My climax builds swiftly, a crescendo of lust and frustration fueled by the electric images of Charlotte's curvaceous body, her green eyes veiled with desire in my mind's eye. I picture her lips parted, the sound of her breath hitched in expectation.

My strokes become more erratic, more desperate as I imagine sliding into her heat, feeling her clench around me.

"Fuck, Charlie..." My voice breaks on her name, the intensity of my fantasy overwhelming.

As the tension coils tighter within me, each stroke fans the flames higher, and I'm close—so damn close—to spilling myself while lost in thoughts of her. The imagined sensation of her soft thighs wrapped around my hips pushes me over the edge.

With a guttural groan, my release crashes over me in powerful waves. I come hard, hot streaks of semen splashing against my hand and the leather seat beneath me.

My breath is heavy, ragged, as I come down from the high, the reality of my situation sinking in with the cooling of my skin.

What the fuck am I doing?

I clean myself up with a handful of tissues from the compartment beside me, each wipe a harsh reminder of how dangerously close I am to losing control around her.

The frustration is still there, simmering beneath the post-orgasmic haze.

But it's not just sexual—it's emotional, this unsettling desire to claim her as mine .

In all ways possible.