18. Charlotte

18

CHARLOTTE

I can still feel Ivan's kiss, stinging my lips as I turn on the taps for the shower forcefully, listening to the water gurgling through the pipes before the spray finally comes on.

He's never kissed me like that before. I expected him to push me against the door, sit me on the edge of the desk, back me up to the bed, and tumble me back onto it. I expected passion, force, for him to take what he so obviously wants from me.

But he didn't. He just kissed me, and it was almost—sweet?

It confuses the hell out of me. Ivan is a forceful man, a man of violence and brutality. I know that now. But he's different with me. He's careful, considerate, and when I said no , he stopped immediately, even though I could see how badly he wanted it to be yes . I could feel it, when he was kissing me.

I've never slept with any man who gets as hard for me as Ivan does. Who wants me so desperately. And it's harder and harder with every passing day to ignore how much that turns me on, too.

He's the most confusing man I've ever known. I should hate him. I do hate the things he's done. I hate that he's lied to me. That he's blown up my life.

But I don't hate the man who took me out to the lake and told me things about himself. Who is risking everything to get me to some semblance of safety, when he could have just cut loose and left me with Bradley—or even before that, when his brothers were coming for me at my apartment. He could have run then, but he didn't. He came to get me, and even if—in my opinion—he went about it all the wrong way, he did save me.

What the fuck, Charlotte? I cover my face with my hands, groaning into my palms. My mind is clearly getting scrambled by days on days spent with this man, and the mind-blowing pleasure that comes with every time I give in to what he offers me physically. I'm making excuses for him now, looking for the best in this, and I can't believe I'm actually doing that.

But what if there is some good to find? I think of what I said to him in the diner this morning, that he isn't a good man, and the way he didn't argue with me. I saw a shadow on his face when I said it, but he accepted my judgment. And wouldn't a truly bad man have tried to argue with me, to justify himself?

I'm not exactly the good girl that I used to be anymore, either. A good girl, a practical, rational, safe girl, the kind I used to be, doesn't talk about fantasies of being chased and captured and spanked on the dark web with a faceless stranger. She doesn't fuck the man who conveniently happened to be at her apartment the same night she was kidnapped, not once but twice in the same morning. She doesn't let that man finger her bent over a bathroom sink after finding out he's been lying all along.

And she definitely doesn't get soaking wet when he kisses her like he's falling in love with her, in yet another seedy motel.

He can't be. That's not possible. The old me would believe that a man like Ivan is incapable of real love. But I'm learning that the world isn't as black and white as I once thought.

I want things I shouldn't. Getting a thrill from being on the run from the law. The adrenaline of us running from the diner left me more aroused than I wanted to admit, fantasies of Ivan pulling over on the side of the road and yanking me onto his lap, filling my mind as we raced down the highway. I imagined leaning over and unzipping him, making him come with my mouth while he drove. I pictured him fucking me before we even got out of the car when we pulled into the parking lot tonight.

I was wet before he even kissed me. And now?—

I reach down, dragging my fingers between my legs. I'm slick, hot, my clit throbbing under my fingertips. I want to turn off the water and go out to Ivan naked and dripping, sit on the end of the bed, and pull his mouth between my thighs. I want him to bend me over like he did after I went down on him, except this time, I want his cock, and not his fingers. I want?—

I want things I shouldn't have. Things I have no business thinking about, that make me a hypocrite for even imagining them.

Bracing my hand against the wall, I slide my fingers down, slipping two inside of myself. I feel myself clench instantly around them, hips arching into my palm, desperate for release. But it's not my own hand I want rubbing between my legs, not even when I press those two fingers between my folds, grinding them over my clit.

Ivan was rock-hard when he kissed me. I wonder if he's out there now, frantically stroking himself to a quick, messy orgasm before I come out of the shower. Before I come?—

I bite my lip hard, my breath catching in my throat. I could come like this. I'm so close. But at the last second, as I roll my fingers over my swollen clit, I yank them away.

I have to fight this. I can't give in. I'm so close to letting Ivan off the hook. Making excuses for him that I shouldn't. And every time I make myself come thinking of him, I'm edging closer to a line that I shouldn't cross. One that will send me into his arms, and make it all but impossible to drag myself out again.

Forcing my thoughts away from the throbbing between my thighs and the possibility of what Ivan is doing outside, I finish my shower, drying off with the thin, rough towel on the hook outside. I drag on a pair of sweatpants and a loose T-shirt that I got when we went shopping, hoping that the less-than-sexy outfit will be enough to deter Ivan from kissing me again. From wanting me. But the minute I walk out of the bathroom, he looks up at me, and I see his gaze darken.

When he stands up, I see the outline of his erection, still pressing stiffly against the fly of his jeans. I see the muscle in his jaw twitch as he walks past me, my breath caught in my throat at how unfairly gorgeous he is.

He's going to jerk off in the shower. I know it. There's no way he's going to deny himself that relief. The door closes hard behind him, and I sink down on the edge of the bed, gripping the sides of it as if it takes physical effort to keep from following him into the shower.

I could have him inside of me right now. I feel that throb between my legs, my chest constricting, the thought making me breathless.

I can't pretend that I don't want him. But I can fight it.

I flop back on the bed, turning out all the lights except for the one right next to me as I skim through a book, not really focusing on anything on the pages. Twenty or so minutes later, I hear the shower turn off, and Ivan walks out, still toweling off his wet hair. He's put on a pair of sweatpants and nothing else yet, his t-shirt tossed over the arm of the chair, and my stomach tightens at the view of him shirtless, his chiseled torso covered in swirls of black ink.

My fingers itch to trace over those lines. To slide over them until he's hard and begging for me to touch lower. I want to repaint those designs with my fingers while I slide my lips over him, feeling every muscle twitch as I run my lips and tongue over his cock. I want?—

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I roll over on my side, trying not to look at him, trying to push that image out of my mind. I don't know why tonight it's harder than ever to ignore my attraction to him, but it feels like my body is screaming for him to touch me. For me to touch him. For us both to forget all of the reasons why we're not supposed to do this any longer and just feel .

I hear the familiar sound of him getting out blankets and pillows to sleep on the floor, and guilt once again washes over me. It's not fair, and I know it's not.

"Come sleep in the bed." I roll over to face him, feeling a small burst of relief when I see that he's put a shirt on. "There's enough room for us both. You shouldn't keep sleeping on the floor."

In the low light, I see Ivan's jaw tighten as he spreads a blanket out. "It's fine," he says tersely, his voice so tight that I wonder if he didn't get himself off in the shower after all. If he's still just as frustrated as I am.

Or maybe it's not enough for him, either.

That thought makes the muscles in my stomach tighten, desire pooling lower, that tingling shiver washing over my skin. I force it away, focusing on the conversation at hand.

"You're driving constantly," I argue back. "You should get to sleep in the bed, too. I can put pillows between us, if the idea of accidentally touching me in the night bothers you so much." The last comes out more acidly than I mean for it to, and I see Ivan's hands go still in the process of smoothing out the blanket.

"That's not the problem, and you know it." His voice is a taut, husky growl, and I feel that warmth blooming through me again at the sound of it.

"Then I'll sleep on the floor." I push myself up. "You should get a full night's rest, Ivan. I sit in the passenger's side all day. I can nap if I want. You're the one who shouldn't be pushing yourself so hard."

His hands are moving rhythmically over the blanket now, smoothing out the same spot again and again. "Almost sounds like you give a shit about me."

Irritation, a different kind of heat, mixes with the warmth of my desire. "Sounds like you just get off on being difficult," I snipe back, and Ivan looks up sharply, his dark gaze catching mine.

"Oh, that's not what I get off on, Charlotte," he murmurs, and the rasp of his voice makes my breath catch.

I should drop it. I should not let this man share a bed with me. If he agrees to take the bed, I should sleep on the floor. But there's something more to this too, something I'd never admit to him—and can barely admit to myself.

I'm lonely. Night after night of him sleeping on the floor, so close and still so far away, day after day spent with him oscillating between arguments and tense silence and the occasional truce, has left me aching for a gentler human connection. It's left me aching for exactly what he gave me earlier, when he kissed me like he cares for me. Like he's falling for me. And that kiss made me want more. Not just sex, but closeness. Comfort.

I want him next to me in bed, because it would make me feel less alone. Just for a little while.

I let out a heavy breath. "Just get in the bed. I'll sleep on the floor if you want. But you need?—"

"Fine." Ivan pushes himself up from the floor, his muscled frame even more threatening in the near-darkness. "I need to sleep, most of all. So I can't spend the whole night arguing with you."

I start to get up, but he shakes his head. "No," he says firmly. "If I'm sleeping in the bed, then we both are. Don't worry, I won't touch you."

The bed is a queen, so theoretically, there is enough space for us both. But it feels like so much less as I slide back down under the blankets, and feel the dip in the mattress as Ivan slides in next to me.

There's an arm's length between us, still. But I can feel his presence next to me, as if he's touching me. My pulse feels lodged in my throat, the air between us thick with the knowledge that if he reached out, I'd feel him brush against my skin.

Maybe this wasn't the best idea , I think as I lie there, listening to him breathe, feeling the heat of his body fill the space between us. I don't think either of us is going to get any sleep like this.

—

Somehow, though, we do. I wake to thin sunlight filtering through the curtains and over the bed, and the warmth of Ivan's body pressed against mine, his arm over my waist. His chest is rising and falling slowly against my back, his breath ruffling the small hairs on the nape of my neck, and I feel desire jolt through me like lightning when I register the stiff, hard shape of his cock pressed against my spine through his sweatpants.

I go very still, not wanting to move. I don't want to wake him yet. I want to stay in this moment a little longer, this feeling of being held, this liminal moment where I can pretend that it's alright that Ivan is holding me. Where I can pretend that I haven't fully woken up yet, and I'm still unaware that the last man who I should be allowing to touch me is curled around me as if I'm his.

It feels so good. The hard, muscled press of him against me, the warmth of his skin, the masculine scent of him filling my senses. Without meaning to, I squirm back against him a little, and in a flash of movement, Ivan rolls onto me, pinning me onto my back as he nuzzles into my neck.

I freeze, my heart pounding as he breathes in, his stubble grazing the sensitive skin of my throat and making my entire body tighten. His hips are pressed to mine, his cock hard against my belly, and I can feel the pounding of his heart against mine.

I'm not entirely sure that he's awake. He's braced on his elbows on either side of me, breathing shallowly, his hips rocking gently as he grinds into me. That throbbing desire that keeps flooding through me at his every touch answers his, and I realize with a flush of heat that crawls up my neck that if I could spread my legs wider for him, I would.

"Charlotte—" My name is a sleepy murmur, breathed into my neck, and I can feel my resistance to him fading. I'm wet, aching for him, and with the last bit of my self-control, I reach up, shoving my hands against his chest in an effort to both wake him up fully and get him off of me.

"Get off ," I snap, and Ivan lifts his head, the sleep vanishing from his expression as he blinks down at me.

He takes in our position, him wedged tightly against me, my legs trapped between his and his cock pressed against me. A slow, amused smirk twitches the corners of his mouth, and I glare up at him as he smiles down at me. "Why?" he asks lazily, and I start to tell him it's none of his business. But the dark amusement in his expression tells me that he won't be satisfied with that. That he wants to hear me tell him the truth.

After being so angry at him for all of his lies, I guess it's the least I can do.

"If you don't stop touching me—" The words come out whispered, choked and tight. "I'm going to ask you to fuck me again."

Ivan draws in a sharp breath, his hips rocking into me as if what I just said struck him physically. I feel him throb against me, feel his body grinding against mine for a moment, his eyes dark with the same desperate need that I've felt ever since last night. It feels like torment, and there's an odd satisfaction in knowing he feels the same.

I want to use it against him. To wield it like a weapon, brace it between us like a shield, the way I tried to do when I went down on him. To reduce this thing between us to a base, filthy need. But he won't let me do that. I know it already, from that last time. And I can feel that what this is could too easily spin out of control.

It's more than that, and we both know it, even if neither of us will say it out loud.

Ivan swallows hard, his throat moving as he looks down at me, his body suddenly very still against mine. "Would you believe that it was real, if I did?"

The question comes out as a hoarse rasp, but there's a softness, a sincerity in it that cuts me to the quick. And once again, I can't give him anything other than the truth, even when he's lied to me so many times.

Even if it would feel good, for a moment, to punish him by telling him yes, when I know the answer is no. It would hurt me later, after. When he realizes that I've lied. That I've taken something from him as revenge for what he's taken from me.

I should want that more than I do. I should do it. But I can't bring myself to, and that's how I know this has gone so much further than it should.

My hesitation is all the answer Ivan needs. But he doesn't move, his gaze hardening. "Answer me," he says roughly, and his fingers touch my chin, forcing me to look at him. "Would it be real?"

I bite my lip as I shake my head, one quick, brief movement. And just as fast, Ivan pulls away from me, rolling off of the bed. I can see the evidence of his arousal tenting the front of his pants, but he ignores it, striding to where his clothes are tossed over the chair. He grabs them up in his hand, heading to the bathroom, and he slams the door behind him, hard.

I feel tears sting my eyes, watching him go. And I can't figure out why I'm about to cry over a man, who I never should have gotten feelings for at all.