21. Ivan

21

IVAN

I 've rarely been angry with Charlotte. Even now, I don't know if it's her that I'm angry with, or myself. But when she whispers that she's scared, that emotion rips through me, tightening my chest and making me want to scream.

I don't know if she means that she's scared of me, or of what she feels. Logically, I know it's probably the latter. That by telling me that at all, she's letting me know she feels what I want her to say.

But I need to hear it out loud. And until I do, I refuse to give her what we both so desperately need.

The only thing I can do is get away from her. If I don't, I'll give in, and I'll hate myself afterward. I rip open the tent, stumbling out into the cold darkness, with only enough presence of mind to close the tent against the cold for her before I sink down next to the banked fire.

It doesn't give off much heat, but it doesn't really matter. The desire raging through me is hot enough to ward off the cold. My head is pounding, muscles wound tight as I yank down the front of my sweatpants, fisting my cock before it's barely even out, before I even register the chill against the hot, straining flesh.

I moan when my palm connects with it, my fingers wrapping around my length. I'm slick with pre-cum, so wet from it dripping down my shaft that I wouldn't even need lube if I had it. I run my hand down to the base and up over the head, gasping as the sensation curls my toes, the need to come, shoving every other thought out of my head.

There's nothing slow or purposeful about how I get myself off. Just a frantic, desperate need to come before I give in, go back into that tent, and give Charlotte what she begged me for. My hips thrust into my fist, desperate for something softer, wetter, hotter. My cock throbs, desperate for her . No other woman will ever do, after this. I'll never want anyone else like I want her. I feel certain of it, as I fuck my fist like I'm going mad, slamming my hand down my length again and again as I feel my balls tighten and that hot burst of pleasure unleash at the base of my spine.

I'm going to spend the rest of my fucking life thinking about her when I come. How she smells, how she tastes, how she feels around my fingers and around my cock, the sweet, whimpering sound she makes when she comes?—

" Fuck!" I snarl the curse as my cock erupts, throbbing in my fingers as my cum spills out onto the dirt, spurting from the tip as I thrust into my hand. I grab onto the log next to me to keep from tipping forward, squeezing my cock as I fist it roughly, spurt after spurt shooting out as I moan Charlotte's name under my breath and pant wildly, the pleasure and the need prolonging my orgasm. I'm still throbbing when I let go, cum dripping from my cockhead as I gasp for breath, the cold air softening me as I reach down and tuck myself back in.

I wait for the desperation to recede. For the need to not feel as frantic. To remember that there will be other women, and other beds, that I'm going to Vegas, where there are more gorgeous women than I could run through in a year if I wanted to take one to bed every night. For the relief of the orgasm to clear my head, and for me to remember that Charlotte isn't the only woman in the world I could want.

It doesn't happen. I don't care about what's waiting for me in Vegas. I don't care about taking anyone else to my bed. I don't want anyone other than her, and that knowledge, coupled with what I said to her earlier tonight, slams into my chest like a fist.

I told her that she felt like home. Like my home.

I love her.

Sitting there on the log, my breath misting in front of me, I can't pretend that isn't the truth any longer. Out here, in the dark silence of the night, it's unavoidable. I love her, and I want her to believe that the way we started isn't the way things have to continue to be. That even if I can't be sorry that I found a way to make her mine for a little while, I can't regret the time we spent together—I do regret the way it turned out. I regret that I didn't find some other way.

Even if there wasn't one. Even if this is just regret for getting caught instead of regret for actually lying. I don't know how to reconcile that—but I do know I'd spend the rest of my fucking life trying to make it better if she'd let me. Trying to show her that I'll never lie to her again.

Frustration wells up in my chest, hot and thick. She wants me. She was trying to get me to fuck her, trying to get pleasure from me without admitting how she feels. Without making herself face how I feel. And I can't help the agitation that wells up in me, knowing that she's pushing me away because she can't accept wanting me as I am.

She can't accept that she wants a criminal. That a criminal loves her. That she loves me, too.

I'd bet money that she does. Ironic, considering where we're going. But she's planning to leave me there, just as soon as she can.

I brace my hands on either side, curling my fingers against the rough wood of the log. I almost gave in. Almost gave her what we both want. But if I do, that's all it'll ever be.

Glancing over at the tent, I feel a flood of guilt. I should be in there, helping keep her warm. Now that the worst of the storm of lust has passed, I have no real excuse to be out here, leaving her alone.

I slip back into the tent, under the blanket next to her, leaving an arm's length between us. I can't tell if she's sleeping or just pretending to, facing away from me on her side, the rhythmic movement of her breathing visible under the blanket.

There's very little chance that I'm going to sleep at all. I lie on my back, staring up at the ceiling of the tent, my chest aching. I want to fall asleep, to get some rest for the days ahead, but all I seem to be able to do is run through the litany of memories that I have with Charlotte, thinking back to every moment when I might have been able to do something different. Where I might have been able to change how things went between us.

In the morning, I wake before she does, as if the silent chill of our out-of-the-way campsite has lulled her into a deeper sleep than she's managed in days. There's a certain safety to where we are, a feeling that we won't be found, and whether that's actually true or not, I can see how it might have earned her a better night's sleep.

I wish I could say the same.

I wake curled against her, my body having sought hers out during the night despite everything, my arm draped over her waist. I lie there for a few moments, still, wanting to soak up the feeling of having her so close to me.

After what happened last night, I have every intention of not sleeping in the same bed with her again. Regardless of her protests, I don't think I can take another night of being so close to her, another morning waking pressed up against her like this. Every part of me aches to be closer to her, to the point that even my hard cock feels like an afterthought. And this morning, I'm filled with something very close to regret.

I've never opened up to anyone the way I did with her last night. And now, in the cold daylight, I'm not sure that I should have. I let her see more of me than anyone else ever has, and it didn't make a difference. I feel raw this morning, like an open wound, and there's nothing to salve it. Even her closeness, at this point, only makes it feel worse—a reminder of what I can almost touch, but never actually have.

I should have known better than to ever start anything with her. I want to shove the thought away as soon as it enters my mind, but it lingers, an unwanted heaviness on my mind and my heart.

She feels so good, pressed up against me. Warm and soft, a promise of something I can never have. A dream that I want to keep going back to, again and again.

I feel her start to stir, and I pull back, clenching my teeth against the wave of need that washes over me. I don't want to pack up and get back on the road. I don't want to keep driving, all the way to where Charlotte Williams will be erased and replaced with a woman who will walk away from me and do her best to forget that any of this ever happened.

I want to stay here with her. Right here, pretending that the world can pass us by while I lose myself in her, over and over again.

Pushing myself up from the mat, I stifle a groan as I reach for my bag. I'm far from old, but so many nights of sleeping on the floor—and now a mat on the ground—not to mention days and days of driving, is doing a real number on my back. I reach for my bag, quietly unzipping it to get my clothes out, and I hear her shift behind me.

"Ivan?" Her voice is sweet, sleepy, and something tugs hard in my chest at the sound of it. But I shove it down, refusing to let myself soften for her again. It's not getting me any closer to her forgiveness, and it feels like it's tearing me apart.

"We should get on the road." Even I wince at how curt my voice sounds, but I tell myself it's for the best. If all she wants from me is temporary pleasure until we part ways, that's not what I can offer her. Continuing to pretend anything else will only keep hurting us both.

I hear her shift behind me, silence falling heavily in the tent. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her wrap her arms around herself, looking away as if my comment cut her deeply.

Grabbing my clothes out of the bag, I lean forward and unzip the tent, slipping out. I'd rather dress in the cold morning outside than keep suffocating in the tense hurt between us.

I have the car packed up by the time Charlotte slips out of the tent, wearing slim jeans that make it hard for me to drag my gaze away from her legs, a soft-looking grey pullover hoodie, and her denim jacket over top of it. Her outfit is plainer than anything I ever saw her wearing in Chicago, but she looks so utterly beautiful all the same that I have to clench my hands into fists to keep from going to her, the bite of my nails against my palms bringing me back into the present.

Charlotte was made to torment me. It's the only thing I can think as I pack up the tent in quick, jerky motions, trying not to think about last night—or waking up next to her this morning, or how much, in a few days, I'm going to miss her.

It feels unthinkable that she's going to walk out of my life. But I can't make her stay.

She's already sitting in the passenger's seat of the car when I toss the last bag in the back, and come around to slide in on my side. She doesn't look at me, and I grit my teeth as I start the car, biting back everything I want to say.

This is over, Ivan. Just fucking accept it.

I can do what I set out to, and get her to Vegas safely. I can get her new identification, get her what she needs to start a new life. Maybe she won't ever be able to put everything that she's lost because of me behind her, but that's not my problem. It's not .

"I'm sorry about last night," she says a little while later, her voice so soft that I almost don't hear it under the growl of Guns every nerve in my body is suddenly wired. I'm cursing myself for not making her come into the store with me, my mind racing with how I could have possibly prevented this. Between this and the run-in with my brothers, who no doubt won't stop so long as they're still alive, I feel like I can't keep her safe. Like I'm failing at the only thing left that matters to me.

But in a world where there are cameras at gas stations and traffic lights, where even with our cell phones destroyed, it's impossible to avoid tech altogether, I can't stay ahead of everything all of the time—but it still feels as if I've failed, seeing Bradley leaning over her window.

I feel my hand twitch involuntarily towards where I know my gun is hidden, waiting for him to make the wrong move. To try to break the window. To scare her into getting out.

Shooting an FBI agent would be by far the worst decision I've made so far.

But no one, not even him, is taking Charlotte away. If she's going to leave me, it'll be her decision.

No one else's.