The Charlotte Chronicles

by Jen Frederick

  “I think I’m too sore,” she whispers with regret.

  “Not for what I have in mind.” I hook one of her slender legs over the back of the sofa and lower to my knees. My tongue strokes over the engorged lips.

  “Okay, maybe I can endure.” Her words are a joke, but her voice is thready and weak.

  As I apply myself, her words become short, huffed out moans. When I add one finger and then another, those moans turns to pleas to make her come.

  “I love this, Charlotte. I love being down here. I want to eat you for breakfast every morning.” I tongue her harder in small circular strokes. Every tiny inch of her flushed and engorged skin is explored. I hold her down as she writhes underneath me.

  “I need more,” she cries. Her non-pinned leg wraps around my hip and tries to pull me closer.

  My dick tells me to give her more and suddenly resistance is stupid. Pushing her thigh up higher, I take myself in one hand. “You sure you want this, Charlotte?”

  She licks her lips and nods.

  “Yes. Right now. I need you inside me.”

  I don’t need to be asked twice.

  * * *

  “You’re staring again,” Charlotte complains. Her mouth is slightly open, and she’s applying mascara to her eyelashes. It’s true. I can’t stop staring at her.

  It’s all new to me—from the way she brushes her teeth with an electric toothbrush to the complicated blow drying of her hair with a big round brush only to end up with perfectly straight strands. Watching her dress herself is almost as erotic as undressing her. Her panties are pulled up her legs and smoothed over her sweet ass. Her delicate lace bra cups her tits and pushes them together, creating a small, delicious valley that I’d like to tongue repeatedly while she straddles me.

  Unfortunately, she dons her robe again which covers her bare skin and the skimpy pieces of lace. But before I can argue, she starts applying makeup, which I find fascinating.

  It’s like watching a behind-the-scenes documentary of a magic show. Not that Charlotte isn’t gorgeous without the makeup. She definitely could be naked constantly around me, and I’d be happy.

  “I didn’t realize so much work went into not looking like you wore makeup,” I observe from my perch on the edge of the tub. I’m trying to maintain some distance because every time I’m within about three feet of her, I get hard. Her body needs a rest. I might break something if I keep pounding her.

  “Oh yes, the infamous natural look. I saw that report online where something like nine-out-of-ten men like women without makeup followed by men voting a girl wearing makeup is more attractive than one without.”

  “Why do you listen to anything we say?”

  She drops her tube into a bag full of dozens of other sticks and tubes and bottles. “I have no idea.”

  Out in the room, she shrugs off her robe and pulls on the blouse, skirt, and jacket. I like that I’m the only man to have seen her this way, in this intimate setting. The other dicks in the world only get to see the Charlotte dressed in her work uniform. I get to see naked, aroused, fucking sexy as hell Charlotte.

  “How come you have to wear a suit?” In Southern California, shorts and T-shirts are considered formal attire.

  “My clients like it. It helps for them to take me seriously. For some of them, the only people who wear suits are the guys who sign their checks. The suit conveys that I know what I’m doing and smart enough to handle their problems.”

  “Like a uniform.”

  “Exactly.” Her smile of approval makes me feel like I answered all the questions on Jeopardy correct.

  When we arrive on the first floor, I start herding Charlotte down toward the lot where my Rubicon is parked. As the dark blue Jeep comes into view, I turn on my heel and usher her back toward the lobby entrance.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  “I think we should take your car. What is it?”

  “Honda Fit,” she says bewildered.

  I nod to the valet. “We need her Honda Fit. Under Charlotte Randolph.”

  As we wait, she gives me a long perusal.

  “What?” I ask finally.

  “I’m trying to figure out if you’re going to fit in my rental. It’s kind of small.”

  “I’ll be fine.” The Rubicon is completely stripped down. The doors are off, and the soft top is gone. It’s great for off-roading, but it’s not the vehicle for Charlotte to travel around in with her nice clothes and her glossy hair. The image of my bare apartment and my even more bare refrigerator springs to mind. My vehicle, my apartment, and even my clothes all scream single bachelor. The only saving grace is that everything has been carefully cleaned and put away.

  “Was the Jeep yours?”

  She doesn’t miss a thing. When the valet arrives, she waves him off. “I don’t need it, but here’s something for your trouble.”

  Grabbing my arm, she drags me back to the parking lot and my Rubicon. “Is that your Jeep?”

  I nod reluctantly. From her bag she produces a scarf which she ties around her hair. “I’m not a delicate flower, Nate.” She sounds disgruntled. “I can ride in your Jeep.”

  I stare at her, sitting in my Jeep looking prettier than a picture, until she bangs on the dash with impatience. With a wide-ass grin, I round the front and climb into the driver’s seat. “Just admiring the view,” I murmur and lean over to kiss off some of her lipstick. “The mall first?”

  She shakes her head. “No, let’s just get going. You drive a stripped-down utility vehicle and wear cargo shorts and flip-flops. That’s who you are, and I’m fine with it. I’m not forcing you into a uniform on your vacation.”

  The Jeep’s engine throttles noisily as I shoot out of the parking lot. “You weren’t forcing me into anything,” I say.

  “We’re both different people today than we were years ago. If we’re going to make this work then we have to accept that and work with those differences. The car you drive, the clothes you wear—those things are the least of our worries.”

  “Sounds ominous.” I try to be lighthearted, but she’s right. After a mile or so of silence, I ask about her well-dressed companion from yesterday. “Tell me about your friend from the restaurant. He looks familiar.”

  Despite my attempt at studied nonchalance, the request comes out more like an order. She raises one eyebrow as if to say she doesn’t have to tell me shit, or maybe the expression is saying that if I had been more present in her life, I’d know exactly who this guy is.

  “It’s Colin from Switzerland. He had cancer treatment at the same time. I wrote to you about him. We’ve kept in touch.” Her words aren’t meant to be accusatory, but like my earlier references, they are.

  My mood darkens immediately as I make the connection. The least favorite period in my life was those months Charlotte was away from Chicago. I prefer to shut those memories out, as if that time didn’t exist. Revisiting the past was painful enough when I wrote the letter. Colin from Switzerland is an enemy, as is any other person who might try to keep us apart. I will find out everything there is to know about him and then eliminate any possible dangers.

  “He’s not a threat, you know.” She reaches across the center console and touches my arm. I force my tense muscles to relax. “He’s a good friend. He . . . provided a male perspective of things when I was busy being lost in my own head.”

  “Intellectually, I get that. But I can’t deny seeing you with him, seeing you touch him makes me crazy. I don’t like you being around other dicks. I have about a dozen insane utterances I’m keeping to myself so that you don’t jump out of the Jeep.”

  “When you meet him it will be different,” she assures me. “He’s a great guy, and I think the two of you will get along.”

  Like hell we will. Unless you never utter his name again, I’m going to hate the dickbag. Out loud, I pretend to agree, “Sure, can’t wait.”

  Apparently despite the long absence, Charlotte can read me better than anyone. She smirks and then laughs
outright. At least she’s laughing. I grab her hand and place it on my thigh, as much for my benefit as it is for her. I need the constant contact.

  We drive down a lane of expensive houses filled with equally expensive green lawns; the drought bans make watering lawns like these prohibitively expensive. She gestures for me to stop at one of the imposing structures. “Who’d you say this was again?”

  “Baseball player. If you have a kid who can play all the sports, baseball is the most lucrative and longest-lasting career,” she answers.

  Before she can climb out of the Jeep, I grab her wrist. “I regret not being there when you needed me. I dislike that this Colin guy was, but I’ll deal with it.”

  With a small shrug, she says, “Our past is what it is. Nothing we can do is going to change it. I’d rather look forward, wouldn’t you?”

  She hops out before I can reach her, and I’m left straggling behind. A bony blonde woman with a shit ton of makeup on runs up to Charlotte and hugs her. A lanky guy who I vaguely recognize from ESPN follows behind, carrying an equally blonde-headed baby. Charlotte holds out her arms and plucks the baby from the dad’s arms. My stomach clenches at the sight, and I grow half hard. I can hear Cabby standing beside me, mocking me.

  It’s time to pack it up when you get a woody staring at a Norman Rockwell painting. You’ve lost your edge, gone around the bend—whatever you want to call it—but stick a fork in you, because you’re done.

  So what? I want that. The family, the house, the kid. I want all of it with Charlotte. She’s right. Looking backward isn’t going to erase the past, but we can make our tomorrow exactly as we once imagined it could be.

  36

  Nathan

  “This is the perfect house. Thank you for helping,” Charlotte’s client says. Her name is Peyton, like the legendary Bears running back, although that’s probably not who she’s named after.

  “My pleasure,” Charlotte says, but her voice is muffled because her face is stuck in the belly of Peyton’s baby. I suppress the urge to pick her up and take her back to the hotel so we can start baby making again. I stick my fists in my pockets to keep from sweeping her up and carrying her away.

  “So, man, I have to admit I don’t know your team,” Peyton’s husband says apologetically.

  “No team. I’m in the Navy.”

  Having assumed I’m neither famous nor rich, he dismisses me and turns to run his eyes over Charlotte. My pockets are doing double duty now. Keeping me from hauling Charlotte away from here and preventing me from decking her client. It’s a wild guess, but I bet she wouldn’t approve of that. Although . . . if he keeps staring at her legs he’s going to have a hard time seeing the batters after I gouge both of his eyes out.

  “Ohh, a military man,” Peyton stage whispers. Her husband shoots her an annoyed glance. I wink at them just to piss off the husband even more. “How does he look in uniform?”

  “I don’t know. How do you look, Nate?” Charlotte gives me a hungry look that causes my shorts to get a bit tight and the baseball player next to me to swallow his tongue. After that long, appreciative perusal, I’m not irritated with the guy next to me because I’m the one who’s going to be in Charlotte’s bed tonight. Not him.

  “I look like a man in uniform.”

  “Nate’s actually a Navy SEAL.” The words pop out unexpectedly of Charlotte’s mouth. I raise an eyebrow at her. I don’t care what these random civilians think of me. The wife’s expression says that she’d like to see me out of uniform, and the player is recalibrating his quick dismissal.

  Then, because he’s an asshole, he asks the stupid question, “So how many ways do you know how to kill a man?”

  “Too many and not enough,” I answer tersely.

  Charlotte recognizes that I need to get out of here and quickly finishes her business. Watching Charlotte smooth ruffled feathers and close her deals shows me a different side of her, one unfamiliar but no less attractive. Various family members have told me that she’s begun to build an exciting and successful business. She’s come a long way from Cancergirl—the one that I was afraid couldn’t walk down the hall by herself, the one who I hid in the boy’s locker room at high school.

  Mom told me that demand for Charlotte’s business has been so high she can’t keep up with all the requests. I get it. If I was a young athlete with no family going to a new territory, I’d want some bright young thing smoothing out all my details. It’s like having a hot wife without any of the responsibilities. But the women like her too, or at least Peyton does. And she doesn’t look at Christian with anything other than the fond regard you have for someone paying you five figures to help you move.

  I’m anxious to get her alone.

  A beep of my cell phone signals an incoming text message. I tip my head toward Charlotte, but she waves me off. I smile to myself. We’ve already started our nonverbal communicating, as if there wasn’t years of separation.

  The message is from Cabby.

  Bring your girl to Flannery’s. That’s an order from your LT.

  Did you get a promotion when I wasn’t looking?

  No, but I’m sitting next to LT.

  Next there’s an incoming picture. Sure enough, Cabby is standing next to LT in front of a large, fake windmill. Fraternizing with officers is usually frowned upon but LT is a bit of a rule breaker and besides, Cabby does not like being alone.

  You’ll be drunk by the time we get there. I could bring a clown, and you’d hit on it thinking it was her.

  We’re golfing! This is the seventh inning stretch! . . . Wait, LT says it’s 9 hole break. Ha! Golfing is dirty! Anyway don’t bring the clown. You know I’m afraid of them.

  “What’s making you smile?” Charlotte taps me on the arm. Beyond her Peyton and Christian have moved toward the house.

  “We done here?”

  “Yes.”

  I take her hand, and we walk toward my Jeep. “The guys want to meet you.” I tilt the phone her way so she can read my messages.

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “I’m afraid their version of welcoming might cause you to run away.”

  She scoffs. “I work with athletes. I’ve been in locker rooms before. It can’t be worse than that.”

  “But you’ve never seen another naked man, right?” The thought of her around a bunch of unclothed athletes bothers me.

  Her face turns away, but not before I see a smile she tries to hide. “Of course not, Nate. Yours is the only body I’ve ever seen without clothes.”

  I can’t tell if she’s serious, but I’m accepting it as true, or I’ll have to do something like give her a ring of hickeys so that everyone knows she’s off limits.

  “Before I throw you to the wolves, want to come and see my digs? Maybe check out of the hotel and save a few dollars?”

  The reference to saving is a joke, and she grins saucily. We both know that even if she didn’t have her job, she would have her trust fund—just like I have mine. Freedom Funds, our parents’ co-owned hedge fund, has made both her family and mine very rich. Charlotte’s dad has made a mint in construction too, so she probably never has to work a day if she doesn’t want to but from what Nick has told me, she’s worked her ass off to run her own business.

  “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

  “According to my government-issued timepiece, it’s been about four hours since I last kissed you.”

  She reaches up and runs her fingers lightly across my forehead. “Is that right?”

  Drawing her into my arms, I lean back against the Jeep. “That’s right.”

  In the middle of this posh San Diego suburb, I pull her tight against me and kiss her. My jaw isn’t freshly shaven, but she rubs against me as if the burn feels good. Our tongues clash against each other, and soon I want to strip her clothes off and lay her down on the soft grass, uncaring what the residents might think. I break it off before I lose all control.

  Panting roughly in her ear, I tell her, “We need to get
going before I’m arrested for lewd and indecent conduct. Navy frowns upon that.”

  A smug satisfaction fills me at her glazed expression, and I help her into the Jeep. As we drive toward her hotel, I hold her hand against my thigh, not wanting to have any break in our connection. “I didn’t know you were proud of me,” I comment, recalling how she quickly corrected Christian’s impression of me as a no-name sailor.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I thought you might be resentful because it took me away from you.”

  “It wasn’t your job that took you away from me,” she says quietly.

  And she’s right. The mood is less passionate and more somber when we arrive at the hotel. I try to lighten it up by describing my ratty bachelor pad. “It’s in an apartment building with a bunch of other sailors and Marines. Cabby doesn’t understand why I haven’t moved away.”

  “Why haven’t you?” she asks as she carefully stows away all of her clothes and sundry items. She’s as neat as a sailor.

  “It’s not like I spend a lot of time there.”

  “Still, it’s not like you couldn’t afford something better.”

  “I don’t like to flaunt the family money. It’s not really mine. I didn’t earn it other than by being born, and a lot of the other guys don’t come from money.”

  “No matter. Take me to your lonely bachelor apartment and make love to me in your virgin bed,” she declares, zipping her suitcase shut.

  I grab it from her. “Is it still virginal if I’ve beat off to pictures of you?”

  “It’s pure as the driven snow until you take me there and pleasure me in all the ways that you have fantasized about.”

  I break a lot of laws getting to my apartment. Halfway there, though, she kills my erection.

  “I live in Dallas now, near Nick.”

  Nick. God, the poor bastard. I’ll need to call him, and so will Charlotte. “That’s right. Weren’t you living with him for a while?”