by Sage Rae
But in Peter’s case, he’d actually grown up and become something. Wasn’t that an impressive feat?
It was something she marvelled at. How they’d all begun life on the same “square” of the game board, yet he was bounds ahead.
When she got the text that he was coming back, she bounded from bed, touching her hair. In the mirror, she scowled at herself. “Don’t do this,” she muttered. “He’s literally nothing to you. Just a client.”
But she dressed quickly, donning a black dress with a low-cut V, a pair of gold earrings. She styled her hair in curls down her back, then pressed lipstick across her lips: bright red, perhaps too bright. What the hell was she doing? Masquerading as someone eager to please him? Or just playacting as the kind of woman who dressed like this all the time?
She took a taxi out to the French villa, knowing she could have had Peter Bramwell call a car (but not wanting to give everything to him, not now). When she stepped her long leg out of the taxi cab, she half-hoped that Peter was in the doorway, watching. But when she blinked at the house, she saw only emptiness, dark windows and shadows. Perhaps Peter was inside somewhere, waiting for her.
She marched up the stretch of gravel and broken cobblestones, her heels teetering back and forth. At the door, she rapped at the wood, then waited. She knew that the sound hadn’t carried far. “Hello?” she called.
When she received no answer back, she pressed her hand into the door and opened it. It creaked, so rusty in her ear. Then, she stepped inside, her eyes racing along the two-story foyer ceiling, with its gorgeous mural, its cracked walls, and its long hallway, which sent you toward a large, three-story tall ballroom. She shivered as she walked through, leaving the front door open. Her feet found the bottom step of the staircase, while her eyes scanned it for inconsistencies. The last thing she wanted was to destroy the infrastructure of the very building she was meant to be recreating.
At the top of the steps, the sun flickered in and out of the holes of the walls, creeping between the stones. It was after seven, and the sun had begun its trajectory toward the horizon line, casting oranges and reds and pinks across the blue. It had been years since Charlotte had been back in the United States. She felt strange that Peter Bramwell had only just spotted that big, impossibly blue New York sky. It seemed bizarre that he could have tasted a New York bagel, or could have heard the buzzing taxicabs, honking their horns.
Every day in New York meant that your every sense became electric, charged with adrenaline. Perhaps she’d been back in France too long, daydreaming.
Charlotte walked through the final bedroom, the master one, with a rusted-out, yet artistic bed in the center, its frame falling to the ground. Along the side of the room was a mighty, crumbling balcony. And there, at the far edge of the balcony, was Peter Bramwell. He leaned heavily against the edge, his hands out before him and his neck craned forward. He was staring at the ground, his feet spread apart and his shoulders thick, rolled forward. He looked pensive. Charlotte wondered if he would ever tell anyone what was really on his mind.
He heard her footsteps as she walked from the master bedroom. He turned back, his face unsurprised, yet his eyes gleaming. He hadn’t shaved in several days, and the thick beard across his cheeks and chin suited him—made him look gruff, animalistic.
“You look like a mad inventor,” Charlotte said, trying to suppress a smile. “Or a hunter in a cabin somewhere.”
“That’s what I was going for,” Peter said, chuckling. He turned fully toward her, showing that his white button-down was scuffed up, the buttons undone all the way to the center of his chest. The coarse black hairs curled out from between the fabric. “I didn’t expect you so soon.”
Charlotte brought her hair behind her ears, suddenly conscious of how swiftly she’d ducked out from her apartment and run to him. This felt oddly foolish.
But she had to cover it, make it a professional move. She gave him a slight shrug, then offered, “You’re my best client. I want to get started as soon as possible.”
Peter nodded, stretching his hand to the left, toward the incredible estate. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”
“That sounds like a kind of challenge,” Charlotte said.
“Isn’t everything? That’s how I look at it,” Peter said, striding toward the far-away edge of the balcony, with its crumbling stones. He lifted one and tossed it to the ground below. Charlotte strained to hear the rock knocking against the stones below. “I suppose this’ll take, what? A year? Maybe more?”
Charlotte had considered this, in the shadowed parts of her brain. Surely, working for Peter Bramwell would be a multi-year task. The French Villa was shabby: a thing of jutting out bones and moldy bedrooms. It had history; it had artistry. It needed a LOT of tender love and care.
“It’s a huge undertaking,” Charlotte said. She reached into her purse and drew out a tape measure, just a measly utensil when faced with such a massive mansion. “But if you don’t mind, I wanted to start visualizing everything. Taking notes. I’m going to start drawing up the plans tomorrow, and can have an initial expense to you in just a few weeks…”
But already, Peter had stopped listening. He waved his hand, turning his eyes toward the grown-out garden. Roses spit up into the air, orange and yellow and red, swimming through the growing wind. There was such a sense of freedom, all the way out there—outside of Montpellier, outside of their own narrative of their pasts and their futures. Peter Bramwell had ruined her and Manu, yes. But perhaps, out there, this Peter Bramwell had nothing to do with the younger, 24-year old Peter Bramwell who’d wronged them. Perhaps he had better insight.
“You know, Charlotte,” Peter began.
Charlotte hung behind him, waiting. Her heart beat wildly in her throat. She traced her fingers down her chest, between her tits, marveling at how her body reacted when he was around. It was like a wave of attraction, smashing into her and making it difficult to breathe.
“I remember this one day, back in Greenwich,” Peter continued, not waiting for her to respond. “I was hanging out with Manu in the alleyway, smoking cigarettes, maybe. Whatever shit he’d brought back from France, for me to try. And I remember looking up and watching you ride your bike down the road. You were probably, fuck, fifteen at the time. And I was eighteen, a bit too old for you. At least, I regarded you as this young, idiot girl, most of the time. But right then, when you biked past with your hair flowing behind you—you looked like the very portrait of freedom. You looked like every man’s dream girl.”
Charlotte’s eyes popped out, wet with feeling. She pressed her lips together, feeling her breathing ramp up. Her hand found her throat and gripped it, as if she was trying to keep her emotions inside. But as she strained, Peter spun toward her, opening his body to her. There wasn’t anything left to say.
Charlotte dropped her tape measure to the ground and stepped forward. Her head raced with all the possible things to say. All the possible things to explain. That, every day since she’d had to leave him, she’d wanted him back. But within seconds, her toes were pointed directly at his toes; her knees were bending, her body falling into his without pause. Peter’s hand lifted, the fingers curling through her curls and gripping them. He tugged at the hair, bringing her head back so that he could gaze into her eyes. Her breath caught in her throat.
“I always held back, because you were Manu’s sister,” Peter continued.
From where she stood, Charlotte could count his teeth, watch his tongue move slowly in his mouth as he spoke.
“Manu was your best friend in the world,” Charlotte whispered back, her voice straining. Peter continued to grip her hair tight, making it difficult to speak. She flared out her nostrils, wanting to seem more dominant than she was. In reality, her anger mixed with her sensuality. She yearned for him to rip off her clothes, to tear into her.
“Why did you do what you did to him? Why did you leave him when he needed you most?” she asked.
Peter allowed his
eyes to fall down Charlotte’s cheeks, the softness of her lips, down her neck and toward her tits. Charlotte huffed, waiting in the stunned silence. Nobody had ever asked Peter Bramwell to atone for his sins before. This was the first time. Perhaps this would be the last.
“Do you want me to be honest?” he asked, his eyes burning toward hers.
“I wouldn’t have asked if I’d wanted you to lie,” she returned.
Peter released her hair. She kept her head precisely where it had been, tilted upward. Her lips parted, and she licked them—a soft, tender motion.
“If I have to be honest, Charlotte, then I’ll tell you this. I’ve wondered every single fucking day why I gave up on Manu, when he was the only person I truly cared about in the world,” Peter said, his words gruff. “I’ve played it over and over again in my mind. At the time, it felt huge to be a billionaire, out on my own in the world. I thought it was my last chance.”
Charlotte was unable to breathe. She allowed her eyelashes to fall to her cheeks. She cast her eyes toward the ground, at the crumbling balcony around them.
“And suddenly, I woke up one day, and I realized that I didn’t have anyone any longer,” Peter said. “I realized that Manu was gone, and never coming back. And that you certainly didn’t give a shit about me anymore, besides wanting to kill me, I’m sure.
“But I was alone. And no matter how many people I invited to my yachts, or my billion-dollar apartments, or my swanky parties… nobody could replace Manu, in my mind. And so, I felt increasingly isolated. And I still do.”
“Peter, I…” Charlotte began, hunting for the right words. She wanted to tell him that it was too late; that he couldn’t apologize like this. That Manu was fucked up, that she had trust issues, that they were all too tired and adult for any kind of rekindling.
But instead, Peter stepped forward, cutting off her words with a kiss. It was the first kiss they’d shared together in five years. His lips were hot and hungry, sucking at her bottom lip, and his hands raced across her back, tightening across her ass. He tugged her close to him, so that her tits pressed hard against his chest. And within seconds, Charlotte found herself kissing him back, completely—allowing her thoughts to fall away, so that her body could do what it needed to do, to live and love.
Lending Her A Smile
Regrets. Peter had a few. Fuck, he had millions. And he still felt them burned on his tongue, after he’d given them over to one of the only people he should have never told them to: Charlotte, Manu’s sister. And now, he felt her little tight body against his. His fingers gripped her ass, lifting her into him and spreading her legs around his waist. It was unlike him, but as he kissed her, he didn’t open his eyes. He gave himself over to completely feeling, open to her little hands as they raced up and down his chest, her fingers twirled over his nipples and tugged at his hair.
There wasn’t time for speaking. Not any longer. He lifted her higher and turned her, placing her ass on the edge of the balcony. There, he supported her as she brought her dress up over her shoulders and dropped it to the garden below. At first, she shrieked at this mistake—then cackled, watching as the white gown flowed to the grass below. There was such freedmen in this laugh. One that made Peter’s heart soar. Perhaps the past wasn’t so far away, after all.
Peter slid his fingers along Charlotte’s breasts, cupping them and lifting the nipples toward his tongue. He twirled his tongue around them, tasting the hard tips, his eyes still watchful on Charlotte as she tipped her head back. She continued to grip his shoulders, ensuring that she didn’t fall back to the ground below—over two-stories into the air.
Peter sliced open the small string on Charlotte’s thong, tugging it away from her pussy and letting it fall to the crumbling floor below.
“Aren’t you afraid it’s going to fall apart around us?” Charlotte asked, her question filled with bubbling laughter, lined with fear.
“How can you think about that at a time like this?” Peter asked, lending her a cocky smile. Although, of course, his brain was awash with fear. What would happen, after this? Was he tainting something he’d thought he was on his way to repairing?
Although, what did it really matter, anyway?
Charlotte stretched her legs out wide, so that her left batch of toes gripped the edge of the balcony. Peter dropped to his knees, slipping his tongue along the edge of her pussy. He found the hard nub of her clit and sucked, slipping his tongue into the dark hole beneath. She let out a low moan, drawing her fingers through his hair. She gyrated her hips as he escalated in speed.
“Faster, Peter,” she murmured. “I need you inside me. I need you faster. Harder. I want to see that big cock again.”
Peter felt wild, unable to calm himself, now. He shot up from between her legs, his lips and tongue dribbling with her cum. She undid his belt and pants, forcing him to kick them to the ground. And within seconds, she dug beneath his boxers and found the thick, veiny rod of his cock—throbbing and rock-hard. Her little hand wrapped around it, tracing the veins. A small dribble of cum tricked out onto her fingers, and she brought the small dot of it to her tongue, tasting it. Her eyes met with Peter’s. He thought he was going to lose his mind.
“Come on. Fuck me,” she said, almost pleading, now. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, thrusting her little frame against him and fitting his cock against her pussy.
Peter thrust forward. How could he not? His cock met with her perfect, wet and tight pussy, throttling all the way through her. She let out a long, wild moan, which rattled through the trees and across the wide-open plains, all the way to the Mediterranean Sea. They were out there alone, just two pumping hearts and able bodies, hammering into one another. Over and over again.
After fucking on the balcony, Peter carried Charlotte back down to the first floor. They walked naked on the marble floor of the once-ballroom, their bodies gleaming with sweat. They hadn’t spoken yet; it seemed that words were too small to help them understand what they’d just done together. And already, Peter’s cock filled, growing rock-hard once more and yanking into the air. He watched as Charlotte’s eyes traced along the ballroom—the deep yellow paint on the walls, the mural on the ceiling, the grand mirror along the far wall. In the mirror, he liked seeing them together: just two creatures who’d grown up together, who’d always wanted one another’s bodies. Who’d finally found the space and the time, in adulthood, to take this chance.
It felt different than it had, when they’d fucked five years before. There was some kind of resolution to this round of fucking. A sense that neither of them had anywhere else they’d rather be. Peter had already conquered the world, and he’d received very little in return. Wrapped in Charlotte’s arms, he felt truer to whoever he’d been, as a younger man, than he did anywhere else.
What was the definition of love? He wondered. Was it a return to whatever you always wanted to be?
Peter led Charlotte back to a small apartment, which he’d had built up along the edge of the property of the estate. It was fully furnished, with a king-sized bed, a television, running water. “Everything you need to survive while we make the villa into a home,” Charlotte murmured, speaking for the first time since they’d fucked. “It’s perfect.”
Peter made love to Charlotte a final time before they both collapsed atop the comforter, wrapped in one another’s arms. Her thin frame was tight against his, with one of her tits pointed straight toward the ceiling—its brown nipple rock-hard. Their smells lingered in the air around them, mixing and stirring, and causing them to wake up not once, but twice, to fuck all over again. They were insatiable.
But when Peter awoke in the morning, with the sunlight streaming in through the tiny apartment windows, he blinked twice to recognize that Charlotte was nowhere to be found. Only a small indent in the comforter beside him showed that she’d been there at all. And when Peter whipped up from bed, running toward the front driveway, he felt a smacking realization: that Charlotte had left without saying goodbye, colle
cting even the dress she’d dropped from the balcony above.
It was like she’d never been there at all.
Hey Charlotte?
Charlotte didn’t bother to dress herself before whipping into her car and cranking back toward Montpellier. Tears stirred down her cheeks as she drove, pressing her bare foot deeper and deeper into the gas pedal. When she’d awoke next to Peter, she’d recognized just exactly what she’d done: she’d betrayed her brother; she’d betrayed all the work she and Manu had done in previous years to get over Peter. She’d listened to her body and her heart, rather than her brain.
It disgusted her.
At a stop sign, she throttled to a quick stop, blinking as a cow crossed the road, chewing at her cud. Charlotte gripped the steering wheel too tight, so that her skin turned pasty white. Another tear curled over her cheeks, falling to her lips. Why the hell was she crying? Was she crying because what she’d felt back there, with Peter, was bigger than anything she’d felt in years? Was she crying because he’d fucked her with more tenderness and passion than anyone ever had? Or was she crying simply because—dammit—she hadn’t ever truly lost her feelings for Peter Bramwell, despite fighting them every single day?
She didn’t fucking know.
The cow strutted off the road, leaving it wide open for her. But instead, she cut the engine and stepped her naked frame out onto the gravel. She reached for her dress, donning it over her shoulders, yet not yet bothering to zip up the back. She stood inside the door of the car, as it splayed open, and gazed down the road. She wondered what Peter would think, when he awoke to find her gone. Would he fire her from the French villa project? She supposed that was probably the right tactic. If they continued to sleep together, things would grow messy, chaotic. And it would be increasingly difficult to hide the affair from Manu.