Her smile grows wide. “Really?” she asks, but it’s hardly a question, more like a statement of wonder.
Now that she’s got me going, I won’t back down. It’s not in my nature. “Don’t make me prove it,” I say, egging her on.
Her eyes sparkle. “Prove it.”
“Challenge accepted.”
In seconds my hand snakes up her skirt, and she gasps when it registers what I’m doing. My fingertips climb up the soft flesh of her thighs, and when I reach her panties I flick my index finger across the cotton panel. They’re damp, and my dick does its best impression of the Empire State Building. I groan. Never taking my eyes off her, I slide one finger inside her panties. Her shoulders shake and my blood heats as I run that finger across her wet, hot, slippery pussy. I bring it to my lips and suck off her wetness. She tastes like all my fantasies. This time, my groan echoes. It rumbles across the ladies’ room, and Charlotte trembles in my arms.
She watches me lick her off my finger, and this is the moment when there is no question. When everything is clear. She parts her lips, and says, “There’s something I want to prove to you, too. Tonight.”
“What is it?”
Before she can answer, the door creaks open. I break apart from her, and she smooths a hand over her shirt, then her skirt. Just so she knows, so there’s no fucking doubt at all, I bring my finger back to my mouth, and I suck it one more time. With my eyes locked on hers, I whisper, so fucking hot.
She shudders, and her lip is quivering. I brush my finger against her lower lip, then push it past her teeth. Instantly, she draws it into her mouth and sucks.
I stare at her, burning up everywhere. I take my finger out, nip the corner of her mouth, unlock the door, and back out. I give a quick wave to Mrs. Offerman.
She blinks, then fixes on a smile and waves.
I return to the family knowing one thing for certain—I have no clue what is going to happen when Charlotte comes over tonight.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When I open the door, I hand her a virgin margarita.
She thanks me and takes a sip as she walks inside my apartment. She’s wearing jeans, black flats, and a dressy gray tank top with some kind of lacy neckline.
Dammit. She’s camouflaged. I have no clue what her intentions are based on her outfit. Admittedly, I might be oversimplifying matters, but if she were wearing a short black dress and fuck-me pumps, I’d be a lot less in the dark. Then again, I’m in jeans and a black T-shirt, so I’m not sure my clothes spell Game for Anything to her, but I hope they do.
She dangles a bag of gourmet gummy bears. “Farm fresh,” she says.
“Locally grown, too, I hope?”
“Of course. Within a fifty-mile radius from farm to table.”
“Excellent. They better be small-batch made, too,” I say, mocking the food purists of the world, glad I can at least still banter with her.
She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “They’re from Brooklyn. Of course they’re small batch. Though I still don’t understand why if we can send a man to the moon, they can’t remove the green bears from the bag.”
“It is one of life’s great mysteries.” I shut the door and gesture to the living room. She walks ahead of me, and I can’t help myself. I stare at her ass as she crosses the hardwood floor to my couch. She gave me the license to ogle this afternoon, as far as I’m concerned.
“Along with the existence of gigantic asparagus,” she quips.
“I’ll never understand the need for oversize vegetables. But did you really go to Brooklyn to get gummy bears?” I ask as she settles into my beige couch. The sliding glass doors that lead to my terrace are open, and the warm June night filters in.
She shakes her head as she kicks off her shoes, and tucks her feet under her. “The store in Brooklyn that makes them opened another shop in Murray Hill. But they are locally-sourced, and not made with gelatin.”
“Which is a basic requirement in a gummy bear.” I join her on the couch, repeating what she’s said over the years—she won’t touch candies made with gelatin since gelatin comes from beef, and if she wanted beef in her candy she’d eat beef candy, and she’s not doing that. Because that’s just disgusting.
Which is why beef candy is not a thing.
I point to my laptop. “What’s it going to be? Netflix? Hulu? Castle? Will Ferrell’s latest? Rom-com? Spy flick? Sports Center to catch up on your baseball stats?”
She rips open the bag of candy, and pops a yellow bear into her mouth. It slides past her lips. Lucky bear. “How about Castle? Let’s watch that one with the Irish mobster.”
I know exactly which one she means, since we’ve watched nearly every episode together. I find it quickly, sending a silent thanks to, well, myself that I remembered to close out my porn last night. Fido wanders into the living room, arches an eyebrow, and meows. I’m sure in feline language he’s telling her what I did, but thank God, no one has created a Berlitz translation guide yet for cat.
We settle into the rhythm that we’ve perfected over the years. She’s at one end of the couch, burrowed into the pillows. I’m at the other, and the laptop is on the coffee table, streaming the show to the TV screen. We plow through half the bag of gummy bears, Charlotte sifting through the colors. I dive on the green-bear grenade for her. We down our virgin drinks, and at some point during the show, she puts her feet on my thighs, crossing them at the ankles.