Page 11 of Say You Want Me
Taylor’s lips curved into a smile. She shifted, rolling onto her side to face Charlotte fully, her fingers catching in Charlotte’s hair. “Suddenly I’m motivated,” she admitted with a smirk.
They untangled themselves, limbs reluctant to part even for the promise of more space. Taylor stood first, her body still flushed, her movements languid as she reached for Charlotte’s hand. Charlotte let herself be pulled up, her pulse kicking at the sight of Taylor’s bare skin in the dim light, the way her hips swayed slightly as she led them toward the bedroom.
Charlotte followed, her breath shallow, her skin humming with the aftershocks of pleasure and the anticipation of more.
She felt reckless in a way she hadn’t in years—maybe ever.
The thought flickered through her mind, half-disbelieving:This is me.The woman who never broke rules, who never stepped out of line, who had spent twenty years in carefulcontrol—now trailing after a confident and sexy woman, drunk on the way Taylor’s fingers laced through hers, on the promise of a bed and hours left in the night.
Taylor glanced back at her as they crossed the threshold, her eyes dark, her smile slow. The bedroom was small, the bed made, the air warm. Taylor tugged her forward, and Charlotte went willingly, already reaching for her.
8
Adeep, heavy throb settled into Taylor’s lower back, radiating through her inner thighs every time she shifted. Her muscles felt bruised in the sweetest way possible, her skin a little sore where fingernails had dragged down her hips in the dark.
She blinked against the morning light cutting through the bedroom’s sheer curtains, her eyelids scratchy, her throat dry.
On the nightstand, the red digital clock read 8:30.
She closed her eyes and dragged a hand over her face. They hadn’t stopped until past four, tangled in sheets that ended up half on the floor. Sweat dried against their skin, only for another touch to ignite everything again.
Her body still hummed with the ghost of it all. She couldn’t even count how many times Charlotte had made her come, how many times those elegant, capable hands had pinned her to the mattress while that clever mouth made her forget her own name.
The chemistry between them hadn’t just been good—it had been the kind of electric, all-consuming connection that left Taylor’s nerves singing for hours afterward. Every touch, every whispered word in the dark had unraveled something deep inside her.
Standing on the beach, Charlotte had seemed so cautious, so bothered of the twenty-year gap between them, but once she came back here, she had given herself over completely.
Taylor just had to hope that this was the start of something real. That Charlotte would forget about their age difference and give them an actual chance.
Wait… Where was Charlotte?
Taylor turned her head, somehow already knowing that she wasn’t there. The white top sheet lay kicked back, but the pillow was completely flat. The canvas and cotton had gone cold, with no warmth left in the fabric.
She held her breath and listened. The apartment was dead quiet. No water running in the bathroom. No faint scrape of a coffee mug against the kitchen counter.
Her pulse thudded against her ribs. She swung her legs out of bed, her knees trembling slightly as her feet hit the hardwood. She grabbed her fleece robe off the wooden peg on the bedroom door, shoved her arms into the sleeves, and pulled the belt tight around her waist.
“Charlotte?”
No answer.
The bathroom door stood wide open. Sunlight spilled over the empty porcelain tub and the dry pedestal sink. No steam clouded the air. The hand towel hung folded on the rack, untouched.
Taylor turned and walked out into the living room, her chest tightening until she felt lightheaded. Her clothes, the crumpled jeans and shirt from last night, were still scattered across the rug where Charlotte had peeled them off her. Charlotte’s clothes were gone. The tailored blazer, the slacks.
Then Taylor’s eyes landed on the coffee table.
Sitting right in the middle of the dark oak was the pair of black yoga pants she had lent Charlotte the night before. They weren’t just tossed there. Charlotte had folded them neatly.
A metallic taste rose in the back of Taylor’s throat. Her stomach churned.
The wine glasses from the night before were gone from the side table. She walked into the kitchen and looked into the sink. Both glasses were there, rinsed clean of red wine and drying upside down on the plastic mat.
Charlotte had crept around in the dim light of dawn, gathering her things, cleaning up, folding borrowed clothes like a polite guest erasing every trace of a mess before slipping out without a goodbye.
Disappointment slammed into Taylor’s chest, knocking the air straight out of her lungs. She stared at the kitchen, her throat constricting.
Then the second wave hit her, sharper and far more brutal.
