Page 71 of Love Decoded

“I wanted a taste, too,” she whispers.

Instantly, my cock rehardens. How could it not, after that? But when Charli sees it, her eyes widen in shock, which makes me wince and sit back, hurrying to tuck myself away.

“I’ll grab a paper towel,” I mumble. I’m off the couch before she can argue.

It takes no time at all to walk to the kitchen and back. When I squat beside the couch with a damp paper towel, Charli’s watching me closely. I’m halfway hoping she won’t comment on it, but… it’s Charli. She doesn’t exactly hold her tongue.

“You got hard again that fast?”

I chuckle awkwardly as I stand and dispose of the paper towel. Because no, I don’t ever get hard again that fast. Usually, once is enough for me.

I can’t get on a read on how she feels about this fact. If she’s simply surprised by it, or if I made her uncomfortable with how much I want her. I told Charli no expectations, and I meant it. The last thing I want is for her to feel pressured into more.

But when I glance at her face, I see none of that. When I turn back to where I left her on the couch, she’s sitting up, staring at me with dilated pupils and nipples hardened to sharp points.

“Can we do that again?”

TWENTY-THREE

CHARLI

No matter how many times I pouted or touched Lucas, he wouldn’t let things escalate again. He just grinned and pulled me into his lap to wrap his arms around me and hold me in place as we watched Interstellar. It wasn’t until I started to point out the scientific inaccuracies that he finally slid his hand between my legs and made me come again.

I melted into his arms and we watched the rest of the movie in silence. I have never been made to feel like that. The two times I had sex before, there was next to no foreplay, and the fucking part lasted about five minutes.

Eventually, I fell asleep. But to my surprise, I wake up in my bed.

In a way, it’s a relief. Just because we slept together, it doesn’t mean I’m ready for us to sleep together. It’s easier if we keep some distance between us.

But that distance doesn’t stop my brain from going back to the orgasms Lucas wrung from me last night. My body feels pleasantly loose, my skin sensitive to the touch.

I listen for the sounds of him in the apartment but hear nothing. Glancing at my phone, I note the time: 9:00 a.m. He’s at the office.

I let out a heavy gust of air. What’s on my agenda today? What do I need to do that’s not fantasizing about Lucas’s fingers?

Groaning, I push myself up to a sitting position, then ultimately stand from my bed and get my day started. I feed Milton, brush my teeth, check my emails, make some eggs. Then I dive into the research I left off on yesterday.

An hour later, I’m still moving at a glacial pace. I can’t focus.

Sighing, I decide to change tactics. I need a distraction.

It’s been a while since I’ve gone undercover on a job, but dressing up and acting as someone else might be exactly what I need. Because the alternative is sitting around thinking about Lucas—and the way his touch lights up my body like a Christmas tree.

Within an hour, I have my cover story set up. I’ll walk into the buyer’s company as a temp tomorrow and see what I can dig up from the inside. I don’t necessarily expect to find something big, but sometimes putting myself into the physical world of my research is enough to shake loose an idea or two. Maybe playing the clueless new girl will give me access to some kind of gossip I can use.

I manage to get some real work done after that, but by the time 5:00 p.m. rolls around and I’m getting distracted again, I have to shift to my side work just to focus. I get so sucked into it that I don’t notice Lucas’s absence until Milton starts crying for his dinner. Then I go right back into my work until I fall asleep with my laptop in my lap.

The grogginess hits hard the next morning when my alarm goes off at 6:00 a.m. I’ve never been a morning person, but especially not on days when I have to dress up to blend into society. I can’t exactly go undercover looking like myself.

The hair is the easiest part. I hide my bangs with a slick-back, pulling my hair into a low bun and drenching it to lock it into place. Then come my glasses. Just with these two changes, I already look like a different person.

The makeup is the hardest part. I rarely wear anything beyond mascara and some chapstick, so I have to take a few minutes to refresh my memory with a YouTube tutorial. But after twenty minutes—and one frustrated makeup wipe to start over—I’ve achieved a basic look: foundation to even out my pores, blush to give my face some color, mascara and eyebrow gel to accentuate my eyes, and a nude lipstick.

I barely recognize myself. Even before I reach for my professional outfit.

I pull on a black pencil skirt, wincing when it reveals far too many curves for my liking. I decide to pair it with a simple white blouse and black flats, since unfortunately, heels are the one part of this costume that I can’t bring myself to suffer through. Final touches are some simple stud earrings and a small gold watch to bring the look together.

When I walk into the bathroom to inspect myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door, I barely recognize myself.