Sweet goddess
Charlotte’s POV
By the time we stepped inside the house, my heart was already thumping harder than it should have. I rushed upstairs to slip into something more comfortable, but honestly, I was only running away from the man waiting for me downstairs.
I still did not understand why I let him stay. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was something deeper I did not want to admit. This was the same house where my father had been killed, the same walls that now felt too big and too empty at night.
As I made my way back down, my nerves shot up again. Luther stood in the living room, flipping through a bunch of movies on Netflix. He had shrugged off his jacket and boots, standing there in a fitted black T-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders. His tattoos peeked from under the sleeves, and I had to grip the railing tighter to stop myself from staring too hard.
"I did not know what you liked, so I thought we could find something together," he said, nodding toward the TV. His voice was casual, almost too relaxed compared to the storm that's raging inside me.
I stepped into the room, suddenly hyper-aware of the light satin dress brushing against my thighs. I sank onto the corner of my favourite couch, trying not to draw attention to myself, but a small, needy part of me wanted him to look. I wanted his eyes on me, to feel that spark again.
God, Charlotte, get a grip. He is older, more experienced. You are just a silly girl playing with fire.
"How about this one?" I pointed at a movie poster without thinking. It showed a woman pinned under a man, their bodies tangled together. 365 Days. I knew it was a bad idea the moment the title left my lips.
Luther turned his head, and finally, finally looked at me. His gaze slid slowly from my face to my bare legs, lingering a second too long before he coughed and turned back to the screen.
I bit my lip, hiding a smile. So I was not imagining it. He felt it too.
Instead of sitting across from me like I expected, Luther dropped onto the same couch, leaving hardly any space between us. His scent, dark, spicy, and so dangerously male, flooded my senses. I sat up straighter, afraid even a small move would brush our bodies together.
"You better hope this is not a terrible movie," I said, trying to joke, though my voice sounded a little too high.
"We will see soon enough," he replied with a grin, his tone so easy it made me feel even more awkward. Then he leaned closer to my ear and added in a low tone, "But either way, I do not mind staying."
I sucked in a breath as his words rolled over my skin like a caress. I only nodded, not trusting my voice to say anything without shaking.
"Relax," he said, flashing a lazy smile. "I do not bite... unless you ask nicely."
I laughed nervously and finally sank back against the sofa, releasing a breath I had not realised I was holding. My body was still tense, but at least I could pretend to watch the screen now.
But pretending was hard when I could feel his eyes on me. He was not touching me, not even close, but it was as if an invisible string pulled us together, tighter with each second.
The movie started, but I barely caught a word of it. My mind was spinning, caught between the excitement of his nearness and the fear of what might happen if I let myself fall.
When the characters on the screen started kissing, the woman was still in her wedding dress, I fought the urge to look away. I was not a little girl. I was twenty years old. I could handle a few steamy scenes.
At least, that is what I kept telling myself. The movie barely started before the room turned hot. I shifted in my seat, trying hard not to react, but my nipples tightened under the thin fabric of my nightdress. My core throbbed painfully as I imagined Luther doing to me what the man on the screen was doing to his wife.
It had been months since I had been touched, months since my ex walked away when I needed him most. Sitting so close to a man like Luther, with a scene like that playing out in front of us, was too much for my body to ignore.
I bit my lip when the woman’s dress was pushed up and her husband unbuckled his belt. Next to me, Luther shifted away, putting more space between us. The small gap hurt more than I wanted to admit. Wasn’t that what I should have wanted? For him to respect me? Then why did it sting so badly?
I stared down at my lap, wishing for the scene to end. Once it did, I quickly stood and mumbled an excuse about needing water. In the kitchen, I gripped the cold granite counter, fighting the heat pulsing through my body. Ashamed, I poured a glass of water but just stood there, unable to take a sip.
"Are you really thirsty for water?"
Luther's deep voice sent a shiver down my spine. I tensed, feeling the weight of him behind me. His arms braced the counter on either side of my body, trapping me in place.
I sucked in a sharp breath. "Y-yes, I was thirsty," I said, but my voice shook.
"I think you are thirsty," he murmured, his voice thick, "but not for water."
His words made my thighs squeeze together, trying to fight the ache growing between them. My body betrayed me, growing hotter by the second.
"You are wrong," I whispered, even though we both knew I was lying.
"Am I?"
Luther brushed his hands lightly down my arms, making me shiver. His touch was soft, but it felt like sparks danced across my skin.
"What... what are you doing?" I stammered, my breathing coming faster.
"Proving my point," he said.
Then, he leaned in and bit my earlobe gently.
I gasped, covering my mouth with my hand.
"Sweet goddess," he growled low in his throat, his hands moving to massage my shoulders.
He toyed with the straps of my nightdress, making them slide slightly down my arms.
I trembled, torn between stopping him and leaning into him.
"You're a fucking temptress, Charlotte," he said roughly.
His fingers skimmed down to the front of my dress, resting just above my breasts.
I held my breath, desperate for him to touch me, to push the straps lower and claim me. But just then, his phone rang. I cursed silently. He answered with a cold, flat tone, pulling away without even looking at me. I stood frozen, staring down at the glass of water, trying not to let the tears of frustration sting my eyes.
When he finished the call, he said, "It’s late. You need to rest. I’ll be here when you wake up."
His voice was distant now, colder than before.
I just nodded and walked away without looking back, carrying my glass like a shield.
Maybe it was for the best. Maybe if that call had not come through, I would not have been strong enough to stop him. From the sitting room, I called out, "There’s a spare room upstairs if you want it." Better for him to stay down here. Safer for both of us.
"I am fine. Go on," he said quickly, not even glancing my way.
I climbed the stairs with a heart full of regret and a body aching for what could have been.
That night, I fell asleep with a painful need between my thighs, wondering what would have happened if his phone had not interrupted us.
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