Consequences

Chapter 4: Scars

I want to run.

Not tonight. Not tonight. Not tonight.

But he’s here. Dressed in blue jeans, as per usual, and a navy long-sleeved tee shirt in some sort of divine material that allows my eye to trace his biceps, the line of his shoulders ...

Fuck ...

The stool I didn’t see crashes to the floor.

‘Hey Tonks,’ Bill laughs, not bothering to look up at me.

‘’Lo.’ Charlie looks back over his shoulder and smiles.

‘Sorry.’ I right the stool. ‘Didn’t mean to disturb.’

‘You’re not disturbing anything,’ Bill continues. ‘Had we known you were in the house, we’d have dragged you down here ages ago.’

‘Just got here actually. Thought I’d come down for a drink.’

‘Well, here.’ Bill pushes the whiskey bottle toward me as I walk around to his side of the table. ‘Why don’t you join us?’

‘No, thanks. You could dissolve cauldrons with that.’

‘It’s good, though.’ Bill drains his glass and pours himself another.

‘By good he means cheap,’ Charlie adds.

‘Offering to buy next time are you?’

‘No mate, this is great stuff. I’m lovin’ it.’

‘Thanks anyway, but I think I’ll just make myself a cup of tea.’ I turn toward the cupboards when Charlie’s voice stops me.

‘Well, if you can wait until Bill finishes me off, I believe I still owe you a cup of coffee.’ I turn back around. He’s still grinning. ‘It shouldn’t take long.’

Charlie makes his move. Bill follows almost instantly.

‘Check.’

‘See, I’m buggered.’ Charlie moves again.

‘Checkmate.’ Bill’s queen knocks the head clean off Charlie’s king. The little figure, quite indignant, picks up its head and marches defiantly off the board.

Charlie pushes back from the table.

‘So what do you say? You up for a walk?’

Am I? Just a walk. A walk and a cup of coffee. Can I do that?’

‘Sure. What about you, Bill?’ I ask. ‘Fancy joining us?’

‘Nah, can’t.’ He nods to the pile of ledgers on the bench beside him. ‘Loads of work I should be doing.’

‘Just the two of us, then,’ Charlie winks at me, drawing an odd look from Bill.

I hear Bill mumble something to his brother as we leave the room, I don’t catch it but I do hear Charlie’s response. ‘It’s just coffee.’

*

The night is warm. We walk side by side, talking. About nothing really: the weather, the neighbourhood, the Muggles. When we reach the tube station, he leads me past it. Quite honestly, I have no idea where we’re going. He turns down a narrow side street and soon we pass through a large oak door, up a flight of stairs and into the cafe.

Even though it’s dark outside, it still takes my eyes a few moments to adjust to the dim light in this little place. I hate dimly lit public places. Too many dark corners. A large fireplace encompasses most of the wall on my right and also provides most of the light in the room. There’s a wall of windows facing me that over look the street below. Only two story drop; not bad. The room is littered with small tables, fussy settees, and armchairs in various shapes and sizes. To my left is the counter and a large glass display case, showcasing a number of lavish desserts and pastries. There is a lamp in that corner at least. Under which a young couple are engaged in a rather exhuberant snogging session. You’d think they’d choose one of the dark corners for that. The rest of the patrons seem to be aged theatre goers or students with open books, chewing on the ends of biros, and sucking back espresso.

‘What are you doing?’ Charlie’s voice from behind me.

‘Nothing.’ I turn around, focusing my attention back on him. ‘Just having a look around.’

He raises his eyebrows an winks at me. ‘Constant Vigilance,’ he whispers.

‘Oh, shut it.’

As we approach the counter, Charlie turns back to me.

‘What is it you always used to order? Caramel Maraschino?’

‘Macchiato.’

‘And what is it I order?’

‘Espresso. But it might be a little late for that, unless of course, you still stay up half the night.’

‘Nah, think I’ll just have coffee. And that.’ He points to the large, decadent-looking mousse in the picture hanging over the counter.

‘You’ll be eating it by yourself.’

‘Did I say I was sharing?’

A stroke of luck gets us seats by the fire. Charlie in an oversized armchair and me in a small wing-back opposite. The clerk brings out his massive dessert and two spoons. Charlie sets his cup down and leans forward, handing me a spoon. I shake my head.

‘Oh, come on. What’s not to like? Chocolate, coffee cream, sponge, I think that might be some sort of berry thing, and did I mention chocolate?’ I shake my head. He continues, ‘You’re not still doing that training diet, are you?’ Heaping his spoon and cramming the whole thing into his mouth in one go.

‘No. I haven’t done that in years. Had a hard enough time sticking to it when I was training.’

‘So dig in.’

‘No thanks. I had a huge, and rather unexpected, supper tonight.’

‘Mrs Fuller?’

‘Yes.’

‘She’s still doing that?’

‘Only on days I look particularly thin, apparently.’

‘So if I squeeze you too tightly you’re liable to explode.’

‘Yes ... Were you planning to?’

He swallows another mouthful, raises his eyebrows and smiles, running his tongue greedily over his spoon. ‘Come on taste it.’

‘No.’

‘There’s going to be none left.’ Another large spoonful in his mouth. He’s doing it on purpose. He’s managed to polish off most of his dessert in four or five mouthfuls.

‘That’s quite all right.’

‘Come on Nymph, you know you want to.’ He loads his spoon again, piles it high, cups his other hand underneath it so as not to spill, and begins to fly it toward me.

‘The Horntail needs a place to land and if you don’t open the barn door there’s going to be a mess, and the roof will catch fire again .’ Then he starts making the noises. Just quietly at first, so only I hear them, but the more I refuse the louder he gets.

He sounds just like a bloody dragon.

‘Charlie, people are staring.’

‘Open your mouth,’ he says, between calls. Louder still.

I relent. Charlie flies the spoon into my mouth. Yes, there are more sound effects. I can’t eat and laugh at the same time very well. There’s cream across the side of my mouth; I can feel it. I reach for a napkin, but Charlie laughs and brushes his thumb over the side of my mouth, drawing it across my lips, before popping it into his mouth and sucking it clean.

I lick my lips. ‘You’re a idiot.’

‘An idiot you agreed to have coffee with.’ He falls back into his chair still laughing. Luckily, most of the cafe patrons just shake their heads at us and return to their own coffee and conversation. I alternate my gaze between him and the fire in the hearth, but I’m very aware that his eyes haven’t left me.

‘What?’ Do I have something more on my face?

‘Nothing.’ He gets out of his massive armchair and pushes it closer to mine, until they bump together. He sits on the edge of his seat and takes my left hand in both of his. His smile is still there, but I immediately recognise serious Charlie. ‘How are you, Nymph?’ His question is sincere, his concern genuine, and I feel it deserves an honest answer.

‘I’m all right.’

He nods. ‘Not taking any potions?’

‘Just to help me sleep, once in a while.’

‘You’re not sleeping?’

‘Not a lot, no.’ He squeezes my fingers.

‘Are the bruises gone?’

‘Mostly.’

‘Good. How’s work?’

‘Busy. You?’

‘Sonja’s taking over for a bit. Not that she’s very happy about being in the camp again. She was quite enjoying the clubs in Bucharest. But I’ve got some more work to do for Dumbledore. I’m off again tomorrow.’ He turns my hand over in his and runs his thumb over my palm. ‘Listen Nymph, I’m sorry about Tuesday. Dumbledore sent me on a little excursion and ...’

‘S’all right. It was a busy day for me anyway.’ Liar!

‘Still, I hated not turning up and not being able to explain why.’

‘It’s all right, really.’

He tugs on my fingers. ‘Come here.’

And, against my better judgment, I find myself sliding out of my chair and into his. Curling up beside him with my mug. His arm moves around me and I let my head fall back against his shoulder. He threads his fingers through my hair.

I’m far too comfortable.

‘So, are you seeing anyone?’ he asks, his lips brushing my temple as he speaks.

‘Yes.’

‘Some bloke from Accidental Magic Reversal, right?’

‘You’ve been talking to Bill.’

‘Dad mentioned it, actually. So ... is it serious?’

‘Yes.’

He just nods. I want to ask him the same question. But I can’t. I don’t really want to know. My gaze finds the fire again and we sit in silence. His fingers move slowly through my hair. He empties his mug and I soon find his other arm sliding around my waist. His thumb hooks in the belt loop of my jeans, a finger strokes the exposed skin on my hip, where my jeans and top meet.

Too comfortable...

‘Hey, Nymph.’

Hmmm.

‘Sorry, but I think they want to close.’

Merlin, was I asleep?

‘You’re going to have to wake up.’ I feel him shift from under me and I raise my head. ‘Come on, let’s get you home to bed.’

Oh God, I was asleep.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’m lousy company.’ I sit up, scrubbing my hands over my face. The place is empty.

‘No you’re not, and I’m not complaining.’ He offers me his hand and pulls me to my feet. ‘Come on. We better let the poor man close his cafe.’

*

Back out in the night, Charlie’s arm is around my shoulders and he pulls me close as we walk. It’s the same way we used to walk back from Hogsmeade years ago. One arm around me, holding me close, the other poised to catch me, because I would, almost inevitably, trip over the stones on the way back up to the school.

‘You don’t have to hold me up you know, I’ve gotten a lot better at walking by myself.’

‘I know, but you’re tired, and I fear for other pedestrians. Besides, I ...’

But he never finishes the sentence, just leaves it hanging there, and we walk the rest of the way in silence. The walk from Hogsmeade to the castle was always too short, and this is no exception as Grimmauld Place looms before us far too quickly. Soon, we are through the front doors and, after being careful not to embarrass myself with the umbrella stand that seems to hate me, we stand at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Thank you. That was fun.’

‘Anytime. Where are you?’ he asks, nodding up the staircase.

‘Second landing. You?’

‘Top floor, with Bill. Do you mind if I walk you to your door?’

‘No.’

He follows me up the stairs. We reach the second floor landing and my door in a matter of moments. I turn the knob and look back at him, prepping myself for Goodnight and yet another Goodbye.

‘Well, this is me.’

‘Can I come in for a minute?’

‘It’s not a flat, Charlie. It’s the box room.’

‘The box room?’ He pushes the door open behind me and it swings inward, brushing the end of the bed. He moves past me and into the room. ‘What did you do that they put you in here?’

‘I volunteered to take it. Doesn’t matter much to me. I’m usually half asleep when I stumble in here anyway.’

I’m suddenly very aware of how small this room actually is. Of how close he is, standing in the small space between the bed and me.

Did he shut the door, or did I?

‘Well, thanks for the coffee. It was nice.’

He turns to me.

Why is it so hot in here?

‘Yeah, we should do it again sometime.’

Ah ... overly formal route.

‘I’d like that.’

I kick off my shoes and sit cross-legged in the centre of my bed, looking up at him. He stares at the ceiling for a minute and runs his fingers through his hair. Nervous Charlie habit. Suppose he’s trying to decide what to say? Or what to do? In the end he claps his hands together and runs his fingers through his hair again.

‘Well, I’m leaving right early tomorrow, so ...’

I feel a slight panic rising in my chest. He’s about to go ... I don’t want him to go, not yet.

‘How are Ginny and Ron?’

He runs his fingers through shaggy hair once more and looks down at me. ‘Doing well, actually. Ginny, well, Ginny’s fine. At least that’s what her letter said. And Ron ... well Ron’s still in the hospital wing at school. But at least he’s at school, not St Mungo’s. Mum’s by to see him all the time and Fred and George are keeping him well-stocked in sweets and chocolate. Honestly, I thought Mum was going to do her nut when those two left school, but this whole business at the Ministry...’ He sits on the bed and slides backward, leaning up against the wall. ‘Well, she seems to have forgotten how angry she was.’

‘That’s good. For the twins.’

‘Scared the hell out of Mum I think. She’s even owling me a lot more often than she used to.’

He doesn’t look at me. He’s staring at the ceiling again, the corner above the door where the big spider web is.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask after a time.

‘Yeah. Fine. Just thinking. I should take Ron to see the Cannons. I keep promising him we’ll go next time I’m in town. And I keep putting it off.’

‘I think he’d really like that.’

‘And Ginny ... well I dunno ‘bout Ginny.’

‘I think she might like to go to that Cannons match with you, too.

‘You think? In my head she’s always seven. Tying bonnets on the cat, that type of thing.’

‘She’s also the Gryffindor Seeker.’

He smiles. ‘That is true.’

‘Perhaps she’s more like you than you think.’

‘Now that’s a frightening thought.’ But he’s smiling and I’m glad to see it.

‘You’re a good big brother Charlie. Ginny’s all right and Ron ... Ron will be fine.’

‘I know. Mum says he’ll have some wicked scarring, though. Poor kid.’

‘I dunno.’ I give him my best smile. ‘He’ll have a wicked story to go with them. And scars with wicked stories ... Well ...’

‘Yes?’

‘He’ll be showing them off to the girls in no time. Just like his brother.’

He laughs and gives my hand a squeeze. Gently running his thumbs over my palm again.

‘Whomping Willow,’ he says, tracing the line of the thin scar that runs down the inside of my right forearm. ‘First year. Because Marjorie Sinclair dared you.’

I laugh. ‘Stupid. It bled for ages.’

‘I remember.’ He raises my arm up, leans down and presses a kiss on my wrist, at the base of my scar. Looking up at me, he licks his lips and continues his trail of kisses, softly, deliberately, gauging my reaction as he goes. I try not to give him one. Only smile at him; he doesn’t need to know. Doesn’t need to know that it feels lovely. That it makes me tingle in places I have no business tingling, not when it comes to him. Not anymore.

What’s he playing at?

Is he playing?

‘What was that for?’

‘Just trying to make you feel better.’ He grins. ‘Did it work?’

It did. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

He shrugs, but I can’t help but feel I’ve just been challenged.

Pushing up his left sleeve, I run my fingers over the large, shiny, round, burn on his forearm. ‘Chinese Fireball,’ I say. ‘Your first summer in Romania.’ He smiles at me and nods. I dip my head down and press my lips softly to the mark on his arm. Challenge met.

He takes my hand and brings it to his lips, drawing my thumb gently into his mouth, swirling his tongue over it and sucking gently. Still keeping eye contact, still looking for a reaction I’m not willing to give. Instead, I just smile at him again. He withdraws my thumb slowly and kisses the tip. ‘Potato peeler; you were seven.’

‘That’s not a good story.’

‘Is to me.’

There’s a white scar on the back of his left hand I’m not familiar with. I brush my thumbs over it, and turn his hand over to find a larger mark in the center of his palm.

‘Idiot scar,’ he responds, without me even having to ask a question.

‘How long?’

‘Two years ago.’

‘Tooth, or claw?’

‘Something like that.’ He smiles oddly and takes his hand back. ‘You know me, always putting my hands where they don’t belong.’

Is he regretting starting this little game?

‘Wait.’

‘What?’ he asks.

‘I haven’t made it better yet.’

I retrieve his hand and proceed to kiss the back of it, then press my lips into his palm. His eyes close. A slightly pained expression crosses his face.

‘Does it still hurt?’

‘No.’ He smiles again. ‘Not anymore.’

He shifts a little so he’s facing me. He touches my shoulder, my collarbone, my neck just below my ear. Three small scars. ‘Potions. Third year,’ he whispers. ‘Entirely my fault. I swear never to add Sulfur before Fireweed again, unless, of course, I’m trying to make things explode.’

He kisses my shoulder through the fabric of my shirt, brushes my collar aside to plant a small kiss on my collarbone, then he kisses my neck, drawing skin into his mouth, lingering far too long.

I’m dizzy. And it’s my turn.

I touch the top of his right shoulder through the fabric of that divine shirt, run my finger over it and down to his shoulder blade. The second one starts on his left biceps, and I trace it all the way across the left side of his chest to the hollow of his throat.

‘Norwegian Ridgeback. Scottish Fold.’

He shakes his head. ‘Wrong.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Yes, you are. It’s my left shoulder and the right side of my chest.’

‘You sure?’ Stupid question.

‘Quite.’ He laughs.

‘Probably just ‘cause I can’t see them; I got them muddled up.’ As soon as those words leave my lips I know I shouldn’t have said them. Charlie grasps the hem of his tee shirt, pulls it up over his head, and tosses it over the footboard. And I gasp, not just at the sight of a half-naked Weasley, but at the vicious slash marks across his abdomen. Those weren’t there last week.

Two bright red lines cutting a diagonal swath across his stomach, starting partway up his left side and disappearing under the waistline of his jeans on his right.

‘What happened?’

‘No. You’ll have to wait ‘til your next turn for that. We’re still discussing how wrong you are.’

I am wrong, of course.

‘All right, I’m wrong. I got them muddled up. Do I get marks deducted for my error?’

‘Normally, yes, but I know you’re tired. So not tonight.’

‘Thank you. So what happens now, then?’

‘Make them better.’ He grins. Now that was a challenge if ever I’ve heard one. And I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge.

I pull myself to my knees, wet my lips and place a kiss on the top of his right shoulder. Then, sliding off the bed, I move around behind him and trail kisses down the thin white line that extends to the tip of his shoulder blade. I remember how upset he was when this happened. Not because of the pain of the injury, but because the scar dissected the wing of the red dragon he’d had newly inked across his shoulders. It closes its eyes sleepily as I kiss down the mark in its wing. I always thought it funny that such a fierce little creature would turn pussycat when kissed. Much like its master.

Moving back around him I climb back on to my bed and face him once more. His eyes are closed. Dropping my head down I place kisses on the scar on his biceps, move my lips slowly across his chest. His breathing is deep and even, but as I run my tongue up the length of that scar and dip it into the hollow of his throat, I’m pleased to note he falters. Sliding back, I sit up again. He opens his eyes, looks at me, and smiles.

‘Better?’ I ask.

‘Much,’ he grins, he’s not going to give an inch either. But between the redness in his ears and the bulge in his jeans I know I’ve had my effect.

His turn. Now what?

‘Stand up.’

I do what I’m told and stand beside the bed, still facing him. He slides to the floor, on his knees in front of me.

‘You have a new scar,’ he says, looking up at me. ‘Right here,’ he taps my left hip, ‘that I’m very concerned about. It looks like something rather nasty glanced off your hip. Am I right?’

I nod. ‘My first encounter with a Death Eater.’

‘When?’

‘Nearly two years.’

I watch him unbutton the two bottom buttons of my shirt and pull the fabric back. I watch him as he undoes my belt, as he unbuttons the top button of my jeans and tugs them away from the mark on my hip. I watch him as he covers the skin there with feathery kisses. Bite down on my lip as a wave of warmth washes through my body. As the familiar dull ache takes up residence between my thighs.

Tingling is one thing, but this ...

He’s just upped the ante, and he knows it.

‘Better?’ he asks.

‘Mmmm.’

My turn.

‘All right, now this.’ He stands, and I touch the red bands across his stomach.

‘Horntail,’ he replies. ‘Three days ago. Just a baby one, luckily. Damn tail. But I was, ah ... ‘fixing’ him at the time, so can’t really blame him. Count myself lucky I’m not as tall as Bill, or he’d’ve done the same to me.’

‘That would be a tragedy.’

He laughs. ‘You think so?’

Damn it. Thinking voice; speaking voice.

So I just smile and shrug and slide back onto the bed. Sitting on the edge pulling him toward me so he’s standing between my knees. Giving me a most favourable vantage point. There are actually three bands; I see that now. Three thick, red marks across his abdomen. The third is almost entirely concealed beneath the waistband of his jeans. ‘Hungarian Horntail,’ I repeat. ‘ Three days ago.’ He nods. ‘Is it sore?’

‘A little, yeah.’

They look sore, painful in fact, raised red welts on his perfect skin. I kiss the topmost part of his scar. He smiles down at me. I run my tongue down the length of it to where it meets his hip. He shuts his eyes. I treat the second band much the same way, starting at the top and working my way down to where it disappears into his jeans. His eyes open as I undo his belt and the two topmost buttons of flies. I have to be careful. Charlie has done nothing to conceal the ample erection he’s sporting, and I know he’s never really taken to boxers, or briefs for that matter. I slide the jeans back from the second band and rain kisses down the rest of it. His eyes are closed again. I do believe I’ve bested him. Number three. I alternate this time, chaste kisses and tongue. My eyes close. I mean to make this count. My tongue flicks over the head of his cock ...

Shite. Didn’t mean to do that.

The guttural moan that immediately escapes his lips gives me goose bumps. I watch him clench and unclench his fists at his sides.

‘Sorry.’

‘S’Mmmrkay.’

Keeping my tongue to myself, I continue over his hip and down to the end of his scar, resigning myself to chaste kisses instead.

‘So ... better?’

‘Marginally.’ He grins. ‘My turn.’

He joins me on the bed again. Facing me, a leg on either side. I kneel, my hands in my lap waiting to see where he’s going to go next. Reaching up, he undoes my top button of my shirt. Suddenly, I know what he’s about to do. The room, which a few moments ago had seemed so terribly warm, is now stone cold.

No.

‘Charlie ... Charlie, please ... don’t ...

Pausing he looks up at me, holding my gaze, not letting me look away. ‘You are so beautiful,’ he tells me.

‘Charlie ...’

‘Let me.’

‘You can’t ...’

‘Let me.’ He moves on to the next button I can feel myself shaking under the weight of his touch. His fingers flick the remainder of my buttons open. I shut my eyes as he slides my shirt off over my shoulders. I don’t need to see it again. I’ve never felt so self-conscious. Never in front of him. ‘S’all right,’ he whispers.

‘I hate it ...so much.’

‘I hate it too,’ he continues. His hand slides behind my back and unhooks my bra. ‘But not because it’s ugly ... It’s part of you so it can’t be. I hate it because I know the pain it causes you.’

He slips the bra off my shoulders and I slide my arms back through the straps. My hands come to rest on his knees, bunching any loose denim I find in my fists. White-knuckling it.

I can’t move, can barely breathe. I feel the tightening in my chest, tears burning behind my eyes, as I finally look down and see his fingers brush gently over the red mark that covers my left breast and creeps outward like some perverse spider web. My constant reminder of failure.

My constant reminder of what I’ve lost. Of death and pain and guilt.

Of Remus standing behind Moody as they told me, never being able to meet my eye.

Of Harry losing the only other person he ever considered family.

Of my mother on her knees, on the floor of my room at St Mungo’s, as fifteen years of anger, pain, and tears poured from her.

Of Bellatrix herself, proud and crazed and powerful. Laughing.

I feel the tears roll down my cheeks as his lips touch my skin.

I shut my eyes again. I can’t bear to watch as he outlines that hideous mark in soft kisses. Trying to take away my pain, more than I can handle, and far more than I deserve.

‘S’all right,’ He whispers between soft kisses, ‘It’s only me.’

That’s just it Charlie, it’s never ‘only’ you.

My quiet struggle has given way to sobs I can’t control. He finally pulls away.

‘Nymph, I’m sorry ... I didn’t mean ... Please.’

I try and catch my breath but I can’t. I know I’m past the point of return.

He moves to my side, lowering me backward to the bed, sliding down beside me, wrapping me tightly in his arms.

My hands slide around his sides, pulling him closer. I need him closer, need to feel like I’m part of him again. His arm slides around my waist and he pulls my body tightly against his own.

My tears are soaking his chest. I wonder how he can stand me, pathetic, wibbling mess that I’ve become. Wonder why he doesn’t just leave. But he doesn’t. Instead he curls his body around mine. Protective. And further tightens his embrace. I can’t think, can’t feel. Don’t want to. Just want to stay here and have everything else vanish.

I can’t though. I know I can’t. Need to stop this, need to get a grip. Bloody Auror for God’s sake.

I pull back and move up a little, sniffing and finally managing to get breath in my lungs. His hand brushes away my tears and he kisses my eyes each in turn. I reach up and run my hand through his hair. Ginger hair, with generous amounts of gold. His hair was never that fair in school. But now he’s seen too much sun, or perhaps just too much heat. Then there are the freckles ... so many freckles. They range anywhere from the palest ginger to the darkest brown. Too many to count; I’ve tried. I always lose my place. I find his eyes, pale lashes, dark eyes. His eyes are smiling, odd, since there is no trace of one on his lips. His lips ...

I can’t help it. Drawing his head down to mine, I press my lips to his. His tongue parts my lips and I’d already forgotten how warm his mouth is. I’m melting. I swear all my insides have been instantly liquefied. I’m lucky to be lying down as one could not possibly stand in this condition. More warmth, more tingling, a deeper ache.

It would be so easy just to let go. To give in to him. To us. Just to feel, not to think, but I can’t. Shouldn’t.

Charlie I can’t ...

‘Charlie, I can’t. I’m with someone.’

‘I know,’ he replies. His lips part from mine and begin to move across my face, then blazing a fiery trail down my neck.

Can’t. Can’t. Can’t. Can’t.

But my words are failing ... as is my resolve.

I can’t.

Out loud.

His hands sweep my sides, as I run my hands over the muscles of his back and my lips find work on his earlobe, causing him to buck his hips toward me and moan against my neck. The next moment, his fingers entwine with mine and he takes my hand, pushing it down and down and down, sliding it into his still-open jeans, running it over his solid cock. I swear I see stars as he thrusts into my hand.

I want to. So much. But I can’t.

‘Charlie ... Charlie ... stop.’

He does. Immediately.

‘What’s the matter?’

I slide out from under him. ‘I’m sorry, I just ... I can’t ... I can’t do this.’

‘Nymph?’ He moves toward me, reaching to touch my face, but I pull away, crawl backward on the bed until my back presses against the cold, hard iron of the headboard. I can’t have him touch me again.

‘I’m sorry ...’ I force myself to look at him. ‘I can’t ... won’t ... do this ... Not again. I’m with someone else now, Charlie. I ... You have to go.’

‘Nymph?’

‘Please, Charlie ... Just go.’

He nods, but he won’t look at me. He barely even turns his head in my direction. Just picks his tee shirt up off the end of the bed and pulls it on. ‘Night, Nymph.’

The door closes behind him and I’m alone again.

I strip off the remainder of my clothes and climb into bed, pulling the quilt tightly around me.

How the fuck have I managed to do this twice in one night?

Cold, clammy nausea has spread quickly over me again. I can’t stop shaking and for some reason I can’t seem to fucking get warm either.

Shit.

Leaning over the edge of the mattress I empty the contents of my stomach into the bin beside the bed.

I hate this, I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.

~