“Both can qualify.”

He glances at my chest and then back up at me. “So, if I were to say your tits look hot in that see-through lace top, would that charm you?”

It’s see-through?

I glance down and see the clear definition of my nipples. Well, I guess it is see-through when it’s wet.

“I guess that would charm me marginally, but I believe you could probably do better.”

“Yeah?” His hands snake up my sides until they loop under my bralette and pull it up and over my head. He tosses the drenched fabric to the side and then brings his hands to my thighs. “What about now? Charming?”

I sit there, on his lap, topless, in the rain, and to any other person, this action could be defined as “horny man.”

But, God, with one blink of his eye, he could charm these shorts right off me.

“From your silence and heavy breathing, I’m going to take that as a yes.”

He’s so cocky, so sure of himself. It’s sexy and also vaguely annoying. The annoying part causes my next action.

I rest my hand on his stomach and shift my pelvis over his lap. His playful eyes immediately turn dark, seductive.

“What are you doing?”

“Showing you what charm really is.” I rotate my hips again, and this time, I’m rewarded by him growing harder underneath me.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want his cock. After giving him head in the shower, there’s nothing I want more than to experience him driving into me over and over again. But he’s also a bit of a flight risk, and while we’ve made some progress this weekend—progress toward what, I’m not sure, but at least he’s engaging with me—I don’t want to push him too far, just enough.

Water drips down my face as I smile at him. “You see, Huxley”—I rub my center over his erection in a continuous motion, finding just the right spot for both of us—“charm can easily come in the form of dry-humping.”

He lets out a roar of laughter right before the most gorgeous smile I’ve ever seen lights up his face. God, he’s beautiful. Sexy and hot, yes, but right now, I see a boyish cuteness to him as well.

“I had no idea charm could be translated through dry-humping. I always thought the universal translation for dry-humping was . . . ‘hey, I’m horny.’”

I steady my hands on his stomach, which causes my breasts to press together. “It can mean both.”

Still smiling, he reaches up to my breasts and rolls my nipples with his fingers. “Good to know.” He then envelops my right breast in his hand, squeezing, massaging. “Have I ever told you how fucking hot your tits are?”

“Mmm,” I moan, picking up my pace just a notch. “I can’t remember. Maybe. But tell me more.”

“They’re sexy as fuck, Lottie. Not too big, not too small, tight little nipples that beg me to touch them. I could spend hours just playing with your tits.”

“Hours seems excessive.” My head falls back as he sits up and brings his mouth to my breast. He sucks tightly on my nipple and . . . that’s it. The scruff of his jaw rubbing against my sensitive skin combined with the intimate feeling of his lips on my nipple sends a crazy rip of pleasure down my spine and all the way to my curled toes.

“Hours are necessary.” He moves his mouth to my other breast and pays as much attention to that nipple as he did the other.

My hand floats to the back of his head, and I hold him in place, not wanting him to stop doing what he’s doing, because it lights me up, makes me feel alive.

The patter of rain around us heightens the mood, as well as the way the water runs over our two bodies, soaking our clothes, our hair, our skin. It’s erotic. The only thing that could make this better would be if we were both completely naked.

“God, Huxley,” I groan when he tugs on my nipple with his teeth. “I want more.”

He takes that as a sign to flip me to my back, laying me across the cold, wet surface of the teak-wood flooring. His gorgeous body hovers above mine, blocking the rainfall from hitting me in the face. His chest ripples above me, his hair’s wet with droplets, and his eyes are so intense with need that I find myself spreading my legs.

He positions himself between them, his large frame causing me to make even more room. He lowers his pelvis to mine, and when they touch, immediate gratification strikes me in the chest.

Yes.

He feels so much better like this.

Heavy against me.

Hard as stone.

But he’s the one in control, something I’ve come to love when he touches me. I want him to own me, own my body, and make me forget everything around us.

“I want your shorts off,” he says in a tortured tone.

He pushes his hand through his hair, sopping the water away, and lifts off me only enough to pull down on my shorts. I help him remove them with a lift of my hips, and once they’re off, he drops them to the side and positions himself against me again.

I’ve never been naked in the rain.

And I’m going to be honest, it might be my new favorite thing.

It’s exciting.

Daring.

Erotic.

Huxley hovers over me, the only thing between us his shorts, and they do nothing to hide his massive erection.

“I love seeing you like this,” he says, “submitting to me. I’ve never seen anything sexier in my life. This is it, right here, you naked, wet, legs spread, waiting for me.” He wets his lips. “How much do you want me?”

“More than I care to admit,” I say, looping my hand behind his neck.

“Still hate me?”

“No.”

“Still want to help me?”

“Do I even have a choice?” I ask, wondering where this questioning is coming from.

He flashes his eyes to me. “Even if I don’t want to admit it, you always have a choice.” He rubs his length along my aroused clit. Oh God, that feels too freaking good. My hand trembles against his neck as he reaches up to my breast and teases it with his fingers. Looking me in the eyes, he says, “If you told me, tomorrow, you want out, I’d destroy the contract.”

He thrusts against me.

“What?” I gasp as he pushes again, and again, and again. “Oh God,” I moan, his pace stirring pleasure deep within me. “Wh-why?”

“Because,” he says, thrusting again. I catch the tension in his shoulders. He’s holding back. From the thick veins in his neck and the tight clench of his jaw, he could give more, wants to give more. “Even though you might not believe it, I want you to be happy.” He thrusts again, and my back arches as my body pulses. Begs. “I don’t want to trap you.” Another thrust. Two more, that’s all it’s going to take. “I don’t want you to feel trapped.” Thrust.

“Yes, God, yes, Huxley.” I grip him and meet his thrusts with my own. I’m right there, on the edge. Pleasure pools at the base of my spine, this euphoric feeling amplifying with every push of his erection against my clit.

So close.

God, I’m so close.

“I just want you happy,” he says, and I hear him.

I’m listening to everything he’s saying to me, but it’s not quite registering in my head.

His words aren’t making sense, because all I can focus on is teetering on the edge of my orgasm and wanting to fall over. I want to fall over with him.

“How close are you?” I ask him.

“Right . . . there,” he groans.

“Then take it, take me. Harder, Huxley.”

He smooths his hand down to my ass, where he grips me tightly and pulls me all the way against him, intensifying the connection. That’s all it takes.

One thrust and I’m done.

Every last ounce of pleasure gathers, coils, into the center of my body, only to be ripped into millions of joyous pieces as my body combusts underneath him.

“Oh, fuck,” I yell. “Yes, Huxley.”

“Jesus,” he mutters as he drives harder and harder until he stills, groans loudly, and then collapses on top of me.

He props his weight up with one arm on the ground, but his head tilts down, our foreheads connecting. It’s as close as our mouths have been this entire time, making me realize that the man might have just dry-humped me to completion, but he never once laid his lips on mine.