Hey,
As you can probably tell, I couldn't stay away. This was written during my hiatus, hence the publishing. This takes place in a universe where Charles was still married to Rebecca,hence forth the lack of love and the kiss mentioned later is one that happened on a night out. Oh and about the swimming, I have never been in basic training, so I don't know if the instructor actually goes in the pool. A Anyways, enjoy and please review!
It's almost an obsession, this desire you have, this need to be with him no matter the cost. The other girls would call you lovesick, you know, and you couldn't refute it if they did. Because you are: in love. Perhaps, yes, even to the point of sickness. Because he doesn't love you, that much you know. But maybe love isn't everything. You remember the hover of his hands over your hips, the way he follows the sway of your breasts when you move and you know that his not loving you doesn't mean he doesn't want you. It isn't premeditated, you tell yourself, not really, but you wait until the others go back to barracks for the day, until it's just the two of you, and you wait until he's at the edge of the pool, water droplets running down his chest, until your skin prickles with the heat of his gaze. You wait until his hand brushes your shoulder, traces along the back of your swimming costume. And you turn and he whispers, Don't. But his eyes are hungry and his lips are on yours before you can reply and you aren't sure which of you he was talking to, anyway. Kisses escalate to caresses and soon his mouth is on your breast, licking and sucking and lightly biting and you're moaning and tugging on his hair and telling him not to stop.
And then he does and he says, Don't let me do this, and his eyes are tortured and you take a deep breath and slide your hand to the front of his trunks and his eyes close. He's hard and ready against your palm and your shudder is partly in relief, partly out of fear, but mostly determination. Please, you say, and he kisses you again and carries you to the office. And then you're on the couch and you can feel the weight of his body on yours and you can hear foil tearing and then you can feel him inside you, a part of you and it hurts and it's him and because it's Charles, it's good and he's watching you with heated brown eyes, and breathing a command to Come, Dawesy and you shatter, flying apart, disappearing beneath him.
He prowls around you like a large cat, something hungry and angry and dangerous and it makes you nervous; the look in his eyes, that self-loathing mixed with something else – resentment? – makes you shiver. You could almost wish you'd never started this, never taught him the ease with which a man can sink into himself, into his baser instincts. And yet- you have him, for the most part. You can't let yourself regret it any more than you regret the kiss that started everything, so many months ago. You don't regret it, you tell yourself, and try not to tremble when his hand strokes your hair, holds you still for the brush of his lips against your throat. But you can't help yourself from whispering, Who are you? and shrinking back even as your body arches into his, back against the cold, tiled flooring. He shrugs, scrapes his teeth against the vulnerable line of your throat. The man you wanted me to be, he says. And you don't know how to reply. So you apologize with every stroke of your hand along his back, his stomach, the muscles of his thigh, and his nails are sharp against the softness of your skin. Boss, you sigh when he's moving in you, powerful thrusts that make you gasp and him groan against your neck. Do you hate me? And he looks at you for a long moment, so very long that your heart begins to tremble in your breast, and then he says, No, and kisses you, the heat of his mouth and the brush of tongue making you forget what you'd talked about, almost. But later, later you stroke his hair and watch him shudder to your touch and you swallow the tears filling your eyes and tightening your throat and know he's lying.