"Come on, Dee…nobody has to know."
He whispers this hoarsely while peppering your neck with sloppy kisses, and the only reason you haven't shoved him off the couch is because one feverish palm is splayed over your abdomen, and it's been so long…too long…without another body pressed to yours. The liquor has your head swimming and it almost seems plausible, that a night with Charlie - okay, fifteen minutes with Charlie - could make up for two years of involuntary celibacy. But even with your eyes closed you can tell who you're kissing, from the hint of cat food beneath the rum on his breath, body odor from two days un-showered, and the grunts and little moans of pleasure he makes when your own hands dip lower. The man is unmistakably Charlie Kelly, and the thought sickens you even as the tip of his tongue grazes your throat and turns you on.
"Okay," you hear yourself saying. "But just this once."
