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I must have a disorder. Asshole Arousal Disorder where I’m only interested in men who ignore me.
“Seems like I’m easily defeated by pompous men in suits who don’t listen to me,”
There’s that beautiful face. I could stare at those green eyes forever.
“You’ve just ruined me forever,” he growls from below me. “I’ll never fucking recover from this.”
“Still trying to buy me out?” I pant. “At this rate, I’ll give you the damn company.”
“No, I prefer hot-headed, foul-mouthed brunettes who never run a brush through their hair, take mice to dinner parties and sleep in beds so damn uncomfortable and tiny, I have to go to a physio. You
Does that mean,” she asks quietly, “that I’m your girlfriend?” My eyes hold hers as a barrage of emotions flood me. Fuck this. For the first time in years, I know what I want. If I could stay in this moment forever, I would. With this girl. My girl. Leave London, my company, everything behind and become hermits on these cliffs. “Yes, Charlie. You most certainly are.” She rests her head on my shoulders, and I inhale deeply into her hair. So this is what content feels like.
I am hopelessly, utterly irrevocably in love with this man, but I can’t admit it out loud. I want this man from my very core. I’ve never wanted anything more, and that thought terrifies me because to love this deep means I have so, so much to lose.
I watch her walk away, and something inside me breaks into a thousand tiny pieces.
“I’m wiping the slate clean. I love you, Charlie. I’ve never loved anyone like this before. I want you to be my girlfriend; I want you to be my last girlfriend.
