Noah and Charlotte's story comes to a conclusion with Endless Possibility, and I thought I'd actually dust off this blog and post a final snippet for those who care to read without having it in their face on Facebook.
Sometime later that morning, we finally put our clothes back on, and Charlotte made a call to Sabina Gessler, the director of the Vienna Touring Orchestra.
“I don’t have to be back until later this evening,” Charlotte told me. “I want you to come with me and meet everyone before the concert. Sabina, and Herr Steckler, and—oh! Annalie! My best friend here. She is lovely. I told her all about you. Except that you’re blind. Funny, that never even occurred to me. I just don’t think of you that way first.”
“Neither do I,” I said. “Not anymore.”
Charlotte gasped. “Really? Oh, Noah...” I heard the bed creak as she stood on it and wrapped her arms around my neck. I breathed in the perfume of her skin. “That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.”
God, this woman. I pressed a kiss between her breasts, over her heart. That sound, her heart quickening its pulse under my touch…the best thing I’d ever heard.
“We have one problem,” Charlotte said, slipping her arms down around my waist. “It’s nine a.m. and I’m wearing a fancy black velvet dress. The Walk of Shame imagery I have going on here is pretty epic.”
“Hey, I’m in the same boat. How many buttons did you rip off my vest?”
“Maybe one or two.”
I arched a brow in her general direction.
“Or all of them.” She giggled. “So what do we do?”
“Let’s go back to my hotel…” I cocked my head. “Unless this is my hotel. Is this my hotel? Where are we?”
Charlotte laughed again, a rich sound, and cupped my cheek. “Oh, Noah. You sound so…happy. But tired. You look tired, honey.”
I held her hand. “I’m fine, baby. Really. Never better, now that I’m with you.”
“You promise you’ll tell me what happened? I mean, all of it. Your whole trip?”
I kissed her hands. “I promise. Right now, I need a shower. Or, more specifically, I need to get you in a shower. In my hotel room.”
“You’re insatiable,” she laughed. “That doesn’t solve my current clothing predicament. You tore my underwear to shreds, mister.”
“In my defense, a thong isn’t really underwear. It’s more of a torture device to drive men insane. And it worked.”
“I love how it worked,” she purred, her lips brushing mine. “You have something for me to wear at your hotel?”
“Leave it to me. I’ll take care of you, baby."
“Mmm.” She rested her head against my chest. “I like the sound of that.”