The Charm Offensive(76)
Charlie should have known better than to doubt him.
Dev
“That is the color of your face when you blush,” Dev says, and Charlie blushes, dusty pink splotches along his throat. They have to be careful here, not just because Bali is conservative, but because the town is small. Crew members could be anywhere, could see anything.
But when Charlie melts back into him, Dev can’t help himself. He grazes his unshaved cheek against Charlie’s smooth one, wraps one arm around Charlie’s waist.
“Do you want a picture?” their jukung captain asks in nervous English. “Of the two of you?”
“Yes,” Charlie says before Dev can say no. He hands over his phone, and they swivel their bodies toward the back of the boat. Charlie throws an arm over Dev’s shoulder, and they smile, cheek to cheek.
“You are very beautiful,” the captain says. Dev isn’t sure if you means Charlie, or if you means Charlie and Dev together. He wants to believe it’s the latter.
* * *
“Lady Gaga!” Charlie shouts suddenly as they’re headed back to the villa. He pulls Dev into a restaurant where a trio of young men are singing a pitchy rendition of “Shallow.” Tourists awkwardly dance around the bar, and Charlie—maybe emboldened by the boat captain’s acceptance—grabs Dev’s hand and twirls him around the way they couldn’t dance together in front of Leland Barlow.
Charlie sings along, quite terribly, to the song as they dance. The equatorial sun has brought out new freckles on his shoulders, and the humidity makes his clothes cling to his abdominal muscles, and Dev can’t believe how much he loves him.
“This will be our song,” Charlie murmurs low and close.
“This absolutely will not be our song.”
But when Charlie glares, Dev comes in on the chorus with the Bradley Cooper harmonies despite himself.
Charlie lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss to the back of Dev’s, and the gesture feels so natural, almost like he’s done it a hundred times before. Almost as if they’re a normal couple, not two people playing at happily ever after for three more weeks.
As soon as they’re alone back at the villa, Dev kisses Charlie’s shoulder, swallowing the constellation of new freckles before traveling up toward Charlie’s mouth.
Charlie tastes like peanut sauce, and they kiss and kiss and kiss, until Charlie hooks his hands around the back of Dev’s thighs and hoists him up. Dev scrambles to wrap his legs around Charlie’s waist, and somehow, Charlie holds him there, suspended, like he weighs nothing. “How are you doing this? I feel like Rachel McAdams in The Notebook.”
“If I’m a bird, you’re a bird,” Charlie says. Dev gapes at him. “Yes, I’ve seen the movie. I didn’t grow up under a rock. And The Notebook is a prime example of the problematic tendencies in popular romantic media, and—”
Dev smashes his face against Charlie’s, just to shut him up, and they kiss and kiss and kiss again, with Dev’s arms twisted around Charlie’s neck.
“Any other problematic romantic fantasies I can fulfill while we’re here?”
“Unless you have a pottery wheel or the prow of a ship stashed away in your meticulously organized luggage, I’m not sure what you can do for me.”
Charlie grins. “I think there are a few things I can do for you.”
He carries Dev into the bathroom and sets him down on the closed toilet seat with such impressive muscle control, Dev is positive it’s the sexiest thing that’s ever happened in human history. Charlie turns on the shower and pulls off his shirt.
“To be clear, mixing cleanliness with sex is your romantic fantasy.”
But then Charlie undresses him with painstaking care, folding his shirt, his shorts, his underwear, all in a neat little pile he sets down beside the sink, and that is somehow the sexiest thing that has ever happened. Dev gives Charlie full control, lets him haul them both into the shower, lets him position his body under the warm water, lets him lather his hands with organic oatmeal body wash and send those hands up Dev’s chest, covering them both in suds.
Charlie is naked and on display, and Dev can’t believe he gets to look. Charlie is carved from marble and meant to be showcased at some Italian museum, but it’s Dev’s body he treats like a precious antiquity. Charlie scrubs his forearms, his shoulder blades, his kneecaps. He scrubs the inside of his thighs until Dev has to remind himself to breathe. No one has ever touched him as tenderly as Charlie does, as lovingly. It’s never been this good, this natural with anyone else. No one else has ever seen this much of him.
Charlie kneels down in front of him.
Breathe, he reminds himself. Just breathe.
Water sluices down Charlie’s nose, across his clavicle, traveling the horizontal fault line of his abdominal muscles, and Dev hunches forward to protect Charlie from the water as he takes Dev in his mouth.
“Oh, love,” he says involuntarily. Everything he says and does becomes involuntary, his other hand sweeping through Charlie’s hair and holding on tight. He says please and thank you, and he falls into Charlie’s lap when it’s over, sitting on the floor of their hotel shower, wrapped up in wet limbs.
Charlie pulls him into a rough kiss, and when Charlie mutters, “I love the way you taste,” Dev bursts out laughing. The sound is wet, echoing off the shower walls, and Charlie looks both offended and pleased with himself.