Callie Shaw.
I closed the box slowly. My hand tightened around it.
I didn’t like the thought of her coming on some vibrating piece of rubber.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
She was too young. Too full of life. Not jaded like me.
At twenty-one, she was fifteen years my junior. Too young.
I placed it back into the box—carefully—and scribbled down the brand and model on a spare Post-it. Just for research.
Once I’d sealed her dirty little secret back up with clear parcel tape, I sat back, staring at the thing like it might start vibrating right through the cardboard.
I wasn’t sure if I’d made matters better… or much, much worse.
Because now, every time I saw Callie Shaw, I’d picture her using it.
And I knew—knew—I’d hate the thought of anything but me between her thighs.
I groaned at the thought of tapping that fine ass.
The box should’ve stayed in the fucking hallway.
But instead of working, I sat there trying to figure out why she was different from the rest. Her room—what little I’d glimpsed of it through open doors—was always neat. Organised. Not like the chaos the others lived in. She was quiet and kept to herself.
Mature beyond her years in most ways.
But then she’d do something—nervous, unconscious.
Like pushing her glasses up her nose before looking away like I’d caught her doing something wrong.
That little flicker of discomfort… that urge to hide.
Hm. I wouldn’t mind teaching her a thing or two.
My eyes drifted back to the box.
Mocking me.
I glared at it, jaw tight.
It shouldn’t have bothered me this much.
But the thought of her—soft, flushed, needing—not because of me, but some buzzing piece of overpriced silicone—
My fingers curled.
?? ?? ??
The doorbell chimed, and I glanced at my phone.
Callie.
I stepped closer to the monitor and narrowed my eyes.
Purple. She’d dyed the tips of her hair purple.
