I have no idea how he found out I was here. I am, however, staying put for a few more minutes, because I'm not about to walk out of here all biddable and solved, like I'm just going to hop to it because he told me to.
So I have another drink. I finish my date with a man who has a very nice face.
Sixteen minutes later, I walk out. His black car is right outside, parked under a streetlight, engine running. I get in without looking at him, buckle my seatbelt, and stare straight through the windshield.
"I know you have a lot of words," he grits out, "but give me a minute."
I press my lips together and turn to the window.
He's not driving the way he usually drives. I've been in this car enough times to know. Both hands on the wheel, always. I've understood for a while now that both hands on the wheel means both hands accounted for.
Tonight only one hand is on the wheel. Black watch on his wrist, the streetlights catching it every few seconds as hesteers. White t-shirt, jeans, the exact outfit a man wears when he isn't trying.
I turn back to the window and do my best to calm my frantic pulse. It doesn't work, but I try.
The silence in the car is dense and I decide to let it stay that way. Callahan is coming apart right next to me. I can see it in the tense line of his shoulders, in the way his fingers flex on the wheel.
I like that he walked into that restaurant and put his hands on me like he had the right to. I like that he's sitting over there trying to hold himself together and not quite managing it.
That probably says something about me, but Callahan is the kind of man who holds doors and checks in and never pushes. The kind of man who has kept his hands to himself for months even when I could feel how much he didn't want to.
So the fact that he finally couldn't help it? Yeah. I like that a lot.
He pulls up outside my building and kills the engine. I unbuckle my seatbelt and open the door, and I don't look back when I say it.
"Your minute is up."
I don't wait for an answer. I don't need to. I hear his door open behind me, hear his footsteps on the pavement.
I turn around once we enter my place and he stays there, leaning against the doorframe like he's been waiting a while.
He's not composed anymore. He's holding very still, and I think about every inch he's kept between us and how hard it must have been. I see it now. I don't know how I ever convinced myself I couldn't.
He pushes off the doorframe and comes toward me and I take one step back before his hand finds my face, and then I'm not going anywhere.
There's just his mouth coming down on mine. The lick at the restaurant was a preview. This is the actual thing, and the actual thing pulls a sound out of me I have never made before.
His thumb presses into my cheek and I open for him, letting him take my mouth with the same force he's using to hold me there. I soften against him, and it doesn't feel like giving in. It feels like recognition. Like my body has been waiting for someone to stop being careful with it and I just never knew how to ask.
I sigh into him and his mouth comes harder down on mine. Lips bruising, tongue pushing past my teeth, and I moan into it. My hands fist in his shirt. My back finds the wall and I stop noticing anything that isn't him.
His body presses flush against mine, all solid muscle and heat, pinning me there. One hand stays on my face, tilting my head exactly where he wants it, while the other slides down my side and grips my hip hard enough that I know I'll feel it tomorrow.
That undoes me a little. More than a little. The way he's kissing me leaves no room for anything except being kissed, and I go boneless against him.
"Lily," he rasps roughly.
This feels too big. Like something I don't know how to navigate. I try to lighten the mood, smirking up at him even with my pulse frantic.
"What, Callahan? Finally gonna do something about all that staring?"
A low sound comes out of him that I feel more than hear, and he rolls his forehead against mine while his hands move over my body.
"Nice dress," he murmurs gruffly, eyes shut.
I put my hands on his face. I need a second outside of being kissed senseless to just see him. I feel the coarse stubble under my palms and take him in.
Stormy isn't the right word for what I find in his eyes. He looks tormented.
