Alejandra chuckled beside him.
“We just came for Ale, not your ugly face,” Sebastian grinned, standing to kiss Alejandra on the cheek and shake Callum’s hand. “Let them have wild sex, but careful with your shoulder, Ale.”
When they were finally alone, Callum let his head fall back on the couch with a sigh.
“Sorry about that,” he muttered. “Didn’t know they were coming. They have the keys in case of emergencies.”
“Cock-blocking us was definitely an emergency,” Alejandra teased, leaning her head on his shoulder.
“Asma and Omar, huh?” She looked up at him. “How’s Leif doing?”
“Not great,” Callum admitted. “He’s been a wreck. I don’t know if Asma doesn’t see it, or if she just avoids it—like ignoring it makes it less real.”
“She’s too smart not to see it,” Alejandra said flatly. “She’s choosing not to.”
He nodded, rubbing his jaw. Then, after a pause: “Did you have fun today?”
“A lot.”
“Nervous about tomorrow?”
“Yep.” She clenched her jaw and tilted her head back, her throat an elegant line of tension.
He grinned, tracing a slow finger from her lips down her throat, over her sternum, and then teasing down toward the waistband of her jeans.
“Then let me take the edge off,” he whispered.
Alejandra’s eyes turned hungry, her grin curling up like fire catching dry leaves. “Please do.”
39
ALEJANDRA
Call Out My Name - The Weeknd
Callum’s lipscrashed onto hers with more hunger than ever. If their kisses around London had been innocent—like a couple toeing the line, not quite ready to admit what they were—these ones were filthy.
One of his hands cradled the back of her head, fisting her hair, the other wrapped around her throat. She’d noticed how much he liked that—how the pad of his thumb grazed her pulse point, like he was claiming her—and fuck, did it turn her on.
“How’s your shoulder?” he murmured into her neck, licking and sucking until she felt her skin heat beneath his mouth. She didn’t care about the hickeys. She hadn’t even cared at the wedding. If he wanted to bite into her skin, brand her, leave her aching, she’d let him.
“It’s good,” she replied in a daze, her fingers dragging his jersey upward. In Ericeira, they hadn’t stripped down fully—but now? Now she needed his skin on hers.
His skin had lost the sun-glow it had in Tarifa—London had that effect—but it only made the contrast with her sun-warmed tan deeper, sharper. Her lips found his chest, and she kissed the line down the center, tasting salt and sweat andhome.
“Take off your top, too,” he demanded, pulling off her sweater. He was gentle around her shoulder, his hands reverent. When her chest was bare, he leaned in and kissed the scar on her shoulder with the softest whisper.
“We’ll be careful with this,” he promised against her skin.
Then his mouth moved lower. He took her nipple between his lips, tugging with his teeth while his hand pinched the other. A shiver wrecked her.
“Callum…” she gasped, her fingers tangling into his hair—still short, but now long enough to pull.Thank God.
“Alejandra,” he growled, “I need you naked.”
He unbuttoned her jeans and slid them off, his gaze devouring every inch of her. She didn’t feel as confident in her body as before the injury, but his expression was pure hunger, and that shut up every doubt she had about her body.
He dropped his own pants, and now they were bare—just skin and need and no more barriers. He pressed his lips to hers again, deeper this time, before pulling away.
