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I can tell he’s still amped up to the maximum, thousands of volts of pure, vengeful energy running through his body. He was interrupted, taking out his aggression on Oliver. Now it has nowhere to go, and he looks like he’ll explode at the slightest touch.
I’m pretty fucking pissed myself. Where does he get off listening in on my private conversation? Acting like I’m his property, like he has any right to be jealous?
Oliver loved me at least, in his own stupid, immature way. Callum doesn’t love me. Why should he care if some guy tries to put his hand up my skirt?
“Keep working,” I hiss at him. “And stay the fuck out of my personal life. You want a pretty little accessory on your arm? I did it. I came to your stupid party, wore this ugly dress. Told Mitts he should support you. I’m holding up my end of the bargain. Who I dated before is none of your fucking business.”
“Did you love him?” Callum demands.
“None of your business!” I shout. “I just fucking said that!”
“Tell me,” Callum orders. “Did you love that arrogant piece of shit?”
He’s got that crazed look of hunger again. Like it’s driving him nuts and he has to know.
Well, I’m not telling him shit. I’m pissed that he was eavesdropping, and I’m pissed that he thinks he has a right to my thoughts and feelings when he hasn’t earned the slightest shred of trust.
“What do you care?” I ask. “What does it matter?”
“I need to know. Did you like how he touched you? How he fucked you?”
Without seeming to realize it, he’s put his hand on my bare thigh. His fingers slide upward, under the stiff beaded skirt of the dress he made me wear.
I slap his hand away, shoving him in the chest for good measure.
“Maybe I did,” I say.
“Who fucks you better? Me or him?” Callum demands. His hand is on my thigh again, and his other hand reaches for the back of my neck, trying to pull me closer. He’s pressing me back against the seat, climbing on top of me.
This time I slap him across the face, hard enough to split his lip.
The slap echoes in the back of the limo, loud in the silence because there’s no music playing.
For a second, it seems to shake him awake.
Then he blinks, and his eyes are more lustful than ever. Hungry as a wolf.
He kisses me, mashing his lips against mine and shoving his tongue into my mouth. I can taste the blood from his split lip, salty and hot.
His weight crushes me against the deep leather seat. His body temperature seems like it’s two hundred degrees.
I hate Callum the most when he’s cold, stiff, robotic. When he walks past me in the hallway like I’m not even there. When he sleeps next to me in bed without holding me, without even touching me.
When I drive him into a rage like this, when he finally cracks and loses control . . . that’s when I don’t hate him. In fact, I almost like him a little. Because that’s when I see a little more of myself.
When he has a temper. When he’s angry. When he wants to kill somebody.
That’s when I understand him.
That’s when we finally have common ground.
I kiss him back, grabbing his face in my hands. My fingers thrust into his hair. His hair is wet with sweat, and his scalp is radiating heat. So is his neck.
I want to feel the rest of his body.
I fumble with the buttons of his dress shirt, which are the stupid covered kind, the kind you can never undo even when you can see them in full light.
I tear open the front of his shirt instead, like he’s Superman and there’s an asteroid headed right at us. I run my hands over his burning flesh, feeling the muscles twitching with arousal.
