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“Don't fucking lie to me,” he roars. “Tell me how long you've been inhaling this shit and then we can do something about it.”
“Like call the police?” I scoff. “Well, thanks, but I don't need your kind of help.” The fact I haven't explained myself hasn't escaped me, but his accusations are cutting. My fear of a few moments ago is morphing into a white-hot anger that matches him scowl for scowl.
“Do you know how irresponsible you are? People die from this shit. You don't know where it's come from, you don't know what's in it, yet you're stuffing it up your nose on a regular basis.”
“You know nothing,” I yell back. “With your stupid assumptions and blind accusations. I told you it isn't mine, and it isn't. So you can fuck off.”
I rarely use that word, but it tumbles out before I can swallow it down. Callum holds the bag in front of me, shaking it so the scant contents fall down the cellophane.
“If it's not yours, what the hell are you doing with it?”
“I don't have to explain myself to you.”
“That's what a liar would say.”
I straighten my back as much as I can. Then I open my mouth, my eyes flashing with ire, and attempt to speak without wanting to kick him in the balls.
“It's your choice. If you believe I spend my Friday nights snorting coke off a toilet seat, then maybe you don't know me at all.”
He's still agitated, tugging at his hair with his fist. I watch as his expression changes from angry to confused.
“I know you,” he whispers.
I nod. “You do.”
He leans closer. “But why have you got the coke?”
I shake my head. “I can't tell you.”
“Was it Charlie's?”
“I can't tell you.”
He comes closer still, until his face is inches away from mine. His skin is pale in the glow of the moonlight, his eyes fierce and bright, and he's never looked more beautiful.
“Then tell me it's not yours.”
I exhale slowly. “It's not mine.”
“Thank God.”
He's silent, and near enough that if I move a step forward our lips would touch. Instead we stare at each other, still as statues, our heart rates slowing. It’s only then, as the moment calms into something less frantic, that I remember his wife, the way she died.
No wonder he was so angry. I look up at him, my expression soft, an apology about to tumble out.
“Fuck it.” He closes the gap, pressing his mouth to mine, his lips moving as if in silent prayer. It's tough and angry and everything I'm feeling inside, and I kiss him back twice as hard.
“I'm sorry,” he whispers into my mouth. “I'm so sorry.” I don't know if he's apologising for his accusations or for kissing me, but it doesn’t really matter. His tongue runs along the seam of my lips and I part them, moaning softly. Then he slides inside and it turns everything upside down. I wrap my hands around his neck, pulling him closer, until his hard body is pressed against mine. Little pulses of pleasure shoot down my body, making me ache with need, and I curve myself against him, feeling his growing excitement as the length of him presses against my stomach.
“Christ, Amy.” He pulls back, still cradling my head with his hands. “What the hell are you doing to me?”
I grab his tie and jerk him back down, desperate to taste him again.
There are kisses and then there are kisses. Callum Ferguson knows how to move his lips until every cell in my body sings. My toes curl up and my fingers tingle and another sigh escapes. This time he captures it, letting my breath linger in his mouth, his tongue sliding against mine, sweetly.
His firm, thick thigh parts my legs, and I unashamedly rub myself against him. I'm slick and hot, aching for sensation, and judging from the frantic glint in his eyes, so is he.
“You're beautiful,” he says, when we pause to catch our breath. “I've thought about you every fucking day I've been away.”
