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“Why don't you like modelling?” I roll my eyes and lick my lips when he cups a handful of suds and spreads it over my chest.
“Why a strip club?” I enquire, finding that for the first time, I want the answer. I want to know him. Callan Scott. London’s lawless.
“Why not?” His mouth flashes into a wide smile when I glare at him.
“You're difficult to talk to.”
“I don’t want to talk. I want to fuck.” Big hands run down my sides, and I’m being lifted until I can feel him pressing into my slick entrance. I bite my lip at the pinch in my groin, and Callan groans as I slide down. I stay seated, letting myself adjust to the deep ache in my womb. His hands move around,thenhe is lifting mine and placing them at his neck again. My eyes fly to his as my hair gets threaded into a knot. His cock twitches inside me, and his eyelids flutter closed. Holy shit. He is so turned on right now because of me.
“Do your worst,” he growls, chewing his lip. I test him and apply pressure to his throat to leverage myself up. His brow quirks and his lips tilt. “Have I finally met my match?”
Stilling above him, I open my mouth to say something. Does he mean sexually or in general? He doesn't spark me as the romantic or committed type. Callan tilts his head and pinches my nipple.
“We’ll see, won’t we? Don't you dare hold back on me, Zara. This is just sex.” He groans darkly. Sexually then. I pour all of myself into him, my fear, my hurt, my unshed tears—he gets it all and gives all in return.
Chapter Thirteen
The plane tilts to the right, and I look up from the portfolio in my lap. It’s pointless trying to work,as all I can think about is last night with Callan. I left before he woke and managed to get back to my hotel to pack and meet with everyone for breakfast before we boarded.
Yawning, I close the portfolio and stare out the window.
“Thought you got an early night?” Samson asks. He's a nice guy, but I suspect he is hoping to spark something up between us. It’s not the first time we have worked together, and every time, he has been overly flirtatious and too nice, trying to buy my favour. I twiddle with my pendant necklace and give him my most relaxed look.
I shrug.
“I think I’m coming down with something,” I fib. Well, not so much. I think I’m coming down with a case of the feels. Callan is an incredible sexual partner. We have chemistry, a lot of it. But it’s more than that. My mind drifts to him covering my face with bath bubbles and me coughing. He was laughing intensely, and before I could get him back, he dunked me under the water. It was so out of character for the big guy that he seemed to shock himself more than me. He is menacing and cold. Everyone fears him, and yet last night, he was the complete opposite. We sat on the beach, him wrapped in a knit throw, me wrapped in him, and picked at some fruit. I was surprised to find he doesn't drink either. I’m pegging that as a control thing like myself.
He told me about a new club he is looking to open. A nightclub. I know he owns two bars, and Skyn is his main focus. But neither really warrants him to be this big badass. I know something deeper is going on. Something illegal. Callan screams illegal, and I just scream when I’m with him.
“What are you smiling at?” I turn, finding Samson eyeing me curiously, his own mouth grinning.
“Sorry, what?”
“You’re grinning, all goofy and shit,” Samson observes with an odd smile on his face.
“I am not,” I spit out and turn back to the window.
“Zara, you actually had a smile on your face, a real one.” I know exactly what he means. I’m so used to smiling for the camera no one ever makes me smile for real. Not unless it’s Oscar or now Callan.
“Just glad to be going home,” I tell him. That’s not entirely true. I have a casting when we land, so I need to get a taxi straight from the airport. I grab a few hours of sleep on the plane, then pick up a salad and eat on the way into London.
I decide I need to freshen up a bit when we arrive at the location, so I pull my case along and slip into the toilet before using the loo. When I open the door, I gape because Callan is leaning against the sinks facing me in the ladies—my face must be a picture.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, poking my head out of the cubicle to see if we are alone. How the hell did he get here so quickly?
“Do you always flee in the early hours?” His hands grasp the edge with enough force to crack the marble surface. His eyes follow my gaze, and he shoves his hands in his pockets.
“When I have a casting, yes,” I tell him. How did he know I was going to be here? Did he follow me? Of course he followed me. He is here, again!
Callan is eyeing me curiously.
“You could have travelled with me.” I step out and wash my hands, not sure how to play this. I thought I had Callan all pegged. Our one night is over. What is he doing here?
“Wouldn't that be crossing lines? You said one night,” I say quizzically. His frown deepens, and it makes his face more severe. His jawline is more pronounced when he grits his teeth.
“And you're really okay with that?” It’s him who seems baffled now. I’m certain other women before me have clung on to this man so much so that he's had to peel their fingertips away before one of his security chucks her from the property as she screams dramatically for him. I’m being over the top, but the thought makes me grin inwardly.
“It’s what we agreed on.” What he made me agree on. Demanded. Another of his rules.
