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I look at the dress in my hands and my bedraggled state and, dropping the clean dress, I remove the torn one and my bra. I kick my foot back to take my heels off, but stop and smirk. I hear him now, moving quickly through the penthouse. I dash onto the bed on all fours and place my hands over my head so my chest is flush to the mattress, and arch my arse as high as I can manage, baring myself fully for when he walks in. I’m panting, both excited and nervous. I bite my lip and whimper. I’m so aroused—so far removed from any place I have mentally been before. He’s freeing me bit by bit.
Footsteps approach, soft and determined. They stop. A choke behind me has me blowing out a stream of nervous air and my toes curling in my heels.
“I’d kill for you, Zara Reid.” His puzzlement is evident in his tone, and knowing I am the cause sends a ripple of pleasure through me.
“Callan, please.” I wiggle my arse. I need him now. I’m embarrassed by myself, but he needs this, and I think I do too.
Three quick strides and his palms clash roughly with my hips. My face flames. I never knew I could be so wanton.“Shy and filthy, no wonder I’m a mess.” Massaging my arse, he hauls me backwards and runs his hand down my spine until he is holding my neck still. I can feel the heat of him pressed against my backside. “I’ve always liked my women meek and submissive. I can do what I want and leave with little contact. But you,” he runs his hands everywhere until I’m trembling, “you bring out a fire in me. You push your fucking luck every damn time.” He shudders, and I reciprocate with my own tremble.
“You like it,” I say, pressing back into him. “God, Callan, please touch me.”
“Not like this. I like looking at you, angel.” He flips me, and his palm swings down, slapping between my legs. I cry out, but before I can react to the sting at the apex of my thighs, Callan is ripping me towards him and surging upwards, entering me forcefully. “Take it!” he roars. I squirm at the intrusion, but it soon flips to blind pleasure.
“More,” I cry, dragging my nails down his arms. His mouth finds any available skin, and his teeth and tongue both hurt and soothe me. I’m a mess of emotions, sobbing and pleading, as he fucks his anger out. I match him, unleashing my own anger, the unfairness life has thrown at me, the restraint this man has implemented on my life, the lack of control I’ve faced over the years all comes out, competing with his demons.
“You’re heaven and hell, Zara damn Reid,” he pants wide-mouthed, brow furrowed, eyes lost on our most secret parts.
“I’m close, please,” I cry, sinking my nails deeply, so he barks out and juts into me.
“Get your hands around my fucking neck.” He huffs, his brow sweating, his eyes far away. My body aches—each touch and roll brings a new position—a new level of intensity. I’m riding him with vigour, whimpering and clambering for completion. I press into his neck, my small hands spanning his throat. I slam home, sinking down his length, and his tongue travels up my neck, and I splinter, taking him with me into the most earth-shattering orgasm.
We’re in the bath. Callan’s arms are resting on either side, and my neck is lying over one, my legs the other, and my bum is draped in his lap. I’m dabbing bubbles along his chin to make a fake beard. Once he is St. Nick worthy, he lifts his brow, and a burst of laughter flies out of my mouth at the absurdity of him. He drops forward and rubs his face over mine, covering me in bubbles. I squeal and push him away, finding he is smiling openly at me. Unexpected pain hits my chest, and I dip my gaze, disguising my frown. Day-by-day, hour-by-hour, this man is cementing himself into my heart, and it pains me to know I won’t see him again, so much so that it rivals the pain of leaving Oscar. I lift a drenched flannel, wring it dry, and place it over his mouth, and his lips quirk because he knows what’s coming. I manoeuvre around until I can raise up on my knees, and I tilt his head back and kiss him roughly, my tongue pushing against the material and into his mouth. He groans loudly, and I deepen it before I break away on a pant. Callan’s face twists with emotion. Is he angry with me? He didn’t push me away. Groaning, he grips my chin, yanking me close so our lips are almost touching. Excitement rushes through me. He’s going to kiss me. Callan is panting, his jaw flexing, and then he drops my face and pulls his tattooed hand down his own. I search his gaze, but his eyes shutterclosed, refusing me access to his thoughts. Disappointment burns in my gut, and my smile is sad.
“Do you think before this month ends you’ll let me kiss you?” I muse.
He shrugs, fighting a smirk. “You just did,” he tells me, twisting me quickly so I’m splashing between his thick thighs. He is too big for this bath, and it makes me smile.
“No, I mean skin on skin.”
“I don't know.” His hands cup my throat, and his thumb rubs rhythmically along my pulse. That’s not a no.
“I just find it strange you’re happy to contract an STI, but we can’t kiss?” I frown back at him, pointing out how absurd his rule is.
He laughs loudly and shifts under me.“I know you’re clean. I checked, remember,” he scoffs.
“What else did you check?”
“Everything. I know it’s your birthday next month.”I blink and try not to stiffen. I had no intention of telling him that even when he mentioned Oscar’s birthday being at Nexo. “I also know you don't like sweetcorn and your favourite colour is ocean blue, not red like most people think,” he delivers. “I know you like me fucking you, and the rougher I am, the harder you come.” I jab him with my elbow, but this just makes him chuckle harder.
“I don't feel like I know anything about you,” I admit, feeling at a disadvantage.
“You know more than most.”
“Really,” I scoff.
“Well, you know where I live for a start.”
“Well, I kind of have to. I’m living there for the next twenty days,” I mutter, pinching his hand when it tweaks my nipple. “I don't know anything other than your clubs, your rules, and that you don't like being kissed.” I pout.
“I told you I don't drink,” he adds. Yes, he did, but that’s hardly insightful.
“What’s your favourite colour?” I ask, genuinely intrigued.
“Whatever colour you happen to be wearing on the day you’re wearing it.”
“Regular charmer, you.” I smirk. “Okay, when is your birthday?”
“December first. I’ll be thirty-seven.” I nod, happy with this information. I know we’ll be worlds apart by then, but I plan to get a gift to him somehow. I chew my lip, trying to think of other questions. “Don’t tell me my age bothers you?” he chortles.
