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I don’t even think. I move on instinct, bolting through my room, up the stairs, into the master suite, and then shouldering my way into the connected master bathroom.
“I’mfine, Captain America,” Callie sighs, glancing up from where she’s kneeling on the floor. “Relax.”
It looks like the crash was the sound of her bag of toiletries and a hair dryer falling off the vanity onto the floor. She’s turned away from me, grabbing up some of her stuff, and I kneel to help, reaching for the mess of makeup, a toothbrush, and random prescription bottles.
“Wait—!”
Her face is burning bright red as she snatches the three prescription bottles from my hands. But not before I’ve accidentally seen the Lexapro, Xanax, and Ativan labels.
All drugs for anxiety and depression.
The bathroom goes quiet. Callie looks away from me, her shoulder tense and the tips of her ears red. She’s clearly embarrassed.
She has zero reason to be.
“Surprise. You’re married to a literal crazy chick. Lucky you,” she mumbles as she quietly shoves the bottles back into the toiletries bag.
“I’m on Team Prozac, myself.”
She stops shoving her stuff into the bag. Slowly, she glances back toward me.
“And I’ll pop a couple propanolol and a Zoloft if I’m feelin’ extra fancy.”
The corners of her mouth curl up slightly. Her cheeks are still pink, but when she raises her eyes to mine, I can see relief in them, even if she doesn’t say anything, and the embarrassment is gone.
“Unpack. Shower. Relax,” I murmur. “Try to make yourself comfortable. I’ll figure out some dinner for us.”
I close the bedroom door behind me when I leave. In the kitchen, I poke around, but there’s nothing actually edible in the fridge, so I end up calling for pizza from one of my go-to spots, just up the street.
She’s still not down when it arrives.
“Callie?” I call upstairs. There’s no answer, so I jog up to the second floor and call again “Callie? There’s pizza down—”
That’s when I hear the yelling.
I charge up the rest of the stairs, slamming my way into the master bedroom with my gun in hand. I whirl toward the bathroom…
Where the door is cracked open.
Where the shower is still running.
And where I can see the naked shape of Callie through the fogged-up glass, dancing and swaying her hips as she belts out “Wrecking Ball” alongside Miley Cyrus crooning out of a speaker on the bathroom counter.
Walk. Away.
I need to walk the fuck away, right the fuck now.
But I don’t. I stand there, my eyes riveted on her, and my cock turning to pure steel in my tuxedo pants as I watch her dance and sway her way right into the darkest, deepest, most dangerous levels of my lust.
She stops dancing. Her hand raises and wipes the fog from the shower glass across her face.
Instantly, our eyes lock.
Callie flushes. Her lip sucks between her teeth.
And she grins.
That’s what I summon the strength of a fuckingmonkand turn to march right out of that bedroom before I break every single rule and cross every single line.
