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Callum’s hands closed convulsively on her hips, subconsciously drawing her into him. This was insane. ‘Hailey,’ he croaked, looking down at her.
‘Callum we can’t—’
He didn’t give her a chance to finish, both his hands skimming her face and spearing through her hair as he cut off her protest with the urgent covering of his mouth.
Hailey followed where he led. There was no thought of protest now he had made that first move. Nothing had ever felt this right. His mouth was urgent, desperate, almost frantic on hers, and she matched his pace, moaning deep in her throat as the kiss dripped molten desire into her bloodstream.
She felt him lifting her up, lifting her higher until their heads were level and she felt as if she was kissing him as an equal. On her terms. Giving as well as taking. She bracketed his face in her hands, raking her fingers up into his hair, revelling in the eroticism as his very short spikes grazed the sensitive flesh of her fingertips.
She ran her palm backwards and forwards over his scalp, her hands already addicted to the sensation. He groaned and it emboldened her to push her tongue into his mouth, desperate to taste him, to explore him.
Callum moved, feeling for the lounge, lowering Hailey, placing his knee on the edge and easing her gently backwards. She clung to him, bringing him down with her, her lips glued to his.
‘Hailey,’ he gasped, pulling away, a vague sense of propriety giving him pause. He leaned his forehead against hers, his breath ragged as her mouth sought his eye, his cheek, his neck. ‘This is totally out of control. If you want it to stop, it had better be now.’
She shook her head. It was like a line had been crossed and there was no going back. Hailey sought his mouth. ‘No,’ she said against his lips.
It was all the encouragement he needed. His body imprisoned her against the soft leather as his mouth plundered hers. He moved lower, his lips seeking her neck, her ears, the straight, hard ridge of her collarbone.
His hand skimmed her side, slid under her shirt, felt the heat of her skin, ran over the contours of her stomach, her ribs and the rise of her breasts. He felt her push urgently against his hand as he cupped a lacy mound and swallowed the gasp she let out as he pushed her bra aside.
It was happening fast. His pulse hammered like a train. His breath was coming in short, sharp pants. But it didn’t feel wrong or rushed or awkward. He felt like this was what they’d been destined to do from the beginning, on the balcony that night of the ball. It was almost as if he’d been born to touch her.
And it felt good. Good to feel again. To have lust bubbling in his gut and desire heating his blood. Talking about the tragedies of his life had given him an even greater sense of living. Of making every day, every breath count.
For once he wasn’t poor Callum, the widower. Or poor Callum the single dad. Or poor Callum, the father of poor little sick Tom. He was normal. Average. Just another guy. No—not just another guy. He was a hot and virile guy. And Hailey was one hundred per cent into him. He hadn’t asked for her pity. And she hadn’t given him any.
So what if she had a truckload of baggage? That they could never be together? Her hands were on him. Touching him, wanting him. Her lips were plastered to his, her tongue dancing an erotic tango. Nothing mattered right now other than this rare moment of indulgence. It was about him and her. About male and female. Two consenting adults moving to a rhythm as old as time.
Hailey felt Callum’s hand push her skirt down, his hand on her bare thigh where it met the curve of her bottom, but still she wanted more. She’d never felt such an intense attraction to a man—ever—and she wanted it all. At once. She wanted to be part of him.
She grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head. He ducked out of it and she tossed it away. In seconds his smooth skin was laid bare to her touch. She wasted no time. He was warm and vital. His muscles contracted beneath her fingernails and she grabbed his buttocks, kneading them, grinding herself against him.
After a year of struggling through the darkness, of grieving and holding it all in and doubting herself professionally and as a woman most of all, Callum’s passion was a revelation. It was wonderful to just feel for once. Not to have to think. Or be sad. Or have her memories and her second-guessing driving her mad. Isolating her from life.
His lips on hers, his hand skimming her knickers, pushing up her shirt, pulling aside her other bra cup, exposing her breasts—it all felt so right. Suddenly she wasn’t being tiptoed around, being given knowing, sympathetic looks. She was being treated like a desirable woman. Not with kid gloves but with rough, urgent hands that wanted more. And it felt great.
