Chapter 21
Callie
It was liberating—whether I was sat on his cock, riding him like a jockey, or teasing him until he snapped. The freedom to fuck without shame or guilt drove me wild.
At one point, I even considered apologising to Melissa for all the jealous, judgmental thoughts I’d had about her. But then I caught her eyeballing Alistair, and suddenly, I wanted to scratch her eyeballs out and stomp on them.
Not very Christian of me—so I kept those intrusive thoughts to myself, and my mouth shut.
“Babe, what are you wearing?”
“You don’t like it?” I asked, glancing at myself in the mirror.
I turned slightly to the side. You could only just make out the curve of my belly.
“You could be wearing a sack and I’d still want to bend you over,” he said, closing the gap between us. “It’s just… this isn’t your usual style.”
He wrapped his arms around me, and I sagged into him, resting my cheek against his chest. Alistair gave me so much strength. So much peace. And he didn’t even realise it.
“The dress is… respectable,” I murmured. “Respectable in the eyes of my parents.”
They were coming for dinner.
All they knew was that I’d gotten engaged.
My mother’s response had been… indifferent.
My dad was surprised—but as usual, he said nothing.
“You know I’ve got your back, right?” he murmured, his fingers stroking lazy lines along my spine.
“Yeah,” I whispered, tightening my grip around his waist like I could fuse us together.
It was the kind of moment I should’ve bottled—tender, grounding, safe.
Right up until I felt his dick twitch against my stomach.
I lifted my head and glared up at him. That smirk. That infuriating, smug little glint in his eyes.
“Alistair.”
“What?” he said, faux-innocent. “It’s a natural response. You’re warm, soft, and stuffed full with my baby.”
I groaned and pushed my face into his chest. “Try and keep your boner down while my parents are here.”
“No promises,” he muttered, tightening his arms around me and pressing an entirely deliberate grind into my belly. “Maybe if they leave fast, I won’t need to excuse myself for a cold shower.”
I smiled and rubbed my cheek against his broad chest. “I still love you—even with your massive disability.”
He groaned. “Oh, you’re getting it the moment they leave, baby.”
I patted his chest, mock-serious. “We can work through anything as long as we have love,” I said in such a sickly sweet way that even I wanted to barf. Or maybe that was just the baby.
“Now you’re taking the piss,” he grumbled.
What I didn’t tell him was that I needed a dry pair of knickers on before my parent got here.
?? ?? ??
Meeting Sophie, Eric and their two children had been a breeze. Even FaceTiming with his parents had been fun. Gianna and Nicholas were so relaxed that it made me question whether living in England was a mistake. Although I suspected Gianna had been a little tipsy, so there was that.
I’d been drawn to his mum’s warmth. Apparently, that was the famous Italian mama effect. It also explained exactly where Alistair got his dark hair and eyes from.
“If you want me to greet your parents with a hard on, keep looking at me like that,” he whispered as my parents got out of the car.
“Any excuse,” I whispered back, forcing a smile on my face as my parents faced us.
Dread seeped in the moment I met my mother’s eyes.
I saw it—the flash of dismay as her gaze flicked over my appearance.
Alistair stepped forward to greet my dad, calm and solid, while I remained frozen in place.
“Is that purple dye in your hair, Calista?”
Fuck.
I glanced at Alistair.
He heard it. My full name.
I’d hoped I could delay that reveal a little longer.
His expression didn’t change, but his eyes? They promised retribution.
Of course, all that did was ruin yet another pair of knickers.
I smiled sweetly through my mother’s disapproval.
“Yes. I fancied a change.”
She frowned, brushed past me, and walked straight into our home like she owned it. I followed her inside and watched as she peered into the various rooms, inspecting everything like it was some kind of open house. Then her back stiffened, and she marched straight into the living room.
My dad lingered near the door.
“Hi, Dad,” I said quietly.
“Hi, Callie,” he replied, offering a brief, awkward hug before following his wife.
“Calista?” Alistair drawled from behind me.
“Ugh. Don’t. It reminds me of my mother’s lectures on her saintly ways,” I muttered. “I’m legally changing it.”
One day.
I let Alistair handle the pleasantries while I fetched their drinks—Prosecco for my mother, fruit punch for my dad. The kitchen was warm with the scent of herbs and roast beef. Normally, I’d be salivating over one of Alistair’s roast dinners, but today my nerves had shut down my appetite.
I was on my way back when I heard her.
“You’re a little old for her, don’t you think?”
I paused, hidden just beyond the doorway.
“Didn’t you get married at nineteen or twenty?” Alistair asked, his tone silk-wrapped steel.
“Yes,” she snapped, “but my husband was only two years older.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m financially secure enough to ensure my wife never faces hardship, isn’t it?” he drawled, cool and smug as ever.
A soft throat-clear. My dad.
“Francine, it’s Callie’s choice.”
“Use her full name. You chose it, remember?” she snapped.
I rolled my eyes.
How had I not realised how fucked up my parents were?
“Dad, I know you’re driving, so I made you a fruit punch,” I chirped, trying to distil the tension as I walked into the room.
Alistair stood and took the Prosecco from my hand with a wink. I paused.
He was trying to be a buffer between me and my mother.
No one had ever stood up for me before. Not really.
My mother’s oh-so-holy persona was what she sold—and what everyone usually bought.
I handed my dad his drink, mind elsewhere.
Alistair snagged my hand and gently pulled me down beside him, just as my father launched into a rant about the latest political scandal. It was his way of trying to shift the atmosphere, but my mother’s gaze didn’t follow him.
It landed on me—on the way Alistair’s fingers curled around mine, on the quiet authority in the way his hand rested protectively over my thigh.
Her eyes flicked up to mine, sharp and narrowed, and what I saw there shocked me.
Not just disapproval.
Loathing… and something colder.
Jealousy.
I didn’t flinch.
Instead, I leaned in and pressed a kiss to Alistair’s jaw, letting my lips brush the edge of his freshly trimmed beard. He smelled like aftershave and home. His hand squeezed mine once in return, as if to say I’ve got you.
And he did.
He always had.
He’d given me a safe place to land, a reason to feel brave—and now I was giving him the same in return. A soft vow, made in front of the woman who tried so hard to crush me. I wasn’t hers anymore.
I was his.
And he was mine.