Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ROSE
Stepping into Callum’s flat, I barely have a chance to catch my bearings before his hands are on my waist, pulling me close, lips crashing onto mine.
It’s not a gentle greeting kiss, this is fire, tension, and everything I’ve been feeling since the bus ride packed into one heated, intoxicating moment. My knees practically buckle.
My camera bag drops to the floor without a thought, I wrap my arms around his neck, and he lifts me effortlessly.
My legs curl around his waist instinctively, and the moment I do, I feel that magnetic, impossible pull between us tighten.
His grip on me is firm, yet careful, he’s both claiming and protecting me at once.
I can feel the press of his chest against mine, the heat of his body, the way his dirty blond hair falls into his eyes when he tilts his head.
“Rose…” he murmurs against my lips, breath ragged.
I moan softly into his mouth, hands threading into his hair, nails grazing the back of his neck, desperate for more contact. Every inch of him against me feels electric. I feel him shift us, carrying me toward the sofa. Each step is a delicious torment; the anticipation is unbearable.
He lowers us gently onto the cushions but doesn’t release me. His hands roam over my back, tracing curves and angles, as though he’s memorising every inch. Every brush of his touch makes my pulse spike. I cling to him, letting myself melt against the heat and tension radiating off his body.
Our kisses are relentless, a mix of urgent need and teasing playfulness. I feel him smirk against my lips before he drags his mouth down my jawline to my neck, eliciting a shiver and a soft gasp from me. I arch into him instinctively, craving more, needing every second of his attention.
“You’re driving me insane,” he mutters, voice low and rough with desire.
“Good,” I whisper, nipping at his lower lip, “I like being dangerous.”
His laugh is a groan, deep and husky, vibrating through me.
He shifts, pressing himself closer, our bodies moulding perfectly together.
I can feel the heat pooling in my stomach, the thrill of having him all to myself, every inch of him pressed against me.
My hands slide down his arms, learning the lines of muscle, the weight of him, the warmth that makes me weak at the knees.
He lifts me slightly, turning us so I’m straddling him, and I can feel the press of his hard length beneath me.
My hands clutch his shoulders as our lips meet again, slower this time, teasing, exploring, pulling each other taut with need.
I feel my back arch, body trembling as if it recognises the tug of gravity in his arms.
“I don’t know how much longer I can hold back,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, eyes dark and intent, and it sends shivers racing through me.
“You don’t have to,” I say, leaning into him, letting the fire simmer without restraint.
He tilts his head, kissing me again, softer this time, almost worshipful, and I feel my own resolve melting.
The sofa is too small and public in my mind’s eye, yet perfect for this closeness.
Every touch, every whispered breath, every tiny movement between us ignites something I’ve been trying to ignore for weeks.
His hands move, teasing along my back, finding the sensitive spots beneath my shirt, making my skin tingle. I feel like I could melt into him completely and not exist without his arms holding me. My heartbeat echoes in my ears, loud and insistent.
Instinctively, my fingers move to the buttons of my shirt, unfastening them slowly as his gaze fixates on the skin I’m slowly exposing to him.
“Rose, you don’t have to do that…”
“Shush, I want to. I want to feel your lips on my skin,”
Callum moves forward, maintaining eye contact with me the whole time. The tip of his tongue pokes out between his lips and runs a slow trail down the valley of my breasts. Goosebumps spring free, blossoming across the mound of my breast.
Just as I think I could lose myself entirely, his phone buzzes sharply on the coffee table. The sound cuts through the haze like a gunshot.
He freezes mid-kiss, lips hovering over my bra covered nipple, eyes flicking to the screen.
Talia.
My stomach clenches. Of course she’s still there, thinking he’ll come back.
I see the tension in his jaw, the flash of conflict in his eyes.
I don’t move, just watch, holding my breath, wanting to be close and wanting to be careful all at once.
He silences the phone without opening the message, then leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my temple. It’s both reassurance and promise.
“Don’t you need to answer that?” I murmur, and he looks at me with a flash of something I don’t quite understand.
“I… no,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to mine. “You’re all that matters now. She’s not important to me.”
We stay there a moment, bodies pressed together, breathing shared, hearts racing in tandem. He’s careful, protective, and it makes me crave him even more.
“Rose,” he mutters, his lips brushing my hairline, “I can’t get enough of you.”
“Good,” I reply, my voice almost a whisper, “Because I want this. All of it.”
He groans, it’s a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through me, and it’s all I can do to not dissolve into him completely. Our kisses grow again, urgent and desperate, teasing, claiming, leaving us both breathless. My hands wander over his back, his shoulders, memorising every contour, every line.
We’re lost in each other, a tangle of limbs and whispers, until my stomach drops at the sound of the phone buzzing again. He groans softly, reluctantly pulling away just enough to glance at the screen.
Talia’s name is there again.
My heart clenches. I know it’s not real, not anymore, because he told me so, and the gossip has been abundant amongst the team over the last few days, but the sting is unavoidable.
He looks at me, his jaw tight, fingers curling around mine, and I feel him almost physically wrestle with the past. He swallows hard, ignoring the intrusion, and presses a long, lingering kiss to my lips, this one slower, hotter, claiming me in a way that leaves me trembling.
We don’t move past the edge, not yet, but the promise of more hangs between us, palpable and irresistible. Every glance, every brush of skin, every shared breath feels like a tether, a thread pulling us closer to something neither of us can, or wants, to resist.
His arm wraps around me, holding me close, grounding me even as I ache for more. “I could get used to this,” he murmurs into my hair, voice low and intoxicating.
“Me too,” I breathe, letting myself relax into his hold, feeling safe, wanted, and alive in a way I never expected.
Time slips by unnoticed. The flat is noiseless except for our breathing and the faint drone of the city outside.
I curl into his side, letting the heat of his body calm my own frantic pulse.
He rests his cheek against my hair, fingers brushing my arm lightly, and for a moment, everything is perfect.
“I could stay like this forever,” he murmurs, voice muffled against my temple.
“Mmmm,” I whisper back, closing my eyes, letting the calm wash over me as my body hums with residual fire.
The smell hits us before the delivery guy even steps out of the elevator. Garlic, spice, and all the greasy, glorious promise of takeout. I open the door, and he grins at me, tipping his hat like he’s in some cheesy rom-com.
“Thanks,” I mumble, grabbing the bags before Callum can make some dramatic, swooping grab.
“I would’ve gotten it,” he protests, voice teasing, “but you look way too cute struggling with the bags.”
I roll my eyes, but can’t help smiling. “Cute, huh? That’s a first.”
We settle onto the floor, backs pressed against the sofa, and prop the low coffee table between us. The containers wobble precariously, but it doesn’t matter, this is perfect. I unwrap the first box, and the aroma makes me inhale like I haven’t eaten in days.
Callum reaches over, stealing a fry before I can grab it. “Hey!” I scowl, and he raises his eyebrows, smirking as if he’s won a minor victory.
“You’re lucky I’m in a generous mood. I don’t share food.” I warn, pretending to be serious. But when I catch the mischievous glint in his eyes, I can’t keep a straight face.
“You’re funnier when you’re indignant,” he says softly, leaning back against the sofa. “Or maybe I just like watching you argue.”
I shove his shoulder lightly, laughing, and he snatches another fry from the table. “This is war,” I declare, grabbing one of the chicken wings. He makes a mock defensive move, holding up his arms as if he’s fending off an attack.
By the time we’re halfway through, the floor is a mess of wrappers and sauce stains. Our legs are tangled, knees brushing. Every so often, our fingers collide reaching for the same piece of food, and sparks of warmth shoot through me every time.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I murmur when he reaches for my last mozzarella stick, “or I’ll eat it out of spite.”
He leans in slightly, lips twitching. “Looking at you like what?”
“Like I’m something you want to eat,” it comes out quieter than intended, a little breathless.
He freezes for a heartbeat, then grins. “Maybe I do.”
I laugh, rolling my eyes, but I don’t push him away. The table is our little world, cluttered with food and stolen glances, and I don’t want it to end.
As we reach for another container, his fingers brush mine again. This time, he doesn’t pull back. His hand lingers, thumb rubbing tiny circles over the back of mine. My pulse spikes, heat coiling in my stomach. I catch my breath, just for a moment, and he smirks at me.
“You’re ridiculously distracting,” I mutter, and he laughs softly, that low, rumbling sound that makes my chest tighten.
“Right back at you,” he murmurs. “I mean, look at you. All focused and determined.”
I can’t help the flush creeping up my neck.
The laughter fades for a beat, replaced by something heavier. His hand curls around mine, pulling me closer, and I let him. My legs press against his, knees tangling. I feel him shift slightly, brushing his thigh against mine, and a shiver runs through me.
“Cal,” I murmur, but it’s soft, unsure, and he answers by pressing a kiss to the corner of my mouth. I tilt my head into him, and before I realise it, he’s leaning closer. I respond, sliding a hand into his hair, tugging him a little closer, and he groans into the kiss.
The table is pushed aside in the chaos, a forgotten prop. His hands travel up my back, gripping my sides, and my fingers fumble at his hoodie, pulling at the zipper, desperate for more skin on skin.
We move together, rocking slightly on the floor, the heat between us simmering into something combustible.
His lips trace mine again and again, teasing, claiming, and I’m entirely lost in it.
Every touch, every groan, every stolen breath makes the room shrink around us until nothing exists but him and the way he makes me feel.
I could burn up and die and it would be worth it.
“Fuck, Rose…” His voice vibrating through me, and it sends something sharp and thrilling through my chest.
I murmur his name, soft and needy, and he responds by pulling me impossibly close, hips grinding slightly, hands moving in ways that make my knees buckle. We’re teetering on the edge of something forbidden and perfect, each kiss hotter than the last.
Then, a beep cuts through the haze. A single, intrusive ping from his phone. He groans, the sound itself is a curse, and fumbles for the screen. I catch the name before he can block it out.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, pressing the phone against his chest. The heat between us snaps into a different tension, a jagged edge slicing through the haze of our kisses. I pull back slightly, heart still racing, chest heaving, and watch him scroll, jaw tight.
“She… still want you back?” I murmur, barely above a whisper, though I don’t actually need an answer. I know. I’ve seen the history, heard the fragments, I’ve felt the weight.
He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair, looking helpless and furious all at once. “No. She doesn’t get it.”
I swallow, still pressed against him, feeling a mixture of triumph and protectiveness rise inside me. His head drops against mine, and I feel him exhale, finally releasing some of the tension. My hands are tangled in his hoodie, his scent, his warmth, and I don’t want to let go.
We stay like that for a long moment, breathing together, letting the world intrude only on the edges.
Eventually, he moves slightly, picking me up and carrying me to the sofa again, draping a blanket over us.
The rest of the night stretches ahead, peaceful and intimate, filled with touches and whispers and the kind of laughter that makes the heart ache.
I lay my head on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, tracing lines absentmindedly over the taut muscle of his shoulder. His hand moves over my hair, fingers threading through it.
“You smell like last night,” he murmurs, voice low, teasing but gentle, and I grin, pressing closer.
“You like it,” I whisper, brushing my lips against his collarbone.
“I do,” he admits, a small, breathy laugh vibrating against my skin. “God, I do.”
The night stretches into serene intimacy, electric and overwhelming, each kiss and touch a promise of more without words. We don’t need to speak; our bodies are the conversation, heated and slow, a dangerous kind of closeness that leaves me dizzy and wanting more.
By the time exhaustion finally takes hold, we’re still wrapped around each other on the sofa, tangled blankets and limbs, the apartment silent except for our synchronised breathing. My heart still races, my body still humming, but there’s a softness now. A contentment tempered by desire.
And I know, lying here pressed against him, that this is only the beginning.