Chapter 4 #2
“Interesting. I didn’t realize this was a workshop.”
He glances at the page again. “You left them out and didn’t tell me to stop.”
“That’s not consent.”
One side of his mouth moves just enough to count.
“You write entire people for a living. I figured you could survive one observation.”
I take another bite I absolutely do not need because I suddenly dislike how accurately he appears to have read both the page and me.
I take another bite I absolutely do not need and nod once like this is a normal exchange and not one I’m going to think about later. His comment lands and stays there.
The irritation hits first, clean and easy to recognize, except it isn’t really about his opinion. It’s about him being here, close enough that I notice his body wash, and my brain immediately starts supplying history I didn’t ask for. Worse, my body agrees with every second of it.
Twelve years didn’t fix that. Not even a little.
I clear my throat, already turning away before it has a chance to show on my face. "I’m going to grab something from the back," I say, like there’s a reason for it.
The second the words leave my mouth, I realize I have absolutely nothing to grab from the back.
I look around quickly, committed now to this deeply unnecessary lie, and spot a box beside the counter. Extra copies I hadn’t planned on putting out yet.
"There," I mutter to myself, picking it up like I meant to do this all along.
I hook the step stool under one arm and start toward the storeroom carrying both, which immediately turns into a balancing act that feels less competent than I would prefer.
“Need help?” Callum asks.
“No.” The stool swings and bangs into my leg hard enough to undermine my position immediately.
Callum watches this happen. “Compelling argument.”
I adjust the box under my arm and keep walking. “I said I’ve got it.”
His mouth does something suspiciously close to a smile as he steps aside and lets me continue, probably calculating the odds of me taking myself out with the furniture and deciding they’re acceptable.
I make it to the storeroom and finally set the stool down with more relief than dignity. The shelf space for the box is near the top, because of course it is.
I climb, reach for the shelf, and the box tilts, my balance going with it for half a second, enough to make me tighten my grip.
His hands come to my hips before I can correct it, steady and firm. He doesn’t say anything, just holds me there until I settle.
Annoyance flashes first, sharp and immediate, because why would he follow me back here after I practically fled the conversation. Then his grip tightens just enough to steady me again and the irritation slips sideways into something significantly less useful.
Callum’s grip is firm, unyielding, his fingers digging into the soft flesh above my jeans like he’s not planning to let go.
His body presses against my back, warm and solid, and I can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against my butt.
The scent of bergamot and something darker, like aged whiskey fills my lungs, and I exhale shakily.
“You almost took yourself out with hardcover overstock,” he says quietly, his voice rough in a way that doesn’t match the joke.
"I was completely in control of the situation."
One of his eyebrows lifts.
I glare at him.
He looks at me for a second longer than necessary. "Avery."
I hate that my name sounds different when he says it. "What?"
His hands stay on my hips. "You're angry."
I laugh. "That's a broad category."
"I'm not talking about the contractor." The amusement disappears from his face.
I don't move.
Neither does he.
The silence stretches.
"Then what are you talking about?"
His jaw shifts. "You're trying to figure out what I want."
My pulse jumps. Because that's exactly what I've been doing. "You pulled permits before I asked for help."
"Avery—"
"You knew about the offer."
His hands tighten slightly.
"You leased me a building in forty-eight hours."
"Three days."
"That's not the important part."
"No," he says quietly. "It isn't."
The room suddenly feels smaller.
I swallow. "Why are you doing all this?"
For a second I think he'll dodge it again and give me another perfectly reasonable answer. Another version of the truth.
Instead his eyes hold mine.
"Because you needed it."
I shake my head."That doesn't explain why you're here."
"Sure it does."
"Not really."
"Avery." His hands tighten slightly on my hips. "I had a building. You needed a building."
"That's suspiciously reasonable."
"I know." One corner of his mouth lifts. "It's annoying for both of us."
The tension has been building in the specific incremental way structural pressure builds in old buildings, invisibly and then all at once.
The hand brush when I used his pen. Shelving books side by side and bumping shoulders when we tried organizing the same inventory. The moment yesterday when he reached around me to slide Rebecca Nash between Charlize Nadeau and Gigi Navarro on the shelf and I didn't step back right away.
I should step away, thank him, climb down, pretend this isn’t happening.
Instead, I set the box on the middle shelf and step down to the floor. The stool creaks under my weight, but I don’t turn around. Not yet. My pulse is a wild thing in my throat, and I swallow hard before I face him.
Callum is so close I can see the stubble darkening his jaw, the way his lips part just slightly, like he’s already tasting me. His hands are still on my hips, pulling me against him, and I can feel the hard ridge of him through his slacks pressing into my stomach.
“Avery,” he says, and it’s not a warning.
That’s all it takes.
I grab the front of his crisp white shirt, the top button undone, and yank him down to me.
His mouth crashes into mine, immediate and not asking, and I open for him immediately, my tongue sliding against his.
He groans, low and guttural, and the sound vibrates through me, settling between my thighs.
He slides his hands up my sides and I arch into him, my nipples tightening under the thin fabric of my bra.
We stumble backward, my ass hitting the edge of the counter behind me.
Callum doesn’t stop kissing me, not even when his arm sweeps across the surface, sending a cascade of receipts, order forms, a half-finished to-do list fluttering to the floor.
The sound is lost under the wet noises we’re making, the friction of our tongues moving against each other, the sharp intake of my breath when his teeth graze my bottom lip.
“This is a bad idea,” I gasp against his mouth, but my hands are already tangled in his hair, pulling him closer.
“I know.”
He looks at me for a second, close enough that I can feel his breath.
“You stopping me?”
My pulse jumps. He waits. Doesn’t move and doesn’t close the distance.
I grab his shirt and pull him back in.
That’s apparently enough of an answer because then he’s lifting me, his palms cupping my ass as he sets me on the counter.
The cold laminate bites through my jeans, but I barely register it because Callum is everywhere.
His mouth on my neck, his teeth scraping over my pulse point, his hands sliding up my thighs, pushing them apart.
I should stop him. I should.
My flip flops hit the floor then his fingers find the button of my jeans, and pop it open with practiced ease. The zipper follows, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet backroom, and then his hands are slipping beneath the waistband, dragging my jeans and panties down my legs in one rough motion.
I lift my hips to help him, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts as the cool air hits my skin.
His hands are on my bare thighs and the counter is cold beneath me. His palms are warm and I stop thinking about the counter.
He drops to his knees in front of me, his shoulders nudging my thighs wider, and then his mouth is on me. Direct, deliberate, and enough to pull a sharp breath out of me before I can brace for it.
I feel his tongue flick and his mouth sucking me, slow and controlled, like he’s choosing the pace on purpose. The sound he makes hits somewhere low and immediate, making it difficult to keep any distance between what I’m thinking and what I’m feeling.
“Fuck, you taste good,” he mutters, and the words land low and immediate, the kind of thing I feel more than think, and I don’t want him to stop saying it.
He doesn’t ease up, his mouth staying exactly where it is, controlled and deliberate in a way that makes it impossible to think straight, and the pace he sets pulls a sound out of me before I can stop it. My hands find his hair like I need something to hold on to.
I’m oversensitive, my nerves singing, and he doesn’t let up. His fingers dig into my thighs, holding me in place as he licks and sucks, his free hand sliding up to palm my breast through my shirt, his thumb finding my nipple and rolling it between his fingers.
“Callum, please—” I’m babbling, my hips jerking against his face, my body climbing, aching for release.
He growls against me, the vibration sending a fresh jolt of pleasure through my core, and then two fingers slide inside me as his mouth seals over my bud, sucking hard.
I come with a choked scream, my fingers twisting in his hair, my thighs trembling around his head. He drinks me down, licking me clean, his tongue slow and thorough, like he’s memorizing the taste of me.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin glistening. He rises to his feet, his hands sliding up my body, and then his mouth is on mine again, his tongue sweeping inside.
I can taste myself on him, salty and sweet, and it’s obscene, filthy, but I moan into the kiss, my hands gripping his shoulders.
“Tell me what you want,” he demands, his breath warm and uneven against my jaw.