Chapter 11
eleven
WILLOW
The drive home took seventeen minutes.
I counted. Not intentionally—my brain just latched onto the details as a distraction from the fact that I was holding Callum Hayes's hand in the dark interior of his obscenely nice sedan and thinking about all the ways I wanted to take him apart.
Seventeen minutes. Eleven traffic lights, four of which were red, each one an eternity.
His thumb tracing absent patterns on my knuckles while he drove, as if he wasn't aware he was doing it.
As if the small, circular motion wasn't sending electric pulses up my arm and into parts of my body that had no business responding to thumb circles.
I'd made my decision somewhere between the third glass of champagne and the moment he'd stepped between me and Philip Reeves with cold fury in his voice.
No—earlier than that. On the dance floor, when he'd pulled me close and I'd rested my head on his shoulder and thought: I'm done waiting for permission.
I was twenty-three years old. I'd spent the past year trading insults with this man over a coffee counter, convincing myself the attraction was a phase, a glitch, a temporary malfunction of my hormones.
I'd spent the past week living in his apartment, sleeping in his guest bed, pretending that the kiss on his couch hadn't fundamentally rewired my nervous system.
I was finished pretending.
The city blurred past the windows. His profile in the dashboard glow—the sharp line of his jaw, the silver at his temples, the way his hand tightened on the steering wheel every time I shifted in my seat.
"You're quiet," he said.
"Thinking."
"About?"
About how I want to climb you the moment we get through your door. About how I've never wanted anyone the way I want you and that scares me but not enough to stop. About how if you try to be a gentleman and suggest we take things slow, I might actually commit a felony.
"Carpeting," I said. "Whether shag will ever make a comeback."
His mouth twitched. "Unlikely. The maintenance alone—"
"Callum."
"Yes?"
"Drive faster."
He looked at me then—really looked, his eyes leaving the road for a beat longer than was strictly safe. Whatever he saw on my face made his knuckles go white on the steering wheel.
He didn't ask why. Didn't question it. Just pressed the accelerator and ran the next yellow light.
Two blocks from his building, he pulled over.
"What are you—"
He was across the console before I could finish the question, his mouth crashing into mine, his hand fisting in my hair.
The kiss was frantic. Messy. I grabbed his lapels and pulled him closer, and he groaned against my lips, and we were making out in his parked car on a public street and I didn't care, couldn't care, not when he was kissing me as though he'd die if he didn't.
"Couldn't wait," he rasped when we broke apart. "Couldn't drive another foot without—"
“What are you waiting for?”
He stared at me. Pupils blown. Breathing ragged. Then he put the car in gear and covered the last two blocks in approximately fifteen seconds.
The elevator doors closed and Callum's hand found the small of my back.
Not guiding. Not polite. Possessive. His palm pressed flat against my spine, fingers splayed, as if he needed the contact to stay grounded. I could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of my dress.
Neither of us spoke.
I watched our reflections in the mirrored walls. Him in that tuxedo, jaw tight, a muscle ticking near his temple. Me in burgundy, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from the kiss in the car.
His thumb traced a circle against my spine. A small movement. Devastating.
Twelve. Thirteen.
"Callum."
His eyes met mine in the mirror. Dark. Hungry. "Yeah?"
"You're shaking."
He was. A fine tremor running through him, visible in the hand that wasn't pressed against my back. He made a fist, released it. Made it again.
"I'm trying—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I'm trying to be careful. I don't want to—"
"What?"
"Scare you. Push too fast. Ruin this by being—" Another swallow. "I want this too much. I'm afraid I'll get it wrong."
My heart cracked open.
This man. This guarded, controlled, infuriatingly composed man—standing in an elevator with his hand on my back and his walls in rubble, admitting he was scared of wanting me.
I turned. Faced him instead of his reflection. His hand slid to my hip, holding on.
"You're not going to scare me," I said.
"You don't know that."
"I know that I've been thinking about this since the couch.
Since before the couch. Since you walked into my coffee shop a year ago and insulted my foam art and I wanted to pour hot espresso on your head and also know what you taste like.
" I stepped closer. He stopped breathing.
"I know that I spent the entire drive home thinking about what I want to do to you when we get through your door.
I know that if you try to be noble right now, I might actually lose my mind. "
Fourteen.
His hand tightened on my hip. "Willow—"
"Stop being careful." I fisted the front of his shirt. "I don't want careful. I want you."
The elevator dinged. Fifteen.
The doors opened. Neither of us moved.
Then Callum made a sound—low, rough, somewhere between a groan and a surrender—and his mouth crashed into mine.
He kissed me against the elevator wall, one hand braced beside my head, the other hauling me against him. Not careful. Not measured. Desperate, the way I'd been desperate for weeks without letting myself admit it.
"Inside," I gasped against his mouth. "Now."
He pulled back. His eyes were wild, his breathing destroyed, and he looked at me as if I'd taken a battering ram to everything he thought he knew about himself.
"Yeah," he said. "Okay. Yes."
He grabbed my hand. We half-ran down the hallway, and I would've laughed at the absurdity of it—two adults sprinting toward his apartment—except I was too busy trying to keep up in heels and too turned on to find anything funny.
He fumbled with his keys. Dropped them. Cursed under his breath.
I pressed myself against his back, my mouth finding the spot below his ear. "Nervous?"
"You're not helping."
"I'm not trying to help." I bit his earlobe. He shuddered. "I'm trying to make you hurry."
The lock clicked. The door swung open. He pulled me inside, kicked the door shut, and then I was pressed against it with his body pinning mine and his mouth devouring me.
I yanked at his jacket. He shrugged out of it, let it fall. My fingers found his bow tie, fumbling with the knot while he kissed down my neck, teeth scraping, tongue soothing.
"Bedroom," I managed.
He picked me up.
I yelped—an undignified sound I'd deny later—as he lifted me with an effortless strength that shouldn't have been legal for a man who claimed his only exercise was morning runs.
My legs wrapped around his waist on instinct.
My arms circled his neck. And he carried me through his apartment, kissing me the whole way, bumping into furniture neither of us cared about.
His bedroom door. He shouldered it open. Set me down at the foot of a bed I'd imagined more times than I'd ever admit.
I didn't get a chance to catalog the room. His mouth found mine again, and his hands went to the zipper at my back.
"Yes," I said before he could ask. "God, yes, get it off me."
The zipper descended. His knuckles grazed my spine, inch by inch, and I arched into the touch. The dress loosened. He pushed it off my shoulders and it fell, pooling at my feet.
I stood in front of him in black lace and heels. His gaze dropped. Traveled down my body with a slowness that made my skin burn.
"Jesus, Willow."
"Your turn."
My hands were already moving—shoving his jacket off, attacking the buttons of his shirt with fingers that wouldn't cooperate. He helped, shrugging free of the fabric, and then he was bare from the waist up and I forgot how buttons worked.
Broad shoulders. A dusting of dark hair across his chest. Muscles that flexed when I flattened my palms against his abdomen.
“Now who’s staring,” he teased with a low growl.
“Can’t help it.” I traced the line of his hip, followed the trail of hair disappearing into his waistband. "This should be illegal."
His laugh turned into a groan when I palmed him through his dress pants. Hard. Straining against the fabric. I rubbed, and his hips jerked forward.
"Willow—"
"Tell me what you want."
"You. On that bed. Now."
I went. Crawled backward onto the mattress, watching him watch me. He followed, prowling over me on hands and knees, and the predatory focus in his eyes made my thighs clench.
He kissed my throat. My collarbone. Lower. His mouth closed over my nipple through the lace of my bra and I gasped, back arching off the bed.
"Off," I managed. "Take it off."
He unclasped it with one hand—a skill I'd examine later—and tossed it aside. Then his mouth was on bare skin, his tongue circling, teeth grazing, and I stopped thinking about anything except the wet heat of him.
He sucked. Hard. I cried out, fingers digging into his shoulders.
"Sensitive," he murmured against my breast.
"Shut up."
"Make me."
I dragged his mouth back to mine. Kissed him until we were both panting. His hand slid down my stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of my underwear.
He paused. Met my eyes. I nodded.
He pulled them down my legs. Tossed them somewhere. And then his hand was between my thighs, cupping me, and I whimpered against his mouth.
"You're soaked." His voice had dropped an octave, rough and growly. "God, Willow. You're—"
His finger slid through my folds. Found my clit. Circled.
My hips bucked. "Callum—"
"Right here." Another circle. Slower. "Tell me what feels good."
"That. That feels—" He pressed harder and I lost the sentence. "More. I need more."