Charlotte
“We gotta go, Princess,” Callan yells from somewhere near the garage.
And Callan and I are two grown-ass adults who can totally handle the fact that he made me come with my dildo—twice—and I didn’t do more than skim his cock with my hand.
It doesn’t have to mean anything. Hell, he agreed to fake date me without asking any questions.
This doesn’t have to be a thing. We probably won’t even talk about it.
He probably helps women out like that all the time.
Shaking my head to clear that decidedly unpleasant thought from my mind, I meet Callan next to the garage door. Instead of leaving and loading up our bags, he’s standing there, his shoulders bunching in the all-black tracksuit the team travels in.
I stare at the Stallions logo on the front left, taking in the wide expanse of his chest.
“Hey, Princess?” Callan tilts my chin to look him in the eye. “About last night…”
I gulp. I guess we’re talking about it, then. “What about last night?”
He tilts his head. “Next time you need to get off in this house, you come to me. I’m your fake boyfriend. I’ll be the only one giving you orgasms. And that includes you.”
Holy fuck. Why do I find that so attractive? No. I shake my head. I will not be turned on by a man declaring he is the only person who can get me off.
“You can’t just… command me to sleep with you,” I call after him.
Callan stalks out the door, and it takes me a moment before I realize he’s carrying my bag to the car, too.
He stops halfway into the vehicle, turning back to look at me.
“I’m not. I’m telling you there is only one person who gets to give you orgasms. That person is me.
You can do whatever you want with that information. ”
I cross my arms. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
“I’m telling you what not to do. It’s barely even that. I’m promising you that, if I hear you getting off on your own, I will be in that room again. I don’t care if it’s two in the morning after the hardest game of my fucking career, I will be there.”
Making my way to the car slowly, as if he’s a wild animal, I reply, “Okay, well, that’s not really how it works. It is, in fact, illegal. Probably.”
He opens the door to put our bags in the back seat, and he inhales deeply before climbing into the driver’s seat.
Instead of turning the car on, he stares out the windshield, changing his grip on the steering wheel over and over again.
“It needs to be me. It’s not about it not being you.
It needs to be me. Please? I understand it’s ridiculous.
I understand that I invited myself into your bedroom last night like a creep.
But I was standing out in your hall, trying so hard to convince myself to walk into my room and shut the door, and I couldn’t.
I don’t care if this is fake. You’re my fake girlfriend.
So I get to be the one who makes you come, okay? ”
I tap my index finger on my lower lip. “Would I be the only one who gets to make you come?”
His broad shoulders shake as he huffs out a laugh. “That’s your follow-up question?” He finally puts the SUV into gear, backing out of the garage.
“Well, it only seems fair, if you’re the only one who gets to get me off, that I’m the only one who gets to get you off. That’s how these things work.”
He glances at me. “That’s how what works? Mental breakdowns? Because I’m pretty sure I’m deep into one right now. You’re being way cooler about this than you should be. I just demanded you not get off with anyone but me.”
I watch his reaction, my heart melting at the frustration and embarrassment flashing across it.
“It’s the first and only condition you’ve made since finding out that I announced we were dating and moving in together.
You let me move into your home and agreed to a lot of shit for me.
The least I can do is agree to your one term. Especially if it ends so well for me.”
Callan grips the back of his neck. “You’re being remarkably cool about this.”
I pop the knuckles on my right hand. “The last guy I dated had similar requests. I’m used to it.”
Callan comes to a stop at the red light before turning to me. “What do you mean?” he all but growls. “What requests did he have?”
“Nothing important.” I wave my hand like it’s not a big deal. It hadn’t felt like one at the time.
Traffic starts moving again, and Callan’s wide chest expands as he takes a deep breath.
“I feel like a complete and utter dick for asking. I tried to talk myself out of it all night, but the fucking jealousy was clawing its way up my throat, and it fucking burst out. And now I feel even worse. What did that fucker ask you to do that makes you so cool about this?”
For once, the words don’t want to tumble out of me. They stay inside. Buried and timid. My relationship with Jace wasn’t healthy; I know that. Hell, I knew it at the time. But—
“Charlotte, I need to know.” His use of my real name is a shock to my system. I’m so used to him calling me Princess that hearing anything else is like a bucket of cold water.
His grip tightens on the wheel. “Or I don’t. Fuck, I don’t know. I need to, but I won’t make you tell me. And I won’t make you agree to it, either. You’re not responsible for my emotions.”
Gently tugging on his arm, I pull his hand to me, lacing my fingers between his on the center console. “It’s okay, Callan.” I stroke the tanned skin of his wrist with my other hand. “It’s a little embarrassing, is all.”
“For him.”
“For me,” I disagree. Letting out a long exhale, I continue, “It truly wasn’t as big of a deal as my friends and brother make it seem.
Jace had specific requests; he asked me not to wear heels that made me taller than him.
Totally normal request, and obviously not an issue we’ll have to deal with since I would have to wear like foot-high heels. ”
“Who the fuck cares how tall you look?” The way my insides tighten at his growly voice is wholly inappropriate for the conversation we’re having.
“It’s not that he cared. It was the perception in photographs, you know?”
Callan’s thumb brushes along the top of mine, the size difference between the two both comical and strangely comforting. “Wait. Was this Jace Brinkley?”
I snort at the preposterous idea. “Didn’t know you kept up with basketball enough to know who the rookies are. But no. Jace Mercer.”
His eyes scrunch, clearly trying to place the name. “I don’t think I know him—wait. You do know Brinkley. He’s a basketball rookie.”
He stares at me expectantly, but I offer a shrug. He doesn’t need to know about my one-night stands.
Rubbing the patch of skin between his eyebrows, he asks, “How many athletes have you been with?”
I disentangle my hand from his before crossing my arms. “Do you really want to go there? Start pulling out scorecards? How many women have you slept with? How many nights have you had that were like last night?” I let out a derisive snort before deciding to answer his question.
“Not that many. Enough to realize they’re too self-centered for it to be worth my time.
And also, enough to get my ex—the musician—out of my system. ”
The SUV is quiet after the confession, the sounds of Callan’s music filling the air, and I’m not sure whether Callan is processing or is angry. Finally, he murmurs, “None.”
“What? None what?”
He takes my hand again as he puts the car into park at the airport before turning to look me in the eye.
“I haven’t ever had a night like the last night.
” Holding my gaze for a beat longer, he finally nods once and drops my hand, like his confession isn’t causing a wave of emotions to flow through my body, freezing me in place.
He grabs both our bags out of the back seat before opening my door.
He holds his hand out, waiting for me to take it.
I roll my eyes, but entwine my fingers with his, stepping out of the car.
Ever since Jace, I’ve realized I’m not the type of person who wants a husband or someone I’m building a life with.
I can build my own damn life, thank you very much.
But there is something calming about being connected to another person that makes my heart rate slow, my mind realize it’s all going to be okay.
And Callan makes it easy to be connected to him.
We make the walk to the airplane, and the two representatives from the social media team snap photos of us together.
I’m sure the comments will be popping off if they choose to post that one.
The PR team has been surprisingly nonchalant about Callan and me.
Since I learned many years ago to avoid knowing what people are saying about me online, I’m not entirely sure why.
We quickly pass through the checkpoint, and I’m grateful the team gets to go through a private security screening area.
When we reach the stairs onto the 747 the team has leased for this game, Callan steps to the side, letting me climb first.
“Thanks,” I murmur as I start up.
“Better view when I go second,” he teases, and I roll my eyes despite the warmth it sends throughout my body.
I may also shake my hips slightly more than necessary.
As I move past the flight attendant welcoming us, I realize I’m unprepared for this.
The plane is completely reconfigured, with wider seats, more legroom, and an open area, where it looks like an entire training room can be pulled out.
People are already in seats. The players in front of us are moving with a certainty that suggests they already know where they’re going.
I pause. “Are there assigned seats?” I whisper, hoping no one sees the panic in my eyes.
I have convinced everyone, for the most part, that I can do this.
That I know what’s going on. But I was unprepared for this—probably because Chris always flew private to the games with Dad and the family, rather than riding with the team.