27. Chapter 27
twenty-seven
I’ve spent my Saturday in one high-end boutique after another, anchored inside hotel lobbies like the Hermitage, Grand Hyatt, and Four Seasons.
The warm, perfumed air of those lobbies still clings to my coat as the cold almost knocks me down stepping outside.
The kind that steals your breath for a second.
My cheeks flush from the cold, my arms overloaded with bags cutting into my fingers. The handles bite at the tender skin between my thumb and forefinger. My breath fogs in front of me as I dig for my keys in my purse. The bags slip, spilling onto the sidewalk.
I drop to my knees, hair falling forward, the ends brushing the wet concrete as I scramble to gather everything.
Big hands are picking up bags before I know it. Warm hands. Familiar hands. “Sorry, ma’am. Let me help—” That voice.
Calder.
He’s standing over me in a dark leather jacket dusted with snow, his Stetson pulled low, his breath fogging in the cold. The scent of leather and winter washes over me like a memory—unmistakably him.
My God, my God, my God.
Everything in me freezes.
His shoulders are broader than I remembered, his jaw rough with winter stubble, those impossible blue eyes locked on me like he’s seeing a ghost. Snowflakes cling to the brim of his hat, melting slowly, one drop sliding down the curve of the leather.
He steps back, equally stunned. Blindsided. “Laurel?”
“Calder?”
We stand like statues on the sidewalk—both with wide eyes—until we ask, together, “What are you doing here?”
I swallow, my throat tight, barely able to utter, “I live here. You?”
He aims his thumb over his shoulder. “Tanner and I are at the Grand Hyatt. Taking in a concert and Predators game.”
People stream around us, as the snow falls harder, the cold wind tugging at my coat, but he stands steady—an immovable force in front of me.
Snow gathers on the brim of his hat, dusting his jacket. His chest rises and falls like he’s trying to steady himself, his eyes drinking me in the same way they used to—slow, reverent, hungry.
“Calder,” I breathe his name like it’s the most precious word ever spoken, and tears begin to fill my eyes.
He looks away—and I hate it because it’s the same way he turned from me all those years ago. “Please look at me.”
His eyes come back to mine, searching, as he asks, “Are you happy?”
My heart drums so hard I feel it in my fingertips. “No.” I shake my head, blinking against the sting in my eyes. “I haven’t been in years.”
With that, I’m in his arms—his hands warm in my hair, the heat of his body seeping through my coat, his mouth opening over mine, soft and desperate. His breath tastes like winter and mint. “Oh, God, Laurel,” he whispers in my ear, his breath tickling my neck.
He grabs my hand, pulling me toward the hotel, scooping up the spilled bags along the way. As people sidestep us inside the vestibule, Calder shakes his head, his chest heaving. His eyes can’t leave mine. “Tanner won’t be back ’til late.”
I nod, breathless, my coat hanging open from where he pulled me close. My skin tingles everywhere he touched me. I’ve dreamed of this for years—seeing Calder again.
Inside his room, Calder locks and deadbolts the door, removing my coat. His eyes glisten as he turns and takes my face in his hands, running his thumbs softly over my cheeks.
I inhale him.
“I’ve never stopped loving you,” he whispers.
Our lips touch and part, just enough for our breath to mingle, the kiss soft, warm, and unhurried as we each taste the other, teasing with our tongues, nibbling each other’s lips.
Then his hand slides under my dress, gently kneading my breast.
I let him.
No—I match his hunger as our kiss deepens, our tongues battling for control as my hands find their way under his shirt, my fingers caressing his hard abs before I cup his erection pressing into me.
Calder moans into my mouth. “Once, Laurel. Just once.”
“Yes.”
He picks me up, carrying me, sitting me on the bed as he stands over me, pulling my dress over my head, unsnapping my bra, freeing my breasts. With his eyes on them, he licks his lips and whispers, “Lie down.”
I obey, lifting my hips for him to remove my panties and his eyes sweep over me. “You’re beautiful.”
Calder unbuttons his shirt, stripping out of it, his muscles flexing as he frees his powerful arms from the long sleeves. He’s beautiful. His body is sculpted. He’s everything I’ve remembered, everything I’ve fantasized about all those long nights with Grant gone. Working.
I’ve been so alone for so long.
Stepping out of his jeans, his erection pulses in front of me, thick and heavy, as he crawls onto the bed, sliding his hand between my legs. “Oh, fuck, you’re dripping, Laurel.”
“Yes.”
“For me.”
“Yes.”
He cups my breast, sucking it into his mouth, his tongue swirling around my nipple, pulling desperate little noises from my throat. I rock my hips into him. I need him.
Then—still suckling my breast—Calder slides his hand between my legs, stroking, spreading my arousal. His fingers dip inside me… and he curls them as he strokes, all the while softly rubbing his palm between my legs.
“Calder,” I beg. “Please.”
He positions himself on top of me, his cock at my entrance, and pushes inside slowly, as deep as my body can take him. He holds himself there before pulling out, then pumps his hips into me. “Oh, fuck, Laurel.”
He begins to drive into me with a steady beat, and I meet his thrusts, arching my back, rolling my hips into him.
When I slide my hands down his back to cup his ass, digging my fingernails into his flesh, he pumps harder, faster—again and again until—the climax erupts through my core and a gush of warmth floods my thighs, my pussy throbbing around him—and Calder spills inside me.
“Calder,” I whimper—bolting upright in bed.
My heart hammers, the dream still wrapped around me like it’s something I lived instead of imagined. Eyes wide. Sweat beading on my forehead. My pulse pounds in my neck, throbbing in my ears.
My hand moves between my legs. My panties are wet.
I glance beside me. Bowie’s sound asleep.
Oh. My. God.
My hands cover my mouth, my eyes frozen wide as I peer into the darkness—no sound but the ceiling fan overhead.
Is it possible? For one dizzy breath it feels like something real. Something I buried on purpose, something my guilt shoved down so deep it’s clawing its way back up.
I can’t breathe. My scalp tingles. Is that why I named my son Bowie?
I jump from the bed and rush into the bathroom with a deafening ringing in my ears.
What have I done? What did I do?