10. Callum
CALLUM
Why did she have to wear red?
That dress worships her body as if it were made to praise the curves of her breasts, the dip in her waist. And that color—so provocative. So perfect for a woman who’s sensual. Who’s deeply erotic.
I want her to be mine.
I bat the thought from my mind and keep my eyes on Ivy as we walk through the casino and wait at the elevator bank.
“What time do you finish?” she asks.
I tap my wristwatch. “My replacement’s already waiting by your door.”
“Care for a drink?” she asks, and temptation, thy name is Ivy Carmichael.
I should go work out, burn off some of the desire for her that buzzes through my body every time she’s near. I should head home, finish up some paperwork for a short-term contract my team has secured for a series of local masquerade parties.
“Sounds good,” I reply instead as the doors ping open and we step inside.
Ivy enters the code for the high rollers’ lounge and the elevator hums us up through the floors of the hotel. I quickly tap out a text to Russ, telling him to meet us at the bar so we can swap shifts.
And perhaps that’s what I need—another reason not to pursue anything more with Ivy Carmichael. I need to think of Russ, a member of my team. A man who relies on me to run a professional operation.
Not to jeopardize his employment by sleeping with a client.
Twice.
The doors open and we walk past the exclusive gaming tables where glamor and money make exquisite bedfellows. Conversation hums around us as we settle at a private table toward the back. Shadows shroud this part of the room, with the seductive golden glow of pendant lights shining overhead.
As the waitress brings our drinks, Russ waves to me from his spot a few feet away, and I nod, then raise my glass of scotch in his direction. I’m officially off-duty.
Somehow, it feels more dangerous than when I was here in a professional capacity.
“Do you ever gamble?” Ivy asks as she sips at her champagne.
“No. It’s not really my thing.” I shrug.
“What is your thing?”
You.
I don’t say it, but damn, the word could form all too easily on my tongue.
Instead, I take a beat, take a drink, and take a glance around the room that’s buzzing with some of the country’s most rich and famous.
“Success,” I finally settle on, in answer to her question, “whether that’s scoring a new contract at work or a personal best at the gym.
I like to work hard and then enjoy the fruits of my labor. ”
Ivy’s gaze lingers on my shoulders, down my arms. “You’re not the only one who likes to enjoy that.” She shifts closer, and even through my pants I feel the subtle sweep of her thigh as it brushes against mine.
But I have to stay strong. Stay focused.
Stay friends .
“You don’t gamble?” I ask, my tone a little tight.
“I’m gambling right now,” she says quietly, but before I can press her, she nods toward a nearby table. “See that man and woman playing blackjack?”
I nod, studying the adversaries. Equal piles of chips are stacked in front of them. Seems like an even match.
“I bet they leave the room together.”
“Why do you think that?”
“It’s the way he’s looking at her. He’s tracking her every move as if he wants to memorize it.”
“Perhaps he’s just studying the opposition,” I reply.
“Or perhaps he’s intrigued by her. He can’t get enough.” She holds up one finger as if to make a point, right as the man takes a small step closer to the woman.
“He could be trying to see her cards,” I counter.
“Or perhaps he’s drawn to her, unable to resist,” she says, and don’t I know what that feels like. A light flares in Ivy’s eyes. “Care to make a one-off wager?”
“Tempt me.”
“I’m trying to,” she whispers, and I clench my hands into fists.
“Ivy . . .” I protest for the second time this evening, but there’s no conviction in it.
“I’m sorry.” She shakes her head. “We’re friends. I don’t want to make your life hard.”
I lower my voice and move closer again. Fuck the rules. “Just being near you has me hard. Every. Single. Minute.”
She swallows and the movement travels down the delicate column of her throat—I want to taste it, trail a path of kisses from there along her neck to the temptation of her cleavage.
“But I care about you, Ivy. And your safety is my priority.” And while the words still ring as true as they did in her bathroom a few weeks back, I’m not so sure how much longer I can resist. If it was just sex, it would be easy, but it’s not.
I’m as attracted to Ivy’s mind as I am to her body, her face, and that makes it all the worse.
For the next hour, we talk. We laugh. We observe strangers and create stories about their desires, sometimes a little flirty, sometimes a little friendly. With Ivy, it’s hard not to be both.
And as we finish our second round of drinks, the woman from the blackjack table stands and leaves the room alone.
I nod in her direction then turn back to the temptress by my side. “Lucky we didn’t make that wager. Looks like theirs wasn’t the relationship to gamble on.”
“Indeed. It seems you’d have won,” Ivy says, but as she holds my gaze just a beat longer, those kissable lips mere inches from my own, that fuckable body within reach, I know she’s wrong.
I don’t win at all.
Because wanting her this much and not being able to taste her is nothing short of torture.