25. CHLOE
25
CHLOE
Living with a GQ model is doing remarkably great for my spank bank.
Every day, something new is added. At least when he leaves for work before me. . . and I love it. Fitted to perfection, I swear the man had each fiber of his clothing tailored specifically for him.
Like today, right now, midnight blue fabric wraps around muscular, sculpted by years of rugby, thighs. A crisp white shirt stretched across broad shoulders and tucked into the trousers with sleeves rolled up. Skin still holding onto its summer glow, his forearms flex and you can see his veins. His suit jacket is slung across the back of a chair, and his tie is loose, hanging around his neck. Cal unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt.
I wonder if I stare at the remaining buttons long enough, will they also become undone?
Callum Sullivan looks like a snack when he’s wearing a suit, and I love snacks.
Big snack girl.
I’m scrolling my phone in one hand, the other hand twirling the straw to an afternoon iced coffee when he walks into the living room.
“You missed your mouth.”
“ You missed your mouth, ” I mock him as I rub my skin where the straw attempted to penetrate my cheek.
Cal holds out a paper towel to me. “You’ve got a little something right there.” He drops the paper towel, instead brushing his thumb over the corner of my mouth. “You were drooling. ”
He flashes me a crooked smile. Brows raise.
“Not any different from you.” I catch the way he watches me, eyes lingering on my legs, or my chest when my nightly shirts are a little too worn, the material thin.
“At least I’m not afraid to admit it.”
I take a deep breath, trying to stay collected, not letting Cal know that he affects me.
Because he doesn’t. . . Cal does nothing to me.
Except for raising my blood pressure, heating my entire body until my core is nothing but begging to have him between my legs. Cal makes me feel entirely and utterly perfect being me. His appearance barely scratches the surface, it’s everything else that does it. Tiny gestures. Listening. Patience and kindness. Who he is at his core is the most attractive part of him.
But no, Cal does nothing to me.
Turning, he heads to the other side of the first floor.
“Did you start the kettle?” he asks me over his shoulder.
“I did.”
I expect him to respond with some sort of comeback, but he doesn’t. “Thank you.”
“Don’t get used to it. My generosity in the kitchen doesn’t stretch past that.” I ruin the moment, but can’t rip my focus from his glacier eyes.
“Would never.”
He pours the boiling water into the mug I left beside the stove, a bag already in it. Cal drinks Chamomile in the morning, an Earl Grey or chai in the afternoon—usually decaf—and peppermint at night.
Why do I know this?
Cal sits on the couch next to me, brushing against where I am.
Does he need to sit so close?
“What are your plans for Thanksgiving?” I ask him. The holiday is a few days away, and I realized earlier that I didn’t know if he was planning on staying here or not .
“Thanksgiving isn’t a British national holiday.”
“Oh.” I feel stupid. My shoulders slump, and I chew on the inside of my mouth.
Cal notices and adds, “Sometimes my family, or our friends, will go out to a nice dinner. It’s common for those with American family to still celebrate the tradition and share what they are thankful for.” He does this sometimes. If his response pulls an uncertain reaction from me, he corrects himself. Elaborates or rephrases his words to make me more satisfied with an answer.
“That’s nice. It used to be my favorite holiday,” I tell him.
“Used to be?” he asks curiously.
I nod. “Aren’t holidays better as kids?” He nods his head left and right, deliberating my comment. “School parties and an excuse to have as much sugar as possible. I always thought holidays were magical as a kid. Now, not really.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Plus now there is a national day for everything. I bet if you googled what today's national day is, it would tell you that it’s national black bear day or national hug the person who made you tea or—” A single laugh escapes him. “What?” I ask with a smile, his laugh contagious.
Cal also makes me smile.
It’s unintentional and severely annoying.
“Do you want a hug, Dais?” he asks.
“No?” I ask, confused. “Oh.” It dawns on me, and I swat at him. Cal catches my wrist. “I didn’t think about what I was saying.”
“Uh-huh, sure. I think you want a hug.”
Cal tugs on my wrist, bringing me closer to him, and swings an arm around my shoulders.
“Oh no. No.” I twist my body and use my heels to push on the couch to scoot away from him. “I’m not a hugger.” Nothing in my tone is serious.
His smile grows as I keep fighting, squirming under him now.
“Cal,” my voice is wavering with laughter. “Callum. ”
“I like the sound of my name on your tongue.”
I’m pressed underneath him. Cal’s arms are wrapped around me, body hovering over mine. “Admit it now, you wanted a hug from me Henry.”
“I wanted no such thing,” I say breathily, “Sullivan.”
Why do I love being in his arms? It’s familiar and right.
I wiggle in his embrace. Cal groans, and I can feel him hardening against me.
Our heads are level, giving me nothing but him in my line of vision. Drowning in his blues again. His chin is decorated in blond stubble that I want to run my hand against. . .
And my hand is inching to it.
Get a grip of yourself, Chloe. Control yourself.
Callum’s breathing is steady, and it pisses me off. How is this not affecting him? How is he in such control ?
I trail my hand along his jaw.
He brings his head closer to mine. Our mouths move closer and closer.
I think he’s going to kiss me.
Oh my god, Callum Sullivan is going to kiss me.
I swallow, licking my lips.
His lips hover over mine, and all my thoughts disappear except for one. I want him to kiss me. Badly.
This isn’t my typical craving—wanting someone to kiss me in order to feel anything or escape my brain. This is deeper. More primal. Almost as if he doesn’t then I’ll truly never know the meaning of life.
“Whatever,” he says, lips faintly against mine. Cal maneuvers his arms from around me and sits in one of the accent chairs, drinking his tea as if nothing just happened.
Jerk.
I’m lying there, practically panting like Tucker after a long walk when he’s hot .
Cal’s stoic position breaks momentarily as he reaches for his book on the side table. His right ankle rests on his knee, the book in the space between. Posture and facial expression are so even-keeled it has me biting my lip.
Will Cal ever lose control?
Am I imagining that he feels the same way?
Not that he knows how I feel—or that I’m thinking about him in that way. Our living situation and routine are good. We’ve quickly found a flow that makes living together, honestly, a lot of fun.
Then we have moments like that.
Or when I left my laundry in the washer, and he flips it over. Or when I caught him trying several brands of expensive GF bread—that I could never justify buying myself—to find the best one—then put us on a bi-weekly delivery of it. Or not minding when Riley and Miller pop by, even inviting them; that has me questioning everything.
“Tell me about your Thanksgivings as a kid.” Cal says, bringing us right back to where we were before I needed him to kiss me.
“My mom’s side of the family is Colombian. While we would have turkey and mashed potatoes because that is what Dad grew up with, our Thanksgivings were filled with Colombian dishes: tamales, bandeja paisa, mashed yuca, and plantain casserole.
“We lived close to Dad’s family. He grew up in the Northeast, and most of that side still resides there. He has four siblings, and they all have three or four kids. Every family gathering was an event. Thanksgiving was no different, and we always hosted it.”
“Did your mom cook everything?”
“Yes, and everyone loved it. My grandpa loved spicy food, so when my dad met and married my mom, he was ecstatic over her cooking. She is heavy-handed with the spices.” I smile at the memory, but it falls away as other sad ones replace it. They’re always there, on the back burner, but every so often they boil. “The last time we spent it together was while I was in college.”
“Did something change?”
There was no longer the glue that held our family together.
“I graduated and moved away. Miller was playing in the NHL and had a baby on the way. My cousins all got busy,” I tell Cal. It’s the truth, but selective. “Life happens.”
Life happens, exhale. Inhale. Life fucking happens, and there is no controlling it.
“If you want Miller and Riley to come here, I can help you prepare some of your mom’s dishes.” He knows I’m a terrible cook, but he doesn’t know how much this would mean to me.
“Really?” Cal nods. “Would you want to stay and have lunch with us?” I ask.
“I’d love to.”