43. CALLUM
43
CALLUM
Chloe bites her lips, her hips barely gliding over me, but I can feel the dampness she’s leaving on my sweats.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you.”
“I didn’t expect living with you to be like this,” she says gently.
“What did you expect?” I ask curiously.
Her shoulders rise and fall in sync with her breathing. There’s a steadiness to her—and myself, if I’m honest—that I don’t recognize. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Not this. I’ve never been friends with a boy before.”
Friends.
The word is sharp. That’s what we are. Friends. I have to remind myself of it daily. Multiple times a day. I’ll be at work, evaluating spreadsheets one minute, and I’m wondering what Chloe is doing the next. How is her day? Are her coworkers annoying her? What can I make for dinner tonight to impress her? What is the saying on her shirt tonight? Will she be wearing a bra under it? She usually doesn’t. Am I the person she wants and needs?
I’ve lost focus, only to find it on her.
I’ve lost focus, only to be friends .
“I’ve never lived with one except my brothers.”
“I’ve never lived with a girl before.” I push a curl behind her ear. “Except for Audrey.”
“But you’ve had plenty of sleepovers with them.”
“I thought we didn’t talk about our exes? You didn’t want to talk about S—”
She places a hand over my mouth. “Shhhh.” Her body stops moving—which I don’t know if she realized she was even doing. “Don’t.”
“Okay,” I say against her hand.
“I mean it.”
“I’m sorry.” It comes out muffled against the soft skin of her palm, but the guilt of letting her down is present.
I fall to temptations and nip at her palm, wanting to see the validity of her calling us friends. Chloe’s cheeks flush, eyes go heavy.
My hands haven’t left her hips. I pull her against me in encouragement.
She takes over, hand falling from my mouth and running down the front of my shirt.
Chloe stills. I can watch the change in demeanor roll over her like she’s putting on a different shirt. She jumps off me in a rush. Tripping over the coffee table, the popcorn bowl goes flying. Buttery pieces hit the couch, the rest of the bowl pours onto Tucker’s head.
“Chloe,” I call and go after her. “Chloe, stop.”
“I need to stop,” she talks to herself. She whirls on me and we almost collide. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. This isn’t me, well it is, but I don’t want to be that girl. I’m not her anymore.” Her head is tilted toward the floor, shaking back and forth.
“What do you mean?” Chloe shakes her head again. “Look at me, Chloe.” I slip her chin into my fingers. “Eyes on me, please . What do you mean?”
“You won’t understand.”
“Try me.”
Her throat moves slowly around a swallow. “I used people. Sex. It sounds stupid admitting it aloud. I used it to feel anything, to fill this void within me.”
“Is that it? ”
“No,” she sighs. “I remembered you don’t want a girlfriend. Don’t want a distraction. Don’t want this. Don’t want me. I’m not going to use you, Callum.”
I’m unbearably hard. Obviously, I want her. This isn’t because I haven’t been with anyone in a year. It’s because of her.
It’s always because of her.
“Don’t want you?” It comes out stunned, hurt that she would ever think that.
There lies my problem.
She blows out a breath. “You don’t need to lie to me, Cal.”
“Lie to you?” Sure, dating might be a lie, but our friendship—everything between us—that’s not a lie. “Do you. . . do you want me to want you?”
“No.” Her eyes drop to the left.
“Now who is the liar?”
Her body rumbles with a silent laugh and a shake of her downward head.
“You aren’t very good at lying to me, Dais.”
“Well, that’s weird because I’m not. I’m not lying. You don’t need to want me.” She changes her pitch. Flustered. Her mouth opens and closes. Chloe’s cheeks are as red as the lipstick she wears, her gray eyes as alive as a cloudless night sky.
Her losing control has me teetering on the edge of mine.
I need control, but my need for her is uncontrollable.
“This is ridiculous. Forget this ever happened. Forget what I said.” Chloe goes upstairs.
I give her a minute, waiting for the sound of her door to close before heading up there. I’d let her use me if that meant I got to have her.
Standing in front of her door, I raise my hand to knock—the door flies open.
“I don’t care if you don’t want me, but I want you.” A slow, lazy smirk makes its way up my face. “No. No smirking. No dimples.” Chloe points at me. “You are making— ”
“Are you going to shut up so I can kiss you?”
Chloe pauses, mouth open, and we both give each other a second to make up our minds before we pounce. She jumps me. Mouth sealing over mine. Our lips interlocking in a desperate kiss. Searing. Sizzling. Her lips move across mine how I imagine writers' fingers move across a keyboard when writing. A rehearsed dance between us.
Chloe opens her mouth, and our tongues meet. She tastes like popcorn and melted chocolate, but more than that, she tastes like everything I’ve ever wanted.
My hands snake behind her thighs, and I pick her up. Legs, bare and silky, wrap around my waist. I back her up against the wall, raising one hand to protect the back of her head.
Chloe pulls at my bottom lip, dragging it between hers. Her hands twine through my hair as she tugs on the sandy strands.
Planting kisses to the sides of her mouth, I kiss her jaw, working my way down her neck. The neckline of her oversized shirt is loose against her collarbone. I sneak my lips under the worn fabric. I bite down on the skin, and Chloe lets out a whimper. I suck on the skin, trying to taste her peach scent on my tongue. I reverse my path, planting a kiss over the mark I left on her tan skin. Claiming her lips again, I could write a sonnet about how this feels.
“Don’t stop,” she says against me. “Don’t stop, Callum.”
“You’ll be lucky to ever get me to stop kissing you now, Chloe. Now that I’ve got another kiss, I need them all.”
I can feel her smile.
We keep kissing for a few seconds or minutes, or it could be days at this point. I don’t know, and for the record, I don’t care. I could kiss her forever.
“Fuck, Dais. Your lips are so soft.”
“You better take care of them then.”
And I will. Another kiss. But all I want to do is take care of her. I’d do anything for her if she let me .
“I’ll always take care of you,” I whisper the words into the world, hoping they envelop her. I pull back, looking at her.
Have her eyes always been this beautiful? Rivers of pale blue breaking up the gray.
Does she know that the cluster of freckles under her left eye looks like a constellation?
I slip a hand from under her thigh, pressing my hips into her to hold her against the wall. Her cheeks hollow out for a moment. I whimper, loving the sensation just as much.
Rubbing my thumb over the constellation, I say, “Fifteen.”
“Fifteen?”
“You have fifteen freckles right here.” My thump sweeps over her collarbone. “And another patch of five here.”
“You counted?”
“Memorized,” I correct. “I love them.” I kiss the two spots.
“I love them too. My mom has them.” Her hands run down my back. “Surprised you didn’t nickname me freckles. Everyone else does.”
“I’m not everyone else.”
“I’m beginning to realize that.”
“Will you kiss me again?”
I kiss her, and it’s like the first time all over again. I hope it feels like this every time.