13. Kilts and Confessions #2
He shrugs, but I notice how his shoulders remain tense. "It was a long time ago."
"Some wounds remain fresh regardless of time."
He looks at me then, really looks, with an intensity that makes me feel exposed. "Your father," he says carefully. "Did he ever come back?"
The question catches me off guard. I rarely talk about this part.
"Once," I admit. "When I was fourteen. Showed up at the house on a Tuesday afternoon like he'd just been out for groceries. Brought presents. Said he'd made a mistake."
"What happened?"
"He stayed for dinner. Promised to come back the next weekend." I move to the window, not wanting Callum to see my face. "He didn't."
"And after that?"
I take a deep breath. "He died two years later. Heart attack. We found out from his new wife's daughter, who called because she found our number in his wallet."
The silence that follows feels weightier than anything spoken aloud.
I turn to find Callum watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
"I'm sorry," he says again, and I know he means it.
"It was a long time ago," I echo his earlier words.
He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. "Is that why you take care of everyone? Because you had to start so young?"
No one has ever connected those dots so directly before.
Not even my sisters, who lived through it all with me.
"Maybe," I admit. "Or maybe I'm just a control freak."
"That would make two of us."
A ghost of a smile crosses his face, and suddenly the air between us feels lighter despite the weight of our shared confidences.
He clears his throat and gestures to the suite. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll find you something to sleep in."
The presidential suite is impeccably tidy except for the dining table, which is covered with architectural drawings and acquisition paperwork.
"Sorry about the mess," he says, gathering papers into a neat stack. "I wasn't expecting company."
"It's fine." I move to the panoramic windows, taking in the midnight vista of Seattle's skyline. "This view alone is worth walking into a paper avalanche."
He disappears briefly into the bedroom and returns with a neatly folded stack of clothing. "T-shirt and sweatpants. Probably absurdly large, but better than sleeping in formalwear."
"My fashion standards drop dramatically after midnight," I assure him. "This is perfect."
Our fingers brush as I accept the clothes, and that same electric current from our dance surges between us.
"I should go," he says, but doesn't move. "Get back to the yacht."
"Probably," I agree, making no effort to step back. "Because of those boundaries."
"Professional ones…”
"You'll be comfortable on your yacht?"
"More comfortable than sharing a suite with an employee," he says, though the way his gaze drops to my lips suggests otherwise. "You'll be comfortable here?"
"More comfortable than in a house with four Petrosian women sharing one bathroom."
He smiles, the expression transforming his usually serious face. "I imagine that's quite the battlefield."
"Nuclear. Charlie takes thirty-minute showers, Viktoria needs precisely eighteen minutes for her elaborate skincare routine, Susanna blow-dries her hair at full volume regardless of the hour, and Mom lectures everyone on water conservation while using all the hot water."
His smile deepens into an actual laugh. "Sounds like you're the responsible one."
"I'm the middle child. We're genetically programmed for conflict mediation and silent suffering."
We've somehow drifted closer, the lighthearted conversation a thin veneer over the tension building between us.
"I really should go," he says again, softer.
"Or," I counter, surprising myself, "you could stay."
His eyes darken. "That would be inappropriate."
"So was that kiss in your hotel room."
"A momentary lapse in judgment."
"I'm proposing another one." I step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. "A more extended lapse."
His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb tracing my lower lip. "We work together."
"Temporarily."
"I'm your boss."
"Technically."
"This complicates everything."
"Everything's already complicated," I whisper against his thumb.
That's all it takes. His mouth claims mine with a hunger that obliterates any remaining professional boundaries between us.
Unlike our first kiss—tentative, exploring—this one ignites instantly.
His hands tangle in my hair, disrupting Viktoria's careful styling, and I don't care in the slightest.
I'm pushed backward until my shoulders meet the doorframe, his body pressed against mine. My dress rustles as his hands find the slit at my thigh, tracing upward with deliberate slowness.
His body is all heat and hard muscle, crowding mine without apology, stealing every rational thought I have left.
"Tell me to stop," Callum murmurs against my neck, voice wrecked and dark.
"Don't you dare," I whisper back, hands fisting the front of his shirt like a lifeline.
His mouth finds mine again, rougher this time, kissing me like he’s trying to memorize every gasp, every sigh, every broken noise he pulls from my throat.
One large hand skims down my side, catching the slit of my dress, fingers tracing along the bare skin of my thigh.
Higher. Higher.
I whimper into his mouth when his hand slides between my legs, teasing the slick, aching heat he finds there.
“Christ,” he groans, pressing his forehead against mine. “You’re already wet for me.”
My body jolts at the filthy reverence in his voice.
He doesn't waste time.
Two fingers slide through my folds, parting me with maddening, deliberate care, before circling my clit with a pressure that’s almost unbearable.
I arch against him helplessly, chasing the sensation, desperate.
"So impatient," he murmurs, teasing a second finger against my entrance. “Is this what you’ve been needing all night?”
"Callum," I gasp, hips rocking shamelessly against his hand.
"That’s it, darling," he says roughly. "Let me have you."
He thrusts his fingers inside me, thick and sure, curling them just right, and my knees almost give out.
Only his body braced against mine keeps me upright.
I bury my face in his shoulder, muffling the embarrassing sounds escaping my mouth as he fucks me with his fingers—slow at first, savoring every pulse and clench of my body, then faster as I fall apart in his arms.
"Look at me," he demands in a low growl, dragging his free hand up to cup my jaw. "I want to see you when you come."
I try—God, I try—but the pleasure is so intense, so raw, I can barely keep my eyes open.
He strokes deep and firm, thumb finding my clit again, ruthless and devastating.
The climax slams into me like a wave breaking against rocks—violent, all-consuming, shattering.
I cry out, biting down on my lower lip to muffle the sound, and he catches it with his own mouth, swallowing my moan in a kiss that’s pure, molten possession.
I explode against him, hips jerking, thighs trembling.
He works me through it, slowing his movements only when I shudder against his hand, too sensitive to bear another stroke.
"Good girl," he murmurs against my temple, withdrawing his fingers carefully, reverently, like he's reluctant to let go.
I sag against him, boneless, breathless, still quivering with aftershocks.
He presses a kiss to my forehead, to my temple, to the hinge of my jaw—soft now, almost tender—as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
For a long moment, he just holds me.
No words. No rush.
Just the wild thud of my heart against his chest and the quiet, stunned aftermath of what just happened.
When I finally lift my head, he’s watching me with something almost savage in his eyes—something possessive and raw and fiercely, achingly restrained.
I reach for his belt, needing—needing—to give him even a fraction of what he just gave me.
But he catches my wrist gently, bringing my knuckles to his lips instead.
"Not tonight," he says, voice rough with need. "If I stay, I won’t stop."
"I don't want you to," I whisper.
He closes his eyes for a beat, like he's physically restraining himself.
Then, with excruciating care, he steps back—separating us, breaking the magnetic pull that still crackles between our bodies.
"You need sleep," he says quietly. "And I need to remember I'm not the kind of man who takes advantage when a woman’s vulnerable."
"I'm not vulnerable," I argue, dazed and wrecked and still throbbing for him.
He smiles, bittersweet. "You are. And so am I."
He brushes a final kiss—soft, almost chaste—against my forehead.
I exhale. “That's very noble and extremely frustrating."
He laughs, pressing one more kiss to my forehead. "I've been called worse."
At the door, he pauses. "Karina?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you for telling me. About your father." His voice softens. "I don't usually... talk about mine."
The vulnerability in his admission touches something deep inside me.
"Maybe that's something we have in common," I say quietly. "Keeping the hardest parts hidden."
He nods, his expression thoughtful. "Despite Duncan's uselessness and Richard's texts... tonight was the best evening I've had in a very long time."
"Better than sleeping on a yacht?" I can't help asking.
His smile is warm as he swipes a hand through his dark copper hair. "Infinitely."
With that, he's gone, leaving me leaning against the doorframe with swollen lips, disheveled hair, and the dawning realization that I might be falling for another Abernathy man.
Only this time, it feels like something worth the risk.