21. Callum
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Callum
“Okay,” I hear myself say from somewhere far away. The blood is rushing in my ears.
I set the plate down on the counter and pick up the fork. I slowly cut a piece of the scallop, ensuring it’s perfectly coated in sauce, and lift it toward her mouth.
She leans in, her eyes locked on mine, her lips parting as she takes the bite. I watch as she closes her mouth around the fork, and the sight of it — her lips around something I’m holding, her eyes never leaving mine — makes heat spike through my entire body.
She pulls the fork away slowly, and a small trace of sauce lingers at the corner of her mouth.
Her eyes close.
And I watch her face as she chews, completely transfixed. The small furrow that appears between her brows as she processes the flavors. The way her tongue darts out slightly to catch more of the sauce.
I stare intently at her throat as she swallows, watching the delicate line of muscle work.
Then her eyes open.
And she makes this sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan that goes straight through me like an electric current, settling low in my gut and lighting every nerve ending on fire.
“Callum,” she breathes, my name a mixture of reverence and longing.
I reach out, my thumb swiping across her lip, catching the sauce. Her breath hitches, and I can see the pulse throbbing at her throat, wild and rapid. Each beat echoing the electricity swirling between us.
And I know — I know this is a bad idea. I know I’m going to get my heart broken again. I know it with absolute certainty. It’s like knowing the sun will rise tomorrow.
She’s going to leave. She’s going to move on to the next best thing, the next city, the next opportunity, the way she always does. And I’m going to be left here, in this kitchen, in this restaurant, exactly where I’ve always been. With nothing but memories and the ghost of her in every corner.
I know all of that.
My mind races, screaming at me to stop, to pull back and protect myself. But I ignore it.
I lean in slowly, giving her a chance to stop me, before capturing her lips with mine. The kiss ignites a wildfire through me that burns away every logical thought I’ve ever had.
Her lips are soft and taste like brown butter and lemon, and she makes another one of those sounds against my mouth, and it destroys whatever remaining sense I had left.
My hands come up to frame her neck, thumbs at her jawline. My fingers slowly slide into her hair. It’s as soft as I remember, silky and thick. She responds instantly, her mouth opening under mine, deepening the kiss, her fingers curling into my shirt, pulling me closer.
There’s no testing the waters or gentle exploration to see if this is okay. It’s desperate and hungry and years of want condensed into this single moment. I want to lose myself in her, in this moment where nothing else matters but us.
I walk her backward, not breaking the kiss, until her back hits the prep counter, and she gasps against my mouth, the sound breathy and sweet. I take the opportunity to deepen the kiss further, my hands sliding down to her waist, feeling the warmth of her body beneath my fingers.
She goes willingly, her body arching into me, and I memorize every detail.
The way her skin feels under my fingers.
The way she tastes. The small desperate noises she makes.
I want to pull every single one of those sounds out of her and keep them forever.
I want to remember it all because I know this moment is rare. I know it might be all I get.
Her hands slide up my chest, fingers splaying wide like she’s trying to touch as much of me as possible. Then they’re in my hair, tugging slightly, and the small spike of pain mixed with pleasure makes me groan against her mouth.
“Cal,” she breathes, and hearing my name like that, wrecked and wanting, unleashes a wave of desire in me I’ve been keeping locked down for months.
I pull back just enough to look at her.
Her lips are already swollen, kiss-bruised and bright red and parted as she tries to catch her breath. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown so wide there’s barely any color left. Her hair is a mess from my hands. That sweater is exposing so much skin, and I want to put my mouth on every inch of it.
She looks completely undone.
And we’ve barely started.
“In this kitchen,” I say, my voice coming out rough, “that’s not what you call me.”
Her breath catches, but her eyes sparkle with mischief and a memory. “What?” she whispers, but her head falls back like she’s already surrendering. Her throat is exposed, and her body leans into me.
I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of her ear as I slide my hand to the back of her neck. “You know exactly what to call me.” My fingers curl into her hair, holding her in place, and I feel her shiver against me.
“Say it,” I murmur against her pulse point, my lips moving against the rapid flutter there.
Her breath hitches, and she’s silent for a moment. Then, so quietly I almost don’t hear it, she whimpers, “Yes, Chef.”
That word ignites a fire in me, and I can’t hold back. I press my lips to her jaw, moving slowly down her neck, tasting the salt on her skin. She exhales a shaky breath, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
“Again,” I demand, my voice thick with need.
“Yes, Chef.” Her voice is a sultry whisper as she leans into me, her body craving more.
I slide my hand from her neck to her jaw, tilting her face up toward mine and smile against her lips.
“Good girl.”
I kiss her again, harder this time, and she responds immediately.
Her mouth opens under mine, her tongue meeting mine, and it’s everything I’ve been imagining for weeks.
Months. Years. Every late night in Paris when we’d study together and I’d watch her bite her lip in concentration.
Every text message after we graduated where I’d read between the lines, looking for signs she felt the same way.
Every day since she walked back into my life and turned it upside down.
I slide my hands along her waist, fingers brushing under her sweater, inching it higher. She arches into my touch, a wordless plea for more.
“This needs to come off,” I say against her mouth, tugging at the hem of her sweater.
She pulls back just enough to let me pull it over her head. Her arms lift, hair falling everywhere, and then the sweater is gone, tossed somewhere behind me, and she’s in a simple black bra and leggings and nothing else.
I have to take a second to just look at her.
She’s lean with defined shoulders and arms from years of working in kitchens. Her skin is pale and smooth, and I can see her heart hammering in her chest, the rapid rise and fall of her breathing making her breasts move with each inhale.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she says, but there’s no real protest in her voice.
“Like what?”
“Like —” She stops and swallows hard. “Like you want to —”
“I do want to.” I step closer again, my hands finding her waist immediately, feeling how perfectly she fits in my palms. “I’ve wanted to for years. You know that.”
“Cal.”
I raise an eyebrow “What did I just say?”
Her breath hitches again, her pupils dilating further. “Chef.”
“Better.”
I lift her onto the prep table in one fluid motion, and she lets me, her body pliant. She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me closer instinctively, like her body knows exactly what to do.
“This is insane,” she breathes, but she’s already pulling me back down to kiss her.
“Probably.”
“We shouldn’t.”
“I know.”
“Someone could —”
“Everyone’s gone.” I kiss along her jaw. “It’s just us.”
“But —”
“Vivi.” I pull back just enough to look at her. “Do you want me to stop?”
Her chest is heaving, her skin flushed. Her hands are on my shoulders, fingers pressing hard enough that I’ll probably have marks tomorrow. I hope I do. I want the evidence of this — of her — on my skin.
“No,” she breathes. “Don’t stop.”
“Then stop thinking.”
I kiss along her jaw and down her throat, taking my time now. She tilts her head back to give me access. Her pulse is racing under my lips, her skin salty-sweet. When I reach the hollow of her collarbone, I bite down gently, and she gasps, her legs tightening around me, her back arching.
“Cal!”
I stop immediately, pulling back to look at her with a smirk. Waiting.
She catches on, her eyes widening slightly, then darkening. “Chef,” she purrs, correcting herself.
“Such a good girl.”
My hands slide up her back, feeling the way her muscles move under my palms, the delicate bumps of her spine, the way her shoulder blades shift when she moves.
She’s trembling slightly, and I don’t know if it’s from nerves or want or both, but it makes me gentle my touch just a fraction, slow down even though every instinct is screaming at me to go faster, take more, claim every inch of her.
“You’re shaking,” I murmur against her throat.
“I know.”
“Nervous?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Her hands slide down my chest, fingers tracing the lines of ink on my arms with a reverence that makes my breath catch. “I’ve thought about this. About you. For so long.”
The admission hits me square in the chest and steals the air from my lungs.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She pulls my shirt over my head, and I let her. I let her pull it off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor somewhere behind me, forgotten.
Then her hands are on my chest, exploring with a hunger that matches my own. Tracing the lines of muscle. Her fingers find the tattoos on my arms again. She slowly traces the patterns there like she’s trying to memorize them by touch.
“I’ve wanted to do this,” she murmurs, her voice low and almost awed, “every time I see you in the kitchen when you roll up your sleeves and I can see these.”
She looks up at me, a small smile playing at her lips, as she pulls me back down to kiss her.
I kiss her slower this time, less desperate. Taking my time to learn her again and to figure out what makes her gasp and what makes her melt against me. What makes those small sounds catch in her throat.