32. Callie Rae
Callie Rae
The bungalow is cozy, wood paneling framing the living room and adjacent kitchen nook. A plaid sectional sits across from the simple fireplace. A small, wooden dining table is stationed on the other side of the wall divider.
Brant drops our duffle bags on the carpet of the living area. His lack of words is just as fragrant as it was on the drive here.
“Have you stayed here before?” I ask, stripping my cardigan off.
I inch toward the dining chair, and he travels in my direction. “I typically stay with my mom,” he answers. “Sleep in my old bedroom.”
I turn to follow him down the short hallway. We’re popping through the bedroom door, and Brant clicks the rocker beside the threshold frame.
A muted glow encompasses the vacant space. The head of the king-sized bed is parked against the right wall, a vintage dresser across from it.
My hands meet in front of my belly, throat rolling when he continues to walk inside. He opens the beige curtains on the sliding glass doors, exposing the silhouettes of trees lining the open yard.
“What’s on your mind?” I finally probe.
He turns to stroll to the dresser, plucking his keys and wallet out of his jeans pocket. “Callie, do yourself a favor and don’t ask questions.”
He rapidly shoots the response out, his tone brisk. Metal clanks against the dense wood as he plops his belongings down.
I shrug, lifting my hands and dropping them to my sides. “I’m just supposed to stand here and remain mute? I don’t get it.”
“Yeah, that’d be ideal,” he fires back, opening his wallet to take a quick inventory.
My eyes burn with the sting of his curt attitude. I rock my gaze up and down the length of his tall stature. “I can tell you’re upset,” I offer over a stammering breath. “Just let me he—”
The leather of his wallet smacks the top of the dresser. “How are you gonna help? Huh?”
Flames scorch his slitted eyes as he walks closer to me, vaporizing those golden flecks to ashes.
“You gonna turn back time and make my mom immune to alcoholism? Make your daddy a stand-up father?” My throat constricts as I absorb his lashing, each whip of his words stabbing me with blunt force.
“You gonna encourage me not to resent her so damn much? This way, when I’m twenty-eight years old, I won’t have to regret all the fucking time I missed with her?
Huh? Is that what you’re gonna do, Callie? Magically become a miracle worker?”
His dark brows crease. The skin between them is etched with deep wrinkles, and he pierces me with his stare.
I shake my head, my lungs thirsty for oxygen. And my next words travel through a broken whisper. “No, I understand. I-I just want to help.”
He gapes his eyes in mortification, leaning in. “You understand?”
His question is mocking as his features screw tighter with offense. Agony is embedded in every crease of his face, the sight clobbering my heart to bits.
His hands lift between us, his teeth grinding as he seethes out the rest of his admission. “I have your daddy’s blood on my hands, Callie. Every goddamn day, I can still feel the warmth. The sticky texture. It stabs me like a thousand knives when I’m back here. Every. Fucking. Time.”
My tears flood when he darts an arm down between us.
“And for once, I just wanted you to be there in these last ten years.” His arm punches down more intensely. “To reassure me it’s okay.” Punch. “To reassure me you don’t hate me!”
Salty droplets sprout from my eyes, my palms grazing his hoodie. “Brant,” I hush.
He calms for an instant, cementing his stare to me as his breath wobbles. “Instead, you were too busy accepting a ring from a man who wasn’t me.” His head shakes. “Who wasn’t me, Cal,” he echoes roughly.
His words are like a chainsaw to my soul.
I reach for him, but he swats my hands away. His broad chest thrashes with impending rage as he whips his head to the side. “No, I don’t want to look at you,” he mutters. “I can’t look at you right now.”
Tears sprinkle his gorgeous eyes, and I fight to swallow as I reach for him again.
His palms nudge mine, his body pivoting from me. He avoids my stare at all costs, his breath shredding. “Callie, get away from me,” he warns. “I can’t look at you.”
I manage to lock my arm around his stomach, and his palm clutches me there. His chin swoops to the ceiling, his eyes crinkling shut as he licks his lips. His grip on me fastens, the wrath brewing inside him threatening to demolish this entire room.
Including me.
But I’m not scared.
I’m not scared at all.
He drops his chin, his attention dodged from me. The glaze in his irises vacuums out, his jaw ticking with bitterness.
My chest pounds with sorrow, my head rotating to the side as I unlatch ripe tears. We’re locked in an embrace we’ve never fell into.
It’s a first for us.
I thought we experienced all our firsts in Willowhart, but I was wrong.
Trauma bleeds from both of us, pooling between our bodies. Until we’re left paralyzed in the middle of a room. But this time, there’re no pine trees to run off to. There’s nowhere to dance. There’s nowhere to pop a burned CD in.
Just two adults with a child trapped in each one of them.
Begging to be set free.
Begging for us to let their love be wild and reckless.
Brant’s palm on my forearm massages me. His eyes hood as he inhales, and I turn into him. I place my free hand on his shoulder, my head nudging his firm bicep in a desperate plea.
The air swings from glacial to boiling. Our trauma drains from our bated breaths to dangle in the heavy atmosphere.
With a hunger.
For retribution.
Redemption.
My hand squeezes his shoulder. He slides his palm down my arm to tangle our fingers, and a gasp ejects from me.
His digits are coarse, harshly kneading between mine. I train my eyes to the dark wood floor, toeing my shoes off.
Our darkest secrets were shoveled out today. The scraps of them dust over us in this tiny room. Familiar pain courses through my veins, and it packs them so tight that my organs can barely function.
Unless I filter it out.
I have to filter it out.
So does he.
I peel from him to idle at the foot of the bed. My pulse sprints when I gently bunch the hem of my dress in fists. I glue my eyes to the headboard, focusing on my mission, and Brant pads over to the sliding doors.
He glides the curtains together, and I swallow over a fat lump. “I’m not looking at you,” I hush. “You don’t have to look at me.”
I yelp when his steel arm curls around my stomach.
He plants my back to his firm chest, and his words douse gasoline on the simmering flames.
“You were about to show your ass to every hungry onlooker.” His stubble brushes my ear, the contact pebbling my nipples to sharpened points beneath my dress. “I don’t like that,” he whispers.
A short breath wedges out of me. “N-no.”
“No?” he bites back. His palms harshly knead the underside of my tits. “You just want to be a tight, little hole for me tonight? Huh?”
“Yes.”
He swivels my body around, stripping his arms away after. I glance up at him, his face taut when his hands fiddle with his belt buckle.
His gaze is stitched to mine. He unloops the leather strap, his brown lashes framing his beady gaze. Dominance radiates from his irises, and my panties saturate with need.
“Then I don’t know why you’re still standing,” he says.
Like a dog to a bone, I sink to my knees. The rippled wood chafes them, but the discomfort is a fleeting afterthought.
He springs his hard dick from his boxer briefs and jeans. I look up at him expectantly, my palms resting on the denim around his thick thighs.
“Get it wet.” He jerks himself a few times, and I wrap my lips around the velvet tip. I swirl my tongue around the smooth flesh, a hiss breaking free from his parted mouth.
“That’s cute, Cal,” he breathes, his voice worn.
My eyes flash with confusion, his nostrils mildly flaring.
“Spit on it.”
He grits the demand out, his challenge planting courage in my bloodstream. I tip my tight jaw upward, giving him a show as I swivel my sealed mouth around.
His stare is ravenous, his free fingers resting tenderly under my chin. He watches my lips fiddle together, and once I collect enough saliva, I chuck the wad of spit onto his huge cock.
“Good girl,” he purrs. His lips part while he rubs his lathered dick. “Come on, paint me with that berry lipstick.”
My fingers curl around the base of him, and I slide my hungry lips over his steel length. I connect my eyes to his as I bob up and down, smearing my saliva with the motions.
His teeth rest on his lower lip until he’s whispering. “Fuucckk.”
He scoops my hair in his hands, gathering it into a ponytail as I continue to suck him. His mouth hangs open, glints of ecstasy firing off behind his hazel eyes.
Then he begins to pump into me.
“Yeah, that’s it. Right there, Cal,” he coaxes. “Show me how much you want this cock filling up that perfect cunt of yours. I bet you’re dripping right now while sucking me off.”
I moan, the hum vibrating around his dick. My inner thighs glue together with my arousal, and he forces me to take him deeper.
My drool thickens underneath my chin, his belt jingling with every thrust he delivers. I barely breathe through my nose when the tip of his dick taps the back of my throat. The light smack jolts my gag reflex into action, but I only fasten my lips to him.
His lower lip dangles when he catches my chest heave. He pegs that same spot a couple more times, my gurgles muffling with my drool.
A string of saliva dribbles from my lip, and he unravels my hair. The pads of his fingers tap my wet chin, his mercy kicking in. “Take a breath,” he orders.
I release him to follow the command, wiping my coated chin. He lifts the hem of his hoodie, my eyes tracking him as he strips the garment.
“I didn’t say stop,” he rasps.
I fist him, licking the underside of his shaft. His rippled torso feeds my vision, his taut and olive skin on divine display. My pussy pulses, and the ache grows thunderous. Spurring me to suck him harder.
Faster.