FORTY-EIGHT
JORDIE
My brain is currently running two unhelpful programs, and neither has an off switch.
One: questioning why I ever thought emerald green lingerie was a good idea.
Two: replaying in unnecessarily high definition, the exact moment Callum rolled his sleeves up his forearms. Slow. Sinful. Looking at me like I’m dinner, dessert, and the mint on the pillow after.
Which means—let’s be honest here—I’m about to get thoroughly, absolutely fucked.
Because I asked for it.
Seriously. What possessed me to say that?
Some kind of horny ghost of confidence past?
Because I walked away from Callum like some femme fatale in a low-budget thriller.
And now, I’m standing under the too-bright bathroom light, staring at myself in strappy, sheer, and delicate lace, wondering if I’ve gone proper insane.
And it terrifies me. Because I can’t need him. Not when I’ve learned exactly what it costs to want someone too much.
My fingertips skim over the places where my scars vanish into the intricate lace, and the sensation moves through me like a slow pull on a wire. I close my eyes, breathing past the fear gathering sharp and fluttering in my middle.
I am not pieces.
I am not too much.
I am whole.
At least for tonight.
When I open my eyes, I take one last look in the mirror.
Reach for the door. Turn the handle.
And step back into the fire I lit.
Callum’s just there—sitting on the edge of my bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
His head lifts. Gaze skimming my face, then drops. And stays. The emerald lace doesn’t get a once-over. It gets studied. Memorized. His eyes track every inch like I’m a live wire he’s about to touch on purpose.
I look away. Cowardly. Because apparently standing in lingerie is fine until someone sees you in it.
My skin’s on fire. My thoughts are a scatterplot. It’s not regret. Not even doubt. It’s just a tidal wave of shyness I did not anticipate.
“Look at me,” he says. Not harsh. Not even commanding.
My eyes snap back to his like he’s the only fixed point in the room.
He stands, unhurried. Unbuttons his shirt—one button, then another, then another.
“You’re too stunning,” he says, voice wrapped in silk. “Too breathtaking to be hiding from me.”
Somehow, that pulls my spine straight. My chin tips up. Shoulders square. I meet his eyes without flinching.
His smile curves, pleased. “There she is.”
He steps toward me. My arms cross, self-protection masquerading as poise.
“If we do this,” I whisper, the words barely a thread of sound, “we don’t talk about what it might mean . . . okay?”
His hands come to mine, unfolding them gently.
“I know,” he says. Weighted. Something unspoken. A quiet ache of “I’ll play by your rules, even if the playground’s made of glass shards.”
And I hate it.
But this is what I have. This version of me. The one that knows how to want, but not how to keep. The one that doesn’t drag people down with her.
Then—fear, doubt, logic—flies out the window in the first slide of his mouth over mine. He kisses me like he’s done waiting. Hard. Hot. All tongue and teeth and no room to breathe.
His hands move with the reverence of someone writing a love letter on my skin, but the ink is fire and need. Like every second he wasn’t touching me was some kind of mistake.
He crowds me back until my spine hits the edge of my bookcase. Books rattle. I don’t care. His hands are already on me—gripping my ass, pulling me into him, like he needs more contact than skin can give.
The lace does nothing to protect me. His thumbs find my nipples through the thin fabric and roll, rough, until I whimper.
His fingers slip under the delicate straps crossing my chest. One tug, testing.
“What do you want me to do with this again, Jordie?” he teases, all sharp-edged.
I swallow. “Rip it off.”
One brutal tear. Shoulder to sternum. The fabric splits. Falls. I’m left gasping, half-naked, heart in my throat.
He steps back just long enough to look. Hungry. Almost pissed off about it.
“That asshole missed out,” he says, heat in voice. I know he means Alec. But he smiles, wicked. “Oh well . . .”
His mouth clamps around my nipple—wet, hot. Deep suck, tongue flicking, lips tugging. His other hand pinches the opposite peak, a sharp twist that makes my knees go soft and my mouth fall open.
I arch into him.
My body knows who it belongs to.
His mouth moves down. Wet, open-mouthed kisses trail across my ribs, my stomach. Each one scorches hot. Each one leaves a slick trace that turns cold the second he moves on.
The contrast makes me shiver.
And he notices. Smiles against my skin like he’s proud of it.
He drops to his knees. Broad shoulders between my thighs. Warm lips. Dark eyes promising worship and ruin in the same breath.
He kisses just below my navel. A slow drag of his tongue.
“Callum—” a plea disguised as his name.
He smirks against my skin. “Patience, sweetheart.”
A kiss to my hip. Another, lower, inside my thigh.
His fingers hook the waistband of my panties.
“What should I do with this, Jordie?”
His voice is a cocktail of cruel and sweet. He already knows the answer. He just wants to hear me beg for it.
When I don’t respond, he presses his thumb over the fabric. Rough. Right on my clit.
My fist over my mouth does nothing to suppress the feral sounds coming out of my throat.
“I can’t hear you over all that moaning, sweetheart.” His thumb circles again—featherlight this time. “Say it again.”
“R-rip it off,” I finally manage.
He doesn’t hesitate. Just grabs the waistband in both hands and tears. One brutal pull, and the fabric splits down. Gone. He tosses the ruined lace aside like it bored him.
“Fuck, Jordie,” he rasps. His fingers part my slick folds. Slides up. Down. Up. “You’re so wet for me.”
My cunt clenches over nothing. Empty. Throbbing.
He groans under his breath. “Open wider.”
My legs move on command.
Then his mouth is on me. Tongue—hot, slick, exact. Flicking fast, then pressing flat, then sucking hard.
My knees buckle, and my hand shoots up to the shelf for balance. I suppress a whimper, pressing my lips together.
“Don’t hold it in, sweetheart,” he says, voice muffled against my cunt, tongue dragging in slow circles. “Let me hear how good I make you feel.”
I can’t stop the moan that spills from my lips when his fingers slip inside. Two, thick, curling deep. My hips rock into his mouth, greedy, shameless, chasing every drag of his tongue, every filthy suck, every perfect thrust of his fingers.
“Callum,” I gasp, voice fraying at the edges. “Please—fuck, please—”
He moans against me, tongue working harder. His fingers keep going. Pumping, curling, dragging pleasure from places I didn’t know I could feel.
Every nerve lights up and burns.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I just shatter.
My body locks, then unravels—hips jerking, fingers clawing his hair, thighs clamping around his head.
He stays down. Riding out the aftershocks between my legs where I’m soaked. Shaking. Wrung the fuck out.
“I could stay between your thighs all night, Jordie,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Watching you fall apart for me is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Then he stands. I pull him into a reckless kiss that’s all desperation, hands roaming over warm skin.
His shirt slips off—bare shoulders, taut chest, the kind of body that ruins sleep and common sense.
I fumble with his belt, impatient, frantic.
The buckle clicks free. Zipper lowers. Pants drop. Boxers follow.
He’s beautiful. Big. Hard. A storm wrapped in skin. Every line of him carved like temptation had a blueprint and followed it to the letter.
I stare. No point hiding it.
He runs a hand through his hair. “You’re leering.”
My fingers trail down his stomach. “Can’t a girl appreciate fine architecture?”
I scrape my nails lower. He hisses. I smirk.
Callum’s mouth crashes into mine. Hands grip my hips, walking me backward until my knees hit the bed.
“Turn around,” he says.
I climb on. Palms flat on the mattress. Spine arching.
“Good girl,” he murmurs behind me, his voice more gravel than silk now.
His hands coast over my sides, mouth branding heat down my spine.
He positions himself. The head of his cock nudging at my entrance. I’m already slick, open, aching—and when he pushes in, the stretch is sharp, exquisite, tangled with the most sinful ache as he fills me.
He bottoms out with a groan. “Fucking hell, Jordie.”
Then he starts to move.
Long, hard thrusts. A rhythm that leaves no room for anything but him. His hand grabs my hip, holding me steady as he grinds into me. Hard. Precise.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get over the way you feel,” he says, lips brushing my shoulder, sweet and scorching. “Tight as fuck. So goddamn wet.”
His hand slides down, fingers slick with my own cum.
Pressure builds fast. My clit throbs under his touch, his cock hitting that perfect spot again and again and again. His rhythm deepens, every thrust harder, sharper. Praise, promises, and curses tumble from his lips until I feel like I’m falling and flying all at once.
I come. Moaning. Begging. Rocking back onto him with every thrust, like I’ll die if I don’t.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he says. “Fucking beautiful like this.”
He holds my hips. Lets me chase it—ride it—until the spasms slow. Until the shaking stops. Until I’m nothing but a puddle of pleasure.
He leans down, breath hot against my cheek, lips brushing the corner of my mouth.
Gentle. Out of nowhere.
“I need to see you,” he says, voice low and wrecked. Not a demand. A request he barely gets out.
He shifts, guiding me beneath him with a care that shouldn’t feel this reverent after everything we’ve just done. His hands cradle my face like I’m a goddamn miracle. Like I’m not just skin and sex and sound—but mine, his, ours, whatever unspoken truth pulses between us.
He captures my lips in a kiss that’s achingly tender. Consuming. Affectionate. He fills me again, thrusting with a pace that is unhurried but no less devastating.
My chest burns with the words I won’t let myself say—I love you, I love you, I love you—but I bite my lip, like maybe pain can anchor me where the truth would undo me.
“Jordie.” My name sounds like it hurts to say. “I—”
His rhythm shifts. Sweat glistens along his brow, jaw clenched, eyes wild. I whisper his name, not even sure what I’m asking for. Just needing him closer. Here.
He breaks apart above me, every thrust rough and staggering. Then—he lets go. Completely. A final surge, deep and devastating, until all that’s left is the sound of his breath crashing against my skin.
We stay like that. Tangled limbs, shared breath, heartbeats thundering against each other.
I run my fingers through his hair. He kisses my shoulder—slow, soft, a full-body exhale in the shape of a touch.
He shifts to move, but I whisper, “Stay.”
A beat of silence.
He pauses.
Then his arms wrap around me tight.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says.
And I want to believe him.
God, I do.
The kitchen smells of coffee and toast—familiar, blissfully ordinary.
I stand at the counter, clinging to the comfort of routine like it’s a shield.
Mug. Mug. Spoon. Spoon. Sugar.
I shift my weight. My body is deliciously sore in all the right places, and every time I catch myself smiling, I rearrange something on the counter. Straighten the plates on the rack. Un-crinkle a napkin.
“Morning, House Mouse!” Leith’s voice rings out from the front door. “Saw Callum’s car in the driveway. Good thing he’s here early, because I brought victory croissants and—”
He stops cold. One takeaway coffee in hand. One pastry box. One very sharp look.
Gaze sweeping past me.
Callum descends the stairs—freshly showered, hair damp, shirt half-buttoned.
“Huh,” Leith says, setting the box down. “Didn’t realize early meant still here from last night.”
“Hey, mate!” Callum says, cheerful, casual, like he didn’t just come down the stairs wearing the afterglow of sin. “Congratulations!” He crosses the room and pulls Leith into a man-hug.
Leith doesn’t let go of the coffee. Or the stare.
“Thanks,” Leith says, eyes dropping from my bare feet to the second coffee mug on the counter. His jaw ticks, just slightly.
“That was brutal,” Callum says. “Harrow’s probably crying into his silk pillows.”
Leith’s lips curve, but it’s not quite a smile. “He won’t have pillows to cry into after this.”
Callum’s phone buzzes. He glances down and winces. “Sorry—” He reaches for the coffee I made him and shoots me a soft look that does too much in too little time.
Then he answers the call, voice switching clean into Mandarin as he paces my kitchen.
“Busy night, Rat?” Leith mutters, voice pointed. The kind that makes your skin crawl if you know him well enough.
Callum brushes past, his hand grazing my hip. He doesn’t break conversation when he murmurs to me, “Seen my wallet?”
“Here.” I grab it from the table, holding it out.
His fingers brush mine as he takes it, sending a quick “thanks” my way before slipping back into Mandarin.
Then a wink. Quick. Subtle. Not subtle at all.
Leith clocks all of it.
Doesn’t say anything. Just tears a croissant in half like it’s personally wronged him.
Callum ends the call a minute later.
“I’ve got to go,” he says, turning to me. His voice softens in that way it only ever does with me. “Working on something with a colleague in Singapore. Big trial on pain control.”
I blink. “Wait. Is this your QI thing?”
He nods. Crooked smile. “Early days. I’ll tell you when it’s real.”
I want to ask more. He doesn’t let me. He presses a kiss to my lips. It’s quick but firm enough to leave me blinking in its wake.
“See you later, sweetheart,” he says, then nods to Leith as he heads for the door. “Later, mate.”
The door clicks shut behind Callum. For a second, I pretend the silence that follows is just peaceful. But Leith’s presence in the kitchen has a dense weight. I keep stacking plates, willing my hands to stay busy.
“You and Callum,” Leith says eventually, voice deceptively light, “are you together-together?”
I don’t look up. “It’s not like that.”
“Alright,” he drawls, slower now. “So, it’s just fucking, then?”
My hand fumbles over a stack of plates, ceramic clinking too loudly against the others. I straighten it quickly, jaw tight. “You don’t get to say it that way.”
“I do,” he says. “Because I’m the one who’s going to have to pick up the pieces when you break his heart, or when he breaks yours.”
Beat.
“So, if ‘it’s not like that,’ Jordie . . .” Leith air-quotes, his voice dropping, “. . . then this needs to fucking stop.”