Chapter 3
Calla
I can’t shake him.
I stop for a moment, half expecting him to be there—standing in the hallway like he’s been waiting for me. But the thought is ridiculous. I push it away, press two fingers to the bridge of my nose, and take a deep breath, trying to get my shit together.
And just as I start to move forward again, a hand closes around my wrist.
Before I can react, he tugs me off balance and pulls me through a doorway. My shoulder bumps the frame as I stumble, breath catching as I fall into him.
The door slams shut behind me, plunging the room into shadow. As my eyes adjust, details of a small office come into view: crumpled papers scattered across a desk, a worn leather chair, the air thick with dust.
I inch backward until I hit the door, my purse slipping from my shoulder and landing on the floor with a soft thud.
He steps toward me, bracing his palms against the door on either side of me. Caging me in—close, but not touching. My pulse thunders in my ears, my breathing uneven as he leans in, closing the distance until there’s nothing left.
“Hi, pretty girl.”
His voice is low, almost lazy, but it wraps around me like smoke. My eyes lift before I can stop them, drawn to his—dark and quietly intense, piercing yet somehow unreadable.
He closes the space between us, slow and sure, until his breath brushes against my cheek. I shiver as heat pools under my skin, and an ache settles deep in my bones.
He tilts his head, studying me like he’s turning me over in his mind, piece by piece.
“Well, don’t go quiet on me now,” he murmurs.
I’m still trying to catch my breath. His presence is warm and quiet, controlling in a way that’s impossible to ignore.
My lips part, but no words come out.
“What’s your name?”
“C-Calla,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. I drop my gaze, unable to hold the intensity of his stare. I force a breath, trying to steady the rapid beating of my heart, but his presence is dizzying.
“Calla James,” I add, quieter this time, like it’s a secret meant only for him.
He inhales slowly, like he’s committing it to memory.
“Calla,” he repeats, my name settling on his tongue like a claim.
I lift my gaze, and whatever I’d meant to say disappears the moment our eyes meet.
“Did you like the drink I made for you?” he asks. His eyes drop to my mouth. “Did it taste good, Calla? ”
“Yes.” The word comes out breathless.
He shifts even closer, bracing his forearm above me on the door. His other hand hangs at his side, fingers twitching like he’s holding himself back. The space between us hums, and I struggle to take a full breath.
His gaze dips, tracing the slow rhythm of my chest, rising and falling with each breath. When his eyes meet mine again, something flashes through them. It’s quiet but laced with intent.
My eyes flutter closed as his fingertips graze my thigh—light, teasing, almost curious. The touch ignites a fire in me, and my heart kicks harder, betraying any effort to mask my response.
When I finally open my eyes, his mouth curves slightly. Not a smirk, but a knowing shift, like he feels it too.
“What did it taste like?” he whispers, his fingers drifting over me in slow, maddening strokes. “Describe it to me.”
I swallow. “I don’t know… soft. A little smoky. Kind of…” My voice falters. “Forbidden.”
His fingers trail higher, up my thigh, skimming the curve of my hip before settling into a firm grip at my waist. Daring me to deny what we both already know.
His head dips, mouth hovering only inches from mine. “Can I taste it?”
Before I can even process the question, his mouth crashes onto mine—fierce, taking, all heat and hunger. It’s a storm, pulling me under without warning. The rest of the world disappears, and in this moment, there’s only him. His hands. His mouth. His body pressed against mine.
He pushes in closer, grinding against me, and a soft moan slips from my lips.
It’s something reckless. Something sinful.
He tastes like whiskey and mint, fire and ice. I’m swept up in it, lost in the way his lips move against mine, and I kiss him back like I might die if I don’t.
His hands slide up, framing my face, thumbs brushing softly over my cheekbones. He holds me there, like he’s not just kissing me, but keeping me.
I can’t stop myself from reaching for him.
My hands start tentative, then grow bolder, tracing the hard lines of his chest, the heat of his skin bleeding through his shirt.
He draws in a sharp breath when my fingers skim his collarbone, and a low, rough sound rumbles in his chest, sending a tremor through me.
I break the kiss, gasping for air. And that’s when I see it again—the tattoo.
I don’t mean to touch it. But my fingers move before I think, tracing the line like muscle memory I shouldn’t have.
And everything stops.
His body goes still, but his breath is broken, like he’s fighting just to stay afloat. He steps back slowly, and for a split second, something that looks a lot like pain flashes across his face.
His hands fall to his sides, fingers curling into fists like it’s the only thing keeping him together.
When he finally speaks, his voice is tense.
“You should go.”
I blink, frozen in place as confusion and humiliation crash into me. “I—”
Disappointment rolls off him in waves. The way he backs away, hands thrown up like he’s done trying, makes my throat tighten.
“Please,” he says, voice strained. Just one word, but it leaves no room.
I shrink beneath his stare, my face burning with shame. My body moves clumsily, stumbling over my own feet in my rush to leave.
Snatching my bag from the floor, fingers fumbling with the strap, I bolt from the office and rush down the hallway, barely registering the people I pass or the stares that follow. The bar blurs around me, a haze of noise and light, until I’m outside—the cold air hitting my face like a slap.
At the car, I throw the door open, drop into the seat, and slam it shut behind me. His scent is still there, thick in the air, clinging to my clothes and skin. It wraps around me and squeezes, aching like a bruise I can’t stop pressing.
Even now, I can’t escape him.
I sit there for a moment, frozen, unsure if I can even drive. The alcohol should still be in my system, but all I feel is the sting of his rejection.
My hands shake against the steering wheel, knuckles white, throat tight with everything I didn’t say out loud.
When I finally make it home, everything feels too tight—my skin, my chest, this life. My heart’s still racing, caught in a carousel of emotions that won’t stop spinning.
I kick off my shoes and they land with a dull rattle, knocking against the dirty dishes in the sink. But I can’t bring myself to care about the mess.
I crawl into bed, my body still simmering with an uncomfortable heat. The sheets feel too rough, the room too quiet. I close my eyes, willing sleep to come, but my mind won’t settle.
How did everything go so wrong so fast?
I pull the blanket tighter around me, like it might shield me from the memory of his hands, his mouth, his eyes. But sleep comes fitfully, broken only by the soft whirr of the ceiling fan and the first tear that slips down my cheek.