“Okay then.” I open the car door and hop out onto the dull-grey pavement, sucking in a lungful of fresh air. Though the sun hasn’t yet gone down, the moon is already out, an orphan half-visible in the wide blue expanse. I look at it for a moment, feeling somehow insignificant, but then Callum grabs my hand and we walk towards his house.
It feels strange, holding hands with him. His fingers weave through mine and his thumb brushes the inner skin of my wrist, and nice turns altogether dirtier.
I'm not sure why his hands fascinate me so much. It's not as if he uses them for much more than typing on a keyboard, yet they're strong and long and when I look at them I can't help but remember what they did to me that night.
In his house.
This house.
Oh God.
“Hang your coat up there,” he says when we've walked into the hallway, pointing at a row of hooks. “I'll go and open a bottle of something and get started on dinner.”
“Good, I'm starving.” I've recovered my equilibrium enough to give him a cheeky grin. “Hop to it.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he calls from the kitchen, then under his breath he mutters, “Cheeky bitch.”
“Oi, I heard that.”
“You were supposed to,” he replies, good humour lacing his voice. “Because you are a cheeky wee bitch.”
“Wee?” I walk into his kitchen, my eyes raised. “Did you really just call me 'wee'? I'm not sure whether to be more offended by that, or the way you're a walking stereotype.”
He puts down his knife, gently laying it on the chopping board. There's a glint in his narrowed eyes, a playful anger that sets my heart racing. Then slowly, deliberately, he walks towards me.
I back up until my hips are pressed against his black granite work surface. A minute later, he’s against my front as he towers above me, so tall it feels like I'm craning my neck.
When he's this close it makes it hard to breathe. Though I'd never admit it, he does make me feel 'wee'.
“What?” I manage to get out.
The corner of his lip flickers, but otherwise his expression remains neutral. I wait for him to say something, but instead he stares, his dark-green eyes never wandering from my face. A lump forms in my throat, big and rough.
After a long moment, he wraps his hands around my waist and lifts me until I'm sitting on the work surface. Though the granite feels cold through the fabric of my skirt I don’t complain, because all I can think of is the way he's pressing his hips into mine, and the long, hard ridge of his cock.
“What are you doing?” I murmur.
“This.” He pushes again, the movement sending a thrill that makes my toes curl. Then his hand is on my chin, tipping it up until our lips meet. He pushes his tongue inside the seam of my lips at the same time as I wrap my legs around his back. We're kissing and rocking, hands everywhere they shouldn't be, the only sound in the room our loud, embarrassing gasps.
Callum stands straight, his hands underneath my bottom. For a second I think he's going to turn around and carry me into his bedroom, but instead he pushes his hand under the hem of my skirt, his fingers seeking out my warmth. He slides one inside me, then two, his thumb pressing against me in the most delicious way. I close my eyes tightly, my thighs flexing like a clamp around his hips.
“Amy,” he whispers. I barely hear him. Blood rushes through my ears like a swollen river. I rock my hips, creating a rhythm that matches my heartbeat, unashamedly riding his fingers as my body reacts to his touch. Then he fumbles for his zip, releasing his hard, pulsing cock, and I reach for it. The next minute I'm pulling my knickers to the side, guiding him until his tip is brushing against my slickness. He pushes
until I open up for him.
Callum steadies me, his hands holding me firmly, lifting me up and down until we're both panting loudly, breathing into each other as we kiss. I can feel the pleasure building and swirling at the pit of my stomach, radiating out with every thrust. Though we're both dressed—my skirt ruched around my waist, his trousers pooled at his feet—my nipples are hard enough to press through my thin bra and blouse, rubbing against his muscles.
That's when I feel it. The crescendo. The high. It takes me over, cell by cell, until I feel like I'm melting into him. Electricity courses through me, fizzing at my skin, and I freeze in his arms. My mouth is open and my voice silent as I ride the sensual, dizzying wave.
“Amy,” he says again, his lips trailing down my throat, nipping at my skin. “You feel fucking amazing when you come on me.”
He waits for my orgasm to settle before he moves again, reigniting the flame I thought had gone out. I squeeze around him and he moans, his thrusts becoming erratic and hard, and I can tell by the way his breath stutters that he's reaching his peak.
“Callum,” I whisper in his ear. “I want to feel you come inside me.”
He groans and angles his hips, fingers tightening on my behind, pressing in so hard I know he's going to leave marks. But I don't care, because nothing else matters apart from his pleasure, so I squeeze him tight until he mutters against my chest.
“Fuck, shit, fuck I'm going to come.” His accent broadens, as if he can't even control that. His eyes are shut, his lips swollen and red, and all I want is to see his expression when he lets go.