My wish is fulfilled a minute later, when his hips slam into mine, a low groan escaping his mouth. He stills, his hands holding me tight, his face glorious as his orgasm overtakes him. At that moment I realise I could spend my whole life watching Callum Ferguson come.
It takes a moment or two for him to recover, but when he does, he pulls out of me, gently lowering me to the floor. A thin, white line of semen rolls down my inner thigh, and he watches it, licking his lips.
“That might be the sexiest thing I've seen,” he says, his eyes still trained on my leg. “I might have to make you eat dinner just like that.” He presses his finger to my thigh, spreading the wetness, then moves his hand up until he presses the pad against my mouth.
“Lick,” he orders. For some reason I do exactly as I'm told, peeking my tongue out. His fingers tastes salty and wet—a curious mixture of him and me—and I suck it into my mouth.
“Are you trying to turn me on again?” he asks gruffly. “Because it's fucking working.”
I smile. “No, I'm just bloody starving.”
We spend the next few minutes cleaning up in his bathroom. He washes me gently with a flannel, lingering on my thighs, and pulls my skirt down, trying fruitlessly to smooth out the creases. His trousers are already fastened, but I'm pleased to see they look as messed up as my clothes.
The other thing I notice—which surprises me—is the lack of awkwardness between us. We talk easily as we leave the bathroom, laughing and giggling, and I love the way everything slots together so perfectly.
Pun absolutely intended.
Callum returns to peeling potatoes and chopping onions, passing me the glass of wine he poured out before we were distracted. I sit at the small glass table in the corner of his kitchen, sipping Sancerre and admiring the way his bottom looks beneath the dark blue wool of his trousers.
“I should have asked you about birth control,” he says, slicing a red pepper into thin strips. “Although the words 'closing the stable door' and 'after the horse has bolted' spring to mind.”
“Did you just compare yourself to a stallion?” I tease, still shocked by my lack of embarrassment. I remember how things were with Luke, when I could barely bring myself to say the word 'condom'. “And I'm on the pill, thanks for asking.”
He turns around, knife still in hand, and fixes me a grin. “It's not my fault you're so fucking gorgeous I lose all common sense.”
I roll my eyes. “The excuse of stupid men everywhere. This is why the planet's overpopulated.”
He frowns. “Because you're gorgeous?”
“No!” I protest, laughing. “Stop trying to sweet talk me. All I'm saying is that birth control is a two-way thing. I knew I was covered, but you...”
“I just wanted to see me dripping down your legs,” he says, his pleasant tone belying the dirtiness of his words. “And yes, I'm an idiot for not talking about protection before, but for the record I'm clean. I wouldn't put you in any danger.”
I soften. “I'm clean, too.” I made sure of it after seeing the photo of Luke with that girl. “For what it's worth.”
Even when he turns back to resume chopping, I can tell he's smiling from the tone of his voice. “Not from where I'm standing, babe. Everything you've done tonight suggests you're very fucking dirty indeed.”
21
I'm not sure what wakes me up. Perhaps a strange middle-of-the-night creak, or the shaft of lamplight that sneaks through the velvet drapes covering Callum's sash windows. Whatever it is, I roll over in his unfamiliar bed, frowning when all I come in contact with is a cold, empty mattress.
It takes another moment to realise what's wrong. I'm used to sleeping alone—especially after breaking up with Luke—but I'm not used to doing it in a strange man's bed. I rub my eyes with balled-up fists, trying to wipe away the thick sleep that sticks my lids together.
“Callum?” The air is frigid enough to make me shiver. I pull the sheet around my chest, but the cotton does little to stave off the cold.
There's no answer. As my eyes adjust to the gloom, I realise he's not in here, and swing my legs around until my feet hit the wooden floor.
I pick up a t-shirt and pull it over my head, unwilling to walk naked through his house. It doesn't matter that we spent half the night unclothed and glistening with sweat, because right now, I feel vulnerable.
The hallway echoes to the sound of my bare feet slapping against the floor. A strange wistfulness weighs me down like a heavy blanket. I come to a stop in the doorway of the living room and look around, spotting him sitting in the large, leather wingback chair that's placed next to the open fireplace. He has a glass of whisky in his hand, the ice tinkling as he circles it around, and there’s a serious look on his face.
A long minute passes until he notices me. His eyes rake up and down, taking in the thin, white t-shirt that's scarcely decent, and my bare thighs that emerge from the hem. Though there's a melancholy expression on his face, there’s also a fire behind his eyes.
We stare at each other for longer than is comfortable. It's awkward yet compelling, pinking my cheeks and sending a shot of desire through my body. Then—almost without thinking—I walk across the room.
“I woke up and you were gone,” I say, my voice wavering. “I didn't know where you were.”
His thick, dark lashes brush his cheeks as he swallows the final mouthful of his whisky. “I had a bad dream.”