Taunting Callum (Big Sky Royal 3)

Her eyes go wide. “You should have said so!”

“No. You’re showing me what you love about this town, and this is a piece of that. I’m not a sweets person. But give me a bag of crisps, and I’ll eat the whole thing.”

“What’s your favorite kind of crisp?” she asks.

“I’m quite fond of the American barbeque ones,” I reply. “What’s next on our agenda?”

“I have one last place to take you.” She stands, and I join her, walking behind her to the door. She loses her grip on her handbag, and it falls to the floor. When she reaches down to retrieve it, her jeans rip, right down the crack of her arse.

She stops cold, then straightens, and I quickly move in to stand directly behind her as I take off my jumper and wrap it around her waist.

“Well, well,” I say into her ear, unable to keep the humor out of my voice as my cock stirs in my trousers. “You weren’t lying when you said you don’t wear knickers.”

She blows out a breath of disgust.

“It’s the manicotti,” she says. “I ate so much, my ass grew two sizes. I can’t believe that happened, especially in front of you.”

“Better in front of me than in front of some other bloke I’d have to tear into shreds for looking at your fine arse.” I pull my lips away from her ear and finish tying the jumper’s arms around her waist. “That should get you home.”

“Thank you.” She leads me out to her car. David’s brows climb when he sees my clothes wrapped around Aspen. She shrugs at him. “Change of plans, David. We’re headed back to my house.”

“Yes, miss.” He nods and follows us back to Aspen’s house. She hurries up the front steps, lets us inside, and turns to me.

“Make yourself at home. I’m just going to run and change my pants. It’s a bit drafty running around like this.”

I laugh and watch as she unties the jumper and tosses it to me, then turns and walks out of the room, her bare arse exposed.

I rub my hands over my face. Jesus, I want her. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I do Aspen Calhoun.

Rather than stomp down the hall behind her, toss her onto the bed, and have my wicked way with her, I look around her home. She has excellent taste in art and furniture. I wander down the wide hallway, admiring the artwork on the walls, and turn into her bedroom.

There isn’t just a splash of color. Color and texture are everywhere. Rich, red bedding, pillows in greens and purples, some in satin, and others in velvet. The furniture is simple but sophisticated.

This room reflects what I know about Aspen. Sexy. Fun. Classy. I can see us tangled in those sheets, moving together, exploring each other.

A photo on the side table catches my eye, and I immediately reach for it.

It’s Aspen with a little girl, who I assume is Emma. They’re smiling at the camera, holding up teacups.

“We were at a tearoom in Nashville,” she says. I look up to find her leaning on the doorjamb, her arms crossed over her chest, looking at the photo in my hands. “She loved tea parties. It was the only girlie thing she enjoyed, and it was something we did together all the time. So, when she got to be old enough to appreciate being there, I made us a reservation at this gorgeous tearoom. She was enthralled with the owner’s accent, and after the day that photo was taken, she mimicked it when we had our tea parties at home.”

“That’s quite adorable.”

“It was a happy day, so I’ve kept the memory by the bed.”

I nod and set the photo down, then turn to the woman who’s captured my attention so completely.

“I ruined a perfectly good pair of expensive jeans,” she says with a sigh, but her eyes are full of humor. It seems that talking about Emma doesn’t leave her sad at all. She tips her head to the side. “What are you thinking?”

“That I love how easily you speak of your daughter, and that it doesn’t leave you distraught.”

“I don’t speak of her often, to be honest. But, no. It used to make me very sad. And I still miss her. But I read a quote once, and it resonated with me. ‘If you don’t heal from what hurt you, you’ll bleed on those who didn’t cut you.’ I don’t know who said it, but I’ve thought about tattooing it on my body.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I haven’t had the time,” she says with a small smile. “Have I ever told you that I like your ink?”

“No. In fact, until very recently, you made it a point to make sure I knew that you didn’t like anything about me.”

“Well, my pride was bruised,” she says with a shrug. “And I’m done bleeding on you.”