Long Way Down (Calloway Sisters 4)

We kiss fast and then slow, until our lips part, and then I stare deeply in his eyes.

This is the start of our next chapter.

Our next adventure.

DAISY CALLOWAY

Water cascades on us, and we both have a hard time concentrating on shampoo when we’re so close to each other, naked. He’s extremely fit, the lines of his muscles pelted by water droplets. I feel more feminine and shorter sharing the confined space with him, but I love taking showers with Ryke.

Bathing each other. Comfortable enough to let him explore my body and vice versa. I watch his hot gaze move across my nipples and hips.

I smile as I close my eyes, dipping my head back to wash away soapsuds. He helps, his hands combing through my brown hair.

When his palms leave me, I open one eye. He reaches for a washcloth on the ledge, and when he rotates back around, I spit water at his face like a fountain.

He wears his usual fucking fuck expression that’s very Ryke Meadows.

Water dribbles down my chin, and I laugh into a larger smile. His lips immediately pull upwards, and he thumbs the scar on my cheek. It usually puckers in the heat, so add in my smile, and I bet it’s super noticeable.

He seems to love it all the same.

Maybe even more, actually.

I run my fingers through my wet hair. “Am I showing?” I ask through the noise of water beating the tiles.

His hand slides across my abdomen. At six-weeks, there’s not much of a bump, but we had our first ultrasound yesterday and heard the heartbeat of our baby. So far baby Meadows is alive and healthy. We’ve decided to leave the gender a mystery until the very end. Maybe just in case something bad happens, it’s better not knowing.

“Not that much,” he says what I already know. “You’ll get fucking bigger, Dais.”

“How big?” I smile widely. I’m holding onto what we have now, every day, for as long as I can.

He tosses the washcloth at me, and it splats on my face, covering my eyes.

I gasp. “I’ve lost my handsome boyfriend! Where for art thou, Rom—” I can barely keep the charade alive, laughing too much, and he has nothing else to throw at me.

Ryke plucks the washcloth off my face. “You realize that you’re the only one laughing, Calloway?”

“Who said I was trying to amuse you?” I wag my brows. “I’m amusing myself.”

He edges closer to me, six-foot-three and dangerously enigmatic. My pulse speeds at the way he’s staring into me. “How amused are you?” he asks, his voice like sex.

“Very, very amused,” I breathe softly, my words almost lost to the shower. I reach for another washcloth, and before I’ve begun washing him, his washcloth touches my bare arms. His other hand slides down my hip.

I’m so relaxed, practically melting in one spot. Steam fogs the glass shower door, and I focus on his body, my washcloth grazing the ridges of his abs.

His lips near me, just as the washcloth descends between my legs. My breath hitches at the warmth, and he nudges my face up with his, our movements speak to each other, and I respond, tilting my head until his lips meet mine.

His other hand rests on my abdomen for a second.

A moan tickles my throat. “Ryke,” I smile against his lips. “Ah…” I inhale sharply, his fingers slipping into me as he drops the washcloth. Holy shit. His thumb rubs my bundle of nerves, electrifying my entire body.

My head lightens, and I lean my weight against him. He holds onto my frame while pleasuring me. He even lifts one of my legs higher around his waist, gaining further entry into me.

I shudder and then stare at his large cock. “You can push in,” I breathe.

His expression hardens, which only arouses me more.

I moan against his shoulder, my fingers tightening. “Ryke,” I cry.

He clutches my ass, and I watch his cock harden. Oh my God. I come against him, probably one of the fastest times I’ve ever gotten off.

I’m hot but not sweaty thanks to the shower.

He kisses me again, and I ask, “Does it bother you?”

His brows furrow. “Does what?”

“That we’re not having sex as much as before.” I’ve wondered this lately. In the past four weeks, we’ve had it considerably less. I’ve heard him jack off a couple times, too.

“No, Dais.” He washes his fingers beneath the shower. “Il tuo piacere è il mio.” Your pleasure is my pleasure. He’d rather only have sex with me when I’m truly aroused.

My mouth falls, feigning surprise. “You speak Italian?”

He pushes me lightly, and my back thuds against the tile wall. I laugh and he smiles. Ryke is about to drop to his knees in front of me, but I drop to mine first.

“Callo—”

“I want to,” I protest, holding onto his bare thighs, his cock right in front of my mouth. It’s been a long time since I gave him a blow job. I told my sisters that I’m not a fan of them and that fact reached his ears, so now I think he envisions me hating it whenever I try.

“You fucking hate it,” he retorts. See. He tries to pull me to my feet.

His strength defeats mine. I place my hands on his chest. “I have this theory,” I say.

“I already hate your fucking theory.”

“Blow jobs are better in time.”

“No,” he retorts. “No fucking no. Fucking no.”

I frown. “But what if I didn’t like them then but I like giving them now?” I can tell that this logic is starting to work on him, or maybe he’s just really horny. He actually pauses to think.

And then he gives me a what the fuck look. “No.”

Damn.

I cross my arms and lean against the tiled wall again. “Then you better fuck me,” I say, spreading my legs open. “I’m not satisfied until you are, babe.”

With that dark, brooding scowl, he says, “I’m going down on you, Calloway. You’re going to come again, and then I’ll push the fuck into you.”

My lips pull so high. “Say that again.”

Just as his mouth opens, another voice cuts into the bathroom.

“Daisy!” Price yells.

My eyes grow, and Ryke glowers at the misted shower glass. He can’t be in here. “I locked the door,” I tell Ryke. Price knocks against the bathroom door, confirming this.

Ryke barely relaxes and asks me lowly, “Did you call him?”

“No,” I say. “Did you?”

“No fucking way.” We’ve been actively leaving Price behind when we go out. Not only to our ultrasound and doctor’s appointments but every single Grand & Daring Stakeout, we ditched him like an unwelcome friend. I almost feel badly, especially when he texted after the police parking lot incident.

I could’ve kept you from being fined and from being filmed by the journalists. Please bring me along next time. I can tail you in another car. That’s what I’m here fo

r. – Price

I want to trust him, but I’m scared to. We’ve been hurt so many times by opening our arms to people, and a bodyguard sees things. Hears things. Knows things.

Things that my dad can’t know or hear. We decided to tell my parents about the baby after our wedding. I’ll be ten-weeks then, not showing too much, and I’m afraid if I tell my dad beforehand, he won’t come to the ceremony.

I realize.

I suck just as badly as Ryke at delivering news that may hurt people I love. I guess it’s something we both have in common.

“Daisy!” Price shouts again, knocking louder.

I turn off the shower, and Ryke steps out. When I follow, he tosses a dark green towel at me. “What is it?” I ask Price through the wood, drying off quickly and then securing a towel around my chest.

“I need the wedding itinerary! I just found out that every bodyguard already has one but me!”

So the wedding itineraries are so secretive that everyone has been told to never duplicate them, share them, or put them online. They’re physical pieces of paper, and we’ve been stalling on sharing more info with Price.

Ryke really doesn’t trust him. He thinks he’ll leak info to the press, or at least, that’s his ultimate worry.

“Hold on!” I shout back, my stomach roiling some and lightheaded from the extra steam.

“I’ll wait here!”

Ryke is scowling, his towel low around his waist, but when he looks at me, his brows pinch. “You okay?” He touches my forehead.

I’ve thrown up a lot the past couple of weeks. For as much as morning sickness sucks, I love that I have it because it’s a physical sign that the baby is okay.

I swallow down any brimming nausea and nod, and then I pale for a completely different reason. I whisper, “I think our sonogram is on the dresser.” The grayish photo of our baby from the ultrasound.

“Fuck,” he curses and waits for me. “Do you want me to get your clothes?”

I shake my head and tighten my towel around my chest. “I’m okay.” If I felt uncomfortable, I’d tell Ryke.

He opens the door, the steam rushing out and Coconut pacing back and forth by the entrance, her tail wagging.