“How much did you have to drink?” I reprimand, flicking his curious hand away.
“A couple of whiskeys,” he states as though it’s nothing. I hope he didn't drive here!
“Uh huh.” I’m smothering a smile.
“Uh huh,” he mimics. “Kiss me. All this time, you’ve wanted my mouth, and now you’re not even going to let me taste you. I love your lips,” he says with a goofy smirk. “You’re stunning. Do you know that?” His smile is light, his eyes heavy with need. “Come on, angel, put me out of my misery. I want your tongue on mine. I’ve thought of nothing else since you turned up at Skyn.” He has?
“I—”
His mouth slams to mine, and I'm suddenly feverishly kissing him. His tongue sweeps in, and I'm pulling at his top. Oh, God. Hell. His mouth is incredible.
"Fucking hell," he pants. His lips keep on pecking and nipping, his tongue driving in before he holds me still and kisses me like a madman. “I’m so pissed at you for running,” he growls, “I've barely lasted two weeks. I want you, Zara. I can’t get you out of my head.” We're fumbling with our clothes. Once we’ve removed enough to allow access, he’s thrusting up to grind against my flesh, and he tugs on my lip with his teeth.
“I’ve never kissed a woman before,” he groans. I'm shocked and honoured. I knew he had his no kissing rule, but I never suspected that confession. I assumed he'd been intimate before, but something had made him close himself off.
Knowing I’m the only woman to have his lips sends me crazy with desire. I grind myself on him roughly.
“Callan, now,” I pant.
Forcing entry, he slips in, and we both shout out. My mouth charges back for another kiss. I knew he'd be a sensational kisser. He's thick inside me, and I flutter and clamp around him.
“Why?” I ask, panting. Do I care? Yes, yes, I bloody do. My lips are back on his, and our teeth are clashing. I’m greedy with need, helpless with pleasure. I want him fiercely. I grind down, crying out as his mouth devours me.
“Fuck, slow down.” I don’t. I bounce and grind my hips where he is buried deep, moaning sweetly.
Callan is up and slipping out of me. He drops me softly on the chair.
“Shit, Zara, wait. I didn't come here to fuck you. I mean, I did, but not like this.” He laughs, holding his hands up to halt me.
I'm panting, my shirt is ripped, and he pulls me by the back of my neck and kisses me lazily, standing so we are toe-to-toe, clothes askew, and half-naked. “I was saving myself for the right woman,” he tells me in answer to my earlier question. “You going to be her? Because I don’t think I can let you walk away again.” His declaration has my soul weeping with innate happiness.
“I'm scared.” He is intuitive enough to read between the lines. I don't mean that I’m scared of him. I’m sure as hell about him. He gives me drive, safety. I know he is danger, but he’s my danger. Him turning up here was everything I wanted, everything I needed to pick myself back up. Losing him even after this short time, it ruined me, broke something.
“I won’t let anyone hurt you, ever.” I nod as a stray tear finds its way down my cheek. I’ve missed this so much, him. Our connection. “You’re coming home with me,” he says, his thumb moving to wipe my cheek dry.
I nod. Yes, absolutely. I wouldn’t go anywhere else. I want to tell him how much I love him, how he has given me a sense of purpose and true hope. But I don’t. Something tells me the L-word isn’t something Callan is used to hearing or saying.
“Your head. It needs stitches.” I run my finger around the circumference of the small but deep gash I’ve inflicted on him.
“Nothing you haven’t dealt with before.” He grins. The blood has slowed, but it has left a smudged mess on his cheek.
“I am absolutely not doing that again. That’s the reason I fled,” I confess dramatically, holding my hands up and refusing to help. “How are you?” I ask, looking at his healing stomach.
“Fine, go and grab me a damp cloth, and you can get us back to mine. Stalin will deal with your dirty work.” He pokes playfully.
“You snuck in!” I accuse, frowning at him.
“It was dark, and I’m fucking pissed, angel. What did you expect, me to come dancing and singing ‘when the saints come marching fucking in?’” he spits, overdramatically. I laugh at the crazy image he has drawn in my mind.
“No, you fool. Don't ever do that. It would scar me for life.” I chuckle and straighten myself out. I eye his erection prodding to the sky like a sword. “Let me grab a cloth and perhaps,” I point at his cock, “zip that away.” My tone suggests if he doesn’t, I won't be held accountable for my actions. I begrudgingly watch as he folds it away. Pouting, I wander off in search of a compress, and he follows until we are both in the kitchen and I’m dampening a clean hand towel. I hand it over, and he presses it to his wound.
“Go and grab some of your bits.” With a small excited nod, I practically skip off and fly around the place, packing a bag.
A little while later, we’re back at Callan’s, and his cut is stitched perfectly, thanks to an awkward-looking Stalin who soon left us alone after tidying Callan’s cut up. We’re curled up on the sofa after I made us both a quick tea.
“I have questions,” I murmur, my face transfixed by the flames from the fire.
“I thought as much. What do you want to know?” Callan shifts, getting comfier. He adjusts his legs to allow me more room. I relax back, happy to be cocooned by his big frame.