Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
My bairn.
My kid.
Jeez, if I wasn’t already fucking her, I would want to fuck her . . .
Her thighs wrap around my hips, urging me closer, her breath coming in short, broken gasps that only make me sink deeper into this moment. My pelvis slams into her—the desk rattling—everything shaking. I watch as a pen rolls across the surface and falls off the other side . . .
She arches into me, chest pressing to mine, her mouth hot and hungry as she chases the rhythm like she can’t get enough. Our kiss is a tangle of tongues.
Wet. Hot. Kisses . . .
Her boobs bounce as I fuck her, and I lean forward, pressing a kiss to her collarbone, then lower, unable to stop myself from brushing my lips over the curve of her breast. Her sharp intake of breath stokes something primal in me, like a lit match to gasoline.
Mine.
“I love you,” I groan, because I can’t not say it.
She tilts her head back, ponytail hanging down her back. “I love you too.”
I love you.
Love you.
Love you.
Every beat of my body answers with a yes, yes, yes.
Her hands grip my shoulders, fingers curling tight like she’s anchoring herself, like she needs to feel every inch of me pressed into her, around her, with her. I brace my arms on either side of her, my head dipping to rest against hers, and we move together in perfect, fevered rhythm—no hesitation, no holding back.
Fuck, she feels good; fuck, she feels good . . .
The room filled with friction and breathless gasps. The creak of the desk beneath us. Things falling to the floor as it shakes.
The sharp sting of her nails on my back. The slide of her lips along my jaw, my neck, my name whispered like a prayer.
Callum.
“Callum, oh God, Callum . . .”
A fucking symphony. Music to my cock.
Every stupid thing I’ve done in the past and every woman I’ve banged that didn’t give a shit about me—none of that matters.
My eyes close as I thrust, entire body tingling. Balls. Legs.
We fall—together.
It hits me in waves. Every heartbeat pounding like a drum beneath my ribs. Her body softening against mine. Our chests rising and falling in sync, like we’re still finding the rhythm even now, even in the quiet.
The room is a wreck. Desk half cleared. Clothes scattered. One of her earrings glinting on the floor like a little silver casualty of war.
I press a kiss to her shoulder, her cheek, her lips.
Her smile is lazy and a little dazed.
“We’re gonna have to fix that desk,” she murmurs, breath still uneven.
I grin. “We can add it to the baby registry.”
She groans and swats at me, but doesn’t let go. Neither do I.
Eventually, I scoop her into my arms and carry her down the hall to the shower. We rinse off together, slow and warm, her back pressed to my chest beneath the spray, fingers laced with mine. Not sexy. Not wild.
Just . . . us.
Once we’re dressed—I glance toward the door and ask, “Wanna go eat? So we can talk?”
She nibbles her bottom lip. “Where?”
“Here. In the building.” There’s a quiet restaurant tucked away. Private. Dim lighting and cloth napkins. I’ve never taken anyone there before.
“Sure, yeah.” She nods. “I’d like that.”
Downstairs, it’s almost empty. The host knows me but doesn’t make a thing of it. Leads us to a quiet booth tucked into a corner, with candlelight and soft jazz humming from invisible speakers.
The view is breathtaking.
We’re not eighty floors up, but we’re twelve—high enough to see the city stretching out in every direction. Rooftop pools glisten under the sunlight. Cacti down below casting long shadows across perfectly landscaped walkways.
“This is unbelievable,” she murmurs again, leaning toward the glass with a little smile on her face.
And maybe it’s the candlelight, or the soft jazz playing, or the fact that I’ve seen her naked twice today, but I can’t stop watching her.
“What?” she asks, catching me.
“You.”
She arches a brow. “Me what?”
I shrug. “You look like you belong here.”
She snorts into her water. “In a swanky restaurant wearing a sundress from Target?”
Yes.
“Exactly.”
She rolls her eyes, but I can see the blush creep up her cheeks. Her hand slides across the table, and her fingers brush mine. And for a second, we just sit there, holding hands and talking and flirting as if this is any other date night.
We order.
Gaze at each other.
When the waiter returns with two plates, Annabelle twirls the pasta on her fork slowly and says, “I still can’t believe all this.”
“The food?”
“The fact that I’m here. That we’re here.” She gestures between us. “A few weeks ago I was leading your buddy Harris Bennett around and losing my marbles over that damn festival.” She tries to hide the smile tugging at her lips but fails. “Doesn’t it feel surreal? Like we skipped a hundred steps and now we’re just . . . doing it.”