Текст книги "Wicked Fall"

Автор книги: Sawyer Bennett

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I turn around to face her, and she has both hands on her hips. “Just why do you think you have the right to pull me off that bar?” she demands.

God, she’s so fucking beautiful. My eyes drop lazily down to her breasts that are for all intents and purposes naked under the wet material that leaves nothing to the imagination. Licking my lower lip in appreciation, I imagine what it would be like to suck one of those nipples gently into my mouth right now. I make sure she sees this move on my part, and I hope she takes good stock of the lecherous glint in my gaze as I look back up at her.

She’s definitely not mistaking my look if the way her lips are parted slightly and her eyelids a bit heavy are any indication.

“Because,” I tell her slowly as I step forward, “I don’t think that Governor Hayes’ daughter should be showing her naked tits to the entire state of Wyoming.”

Chapter 2

Callie

My hands immediately come up to cover my breasts. I can feel how hard my nipples are against my palms, and my skin feels prickly with awareness at the way Woolf is watching me.

He’s like a real wolf.

Predatory and dangerous.

It’s the way he’s always been. Or so it’s always seemed.

He’s a large man, but that’s always excited me rather than scared me. And even though he’s wearing nothing more than a pair of jeans, a black t-shirt, and a dark plaid shirt over it that’s casually unbuttoned, he would put any model on the catwalks of Paris to shame.

“You have no say over what I do,” I tell him, hoping my voice sounds calm enough.

“That’s my bar back there, and I have every right to throw you out,” he says darkly as he throws a thumb over his shoulder at the building behind him.

My eyes flick past his shoulder, back to the front of the bar, right to the white neon sign in the shape of an oval with the words “Wicked Horse” written diagonally across in blue. I turn a narrow-eyed gaze back to him. “Your bar?”

“Mine,” he growls at me, then he has my elbow and he’s propelling me toward a black Range Rover. “And it’s now my official policy that the governor’s daughter can’t come in my bar. You better hope to God this doesn’t get back to him.”

I dig my boot heels down into the gravel and try to jerk my arm from him again, but he’s got a firm hold. That doesn’t stop my resistance or my skepticism. “Why in the fuck would a Jennings be wasting his time with a lowly honky tonk in the middle of nowhere?”

Woolf stops abruptly and spins on me. “Since when do you say words like ‘fuck,’ Callie? You used to slap me if I even said the word ‘damn’ when we were growing up.”

He pulls his Stetson off with his free hand and slaps it against his leg in frustration, and wow. Just wow. I had almost forgotten that Woolf Jennings has a face that can stop reality. My gaze flicks first over that strong jawline with midnight black stubble. I had first recognized him by that jaw alone when he started stalking across the dance floor toward me just a bit ago, the top of his face having been shadowed by his hat. I’d recognize his jaw anywhere, no matter how much time has passed since I’ve seen him.

And just seeing him stalk toward me in there… knowing he was coming toward me and was probably madder than hell… God help me, but it sort of turned me on.

And now, as he stares at me with bright blue eyes that seem even bluer in the glow of the neon sign, and black eyelashes that are impossibly thick, I feel my pulse hammer hard the way it always did whenever I was around Woolf.

“I’m not the same girl you grew up with,” I tell him hotly. Well, at least I don’t want to be the same girl he grew up with. That Callie Hayes has spent years of her life being quiet and well mannered, leading a peacefully dull existence up until now.

“So I see,” Woolf says as his eyes flick down briefly to my hands covering my breasts. “You put on quite a show back there. What would your fiancé think?”

I tilt my chin upward. “Would have been a better show if you hadn’t stopped me. And I’m not engaged anymore.”

Woolf blinks at me in surprise. “Since when?”

“Since about seventy-two hours ago,” I tell him. With a hard jerk of my arm, I’m free again. I spin around, intent on heading back into the bar. “And you just ruined what I’m betting was going to be a very good night.”

“You’re not going back in there,” Woolf says as he makes another grab at me, but I twist my body out of his reach.

But then I reconsider and stop, turning quickly, and Woolf almost barrels right over me. He catches himself, his hands coming to my shoulders to steady both of us. And damn… his hands on me feel just as solid, and warm, and secure as they did so very long ago.

I swallow hard, take a deep breath, and say, “Look… I’m going to go back in there because my bra and purse are in there, so I’d like to get both and then head home.”

Woolf slams his hat back on his head and gives a resigned sigh. Shrugging out of the plaid over shirt he has on, he holds it out and says, “Fine. Put this on though.”

I gratefully accept the shirt because even though phase one of the New Callie was having fun on top of that bar, I’ve sort of lost the thrill of dozens of men staring at my breasts. I’m still just as buzzed, but the lure of enticing men to notice me has lost the appeal at this point.

Placing his hand at the back of my neck, he turns me toward the front door of The Wicked Horse and guides me back to it. “Get your stuff and meet me back at the front door. You’ve got five minutes. I’ve got to go find my partner to let him know I’m taking you home.”

“You don’t need to do that,” I tell him hastily. “I’ve got my own car here.”

“You’re drunk.” His hand tightens on the back of my neck, and for some weird reason, it makes me want to drop to my knees in front of him.

“I’m buzzed,” I argue. “Big difference.”

“Sorry, babe,” he says, and oh, geez… why does Woolf calling me babe make me want to curl into him and purr? “But the Callie Hayes I know needed several drinks to get on top of that bar tonight, so you’re not driving home.”

Woolf opens the door, and we’re greeted with some old-school Dixie Chicks. “Five minutes,” he grumbles in warning and releases me. “Don’t make me come find you.”

I turn to give him a glare, but he’s already pushing through the crowd and I lose sight of him fast. I don’t waste any time because while I know I couldn’t be in safer hands with Woolf Jennings, I don’t want to test him. So I cut across the dance floor toward the DJ booth where the red-haired woman who had me sign up for the contest said I could stash my purse. When I approach her, she gives me a smile and nods toward the floor.

I see my purse and bend over to pick it up. “Thanks for watching this.”

“No problem,” she says, her voice rising above the music. “And sorry Woolf took you out of the running for the contest. In my opinion, you had the nicest tits up there.”

My cheeks turn a little pink from her compliment and I awkwardly turn away from her, only to run into a hard, male body. “Callie Hayes… lookin’ good,” I hear drawled out.

Tilting my gaze up, I see a face from my past and instantly relax. “Hey, Colton.”

Colton Stokes is still ruggedly handsome, and I’m betting still just as cocky. We dated in high school but broke up after he left for college. He was a year older than me, and I’m guessing didn’t want a girlfriend tying him down. Especially one that wasn’t willing to put out for him.

Leaning down, he places a kiss on my cheek. “You look fantastic.”

I know this is a lie because my hair is sticky from beer, and I’m betting even my eye makeup is running.

“You too,” I tell him, and that isn’t a lie. Colton is damn good looking with his caramel-colored hair highlighted naturally from the sun and dark brown eyes. He’s dressed like most others here tonight with jeans, a western-styled shirt, and large belt buckle, but Colton was always one of those guys that stood out in a crowd.

Colton runs his gaze down me and with a smirk, says, “I see someone lent you a shirt.”

I wince. Damn, he must have seen me up on the bar. Double damn… he’s seen my breasts. I wait for shame to overcome me, but it never does and I find that a good sign because if I’m going to shed the vestiges of the old Callie Hayes, I can’t afford to be mired in guilt over it.

Stepping in closer to me and leaning down again, he says, “For what it’s worth… you would have totally won that contest.”

“Um… thanks,” I say as I nervously brush some strands of sticky hair that came loose from my braid away from my face.

“Listen… let me buy you a drink and we can reconnect,” Colton says, and his smile seems genial enough. I’m guessing, however, he’s thinking I might be an easy score tonight since I was just on the bar a bit ago flashing my boobs all around.

“She’s going home,” I hear Woolf bark above the music so he can be heard clearly, and my elbow is once again in his hand. I turn my head slightly to see Woolf glaring at Colton.

“Well, then,” Colton says as his eyes slide slowly from Woolf back down to me. “In that case, seems like you’re in good hands tonight. Hope to see you around, Callie.”

Woolf doesn’t even let me reply, just turns me around and starts pushing me hastily back through the crowd. In no time at all, he has his SUV door opened and he’s helping me to climb in with liberal use of his running board.

All is silent as Woolf makes his way out to Highway 191 and turns north instead of south.

“Where are we going?” I ask in confusion, as my house is back in Jackson.

“I know damn well your father is in town and I can’t take you home like this, Callie,” Woolf says in exasperation. “Reggie would have a heart attack if he saw you looking and smelling like that.”

“I can make it to my room without him seeing me,” I grumble but secretly… I’m a bit pleased. I’m just not ready to go home yet. I’m even more excited by the fact that I know we’re headed to Woolf’s house on the Double J, which means some more alone time with him. That thought shouldn’t bring me such a rush of giddiness, but it does all the same.

I knew I’d see Woolf at some point when I returned home from Connecticut. His father and my father were very good friends. His father was a huge contributor to my father’s political campaigns, and we all ran in the same social circles our entire life. Woolf is three years older than me and up until my sophomore year in high school, we attended the same schools in Jackson from elementary school onward. But then my father won the gubernatorial race and we moved to the state capital of Cheyenne, which is less than an hour away from Laramie where Woolf was attending his freshman year at the University of Wyoming.

Even though we were family friends and were within spitting distance of each other, I saw very little of Woolf while he was in college. This was due, I expect, to the fact that my older brother Richard was attending Harvard back east. He and Woolf were close friends, and without Richard around, Woolf just didn’t come to visit that much.

That came about even less after Richard died at the start of his senior year at Harvard from pneumonia. Richard was asthmatic and stubborn as hell. By the time he broke down, went to the emergency room, and got admitted, his lungs were so full of fluid he suffocated to death. My eyes prick with tears at the thought of his death, which will hit the eleven-year anniversary mark in a few months. I wonder if Woolf still grieves for him the way I do.

“What happened to your fiancé?” Woolf asks, and I blink my eyes hard to dispel the moisture. “What was his name? Bill?”

“Will,” I correct him woodenly. He and Woolf had met once, just last year when Will came home with me for Christmas.

“So what happened?” he prompts me.

I gaze out the side window but it’s so dark outside on this lonely stretch of highway, I can’t really see anything. Ironic, since even thinking about Will, I don’t really feel anything. Even my anger has sort of fizzled.

“I caught him in bed with another woman,” I say softly.

It was actually a bit more than that. I left work sick one day where I worked as an event planner, having given up on the fight against the overwhelming nausea I was experiencing. I was panicked, thinking that perhaps I was pregnant, and I wasn’t ready to be. I mean… physically and mentally, yeah… I could totally be down with having a baby, but I was having so many doubts about marrying Will that the thought of having a child with him caused me to feel overwhelming dread rather than happiness.

Stopping at the drugstore on the way home, I grabbed a twelve pack of ginger ale and a pregnancy test. I made it to our house in the burbs outside of New Haven, Connecticut and wasn’t all that surprised to see Will’s car at the house. His law firm was only about five minutes away and he often ate at home.

I was surprised, however, when I walked back into our bedroom, pulling the pregnancy test out of the bag, and stumbled right upon the most bizarre thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m not sure it even bears repeating the full details, but suffice to say that Will was naked except for a leather headpiece over his head with a ball gag in his mouth. He was in the middle of our bed on his hands and knees while The Honorable Jennifer P. Lane, one of the local circuit judges, whipped him with a riding crop. She was dressed head to toe in black, shiny vinyl and growling at him, “I sustain your objection, Counsel.”

I thought I was in a dream… nay, a nightmare. My eyes dropped to the bed where a gavel rested near one of Will’s knees, and I shuddered to think where she was going to stick that thing.

But for the tiny gasp that came out of my mouth, I doubt either one of them would have known I was there. It would have been my preference to have backed out of the room quietly, sight unseen, but Jennifer’s head turned my way and rather than being horrified, she actually smirked at me. Will, on the other hand, promptly started freaking and was trying to rip the headpiece off while I think he was trying to scream apologies around the ball gag.

I didn’t wait around to find out. Stuffing the pregnancy test back in the bag, I ran out to my car. I got in, drove to the airport, and booked the first flight back home. While I waited for boarding to begin, I went into the bathroom, peed on the stick, and found out I wasn’t pregnant. Ironically, I wasn’t nauseated anymore, and I’m wondering if I was just feeling a generalized anxiety because of my doubts over Will.

Regardless, something clicked in my mind as I sat in the airport terminal and considered my past and my future. I had to turn my phone off because Will was burning it up with calls and texts. I imagined him out riding the roads, looking for me. The cocky son of a bitch was just self-centered enough to think that I’d never leave him. That he’d be able to smooth this over and keep me pinned to his side. He would have never thought his little fiancée, Callie Hayes, was at the airport and getting ready to leave Connecticut for what I hoped was forever.

I bet he sure as shit never thought I would enter a wet t-shirt contest, nor would I be in a man’s vehicle heading to his house late at night.

I turn my head and look at Woolf. The silhouette of his face shows lines of stubbornness, brilliance, and command. He’s always been that way. I can also see the glow of his eyes from the dashboard lights. He knows I’m looking at him, and his face turns to give me a short glance.

“I’m sorry,” is all he says over my revelation that I found my fiancé cheating on me.

“I’m not,” I tell him. “And I’m staying at your place tonight so the mighty Governor Hayes doesn’t see me like this.”

Chapter 3

Woolf

“It looks fantastic,” I tell Bridger as I walk through the newest cabin we had just finished constructing a few weeks ago. While our original plans called for ten cabins, they were getting overbooked so we added on as needed. This makes cabin number thirteen.

This Wicked Horse building has no interior walls except for restrooms because privacy isn’t needed. The Silo has four group sex rooms for viewing, but those are filled to capacity almost every night so we built this new cabin. Thick, soft carpeting done in a pale blue sets more of an elegant atmosphere. Dark gold silk wallpaper with subtle geometric designs, and several ottomans done in a soft, vinyl material in a dark cream color complete the decor in this eleven-hundred-square-foot cabin. There are two powder rooms on the back wall, and a tiny, self-serve bar on the adjacent wall.

“I’m naming it Bacchanalia,” Bridger says with a wicked grin.

“Appropriate.” Bacchus, the Greco-Roman god of intoxication and ecstasy, and propagator of the much-revered orgy would be proud. “Participants don’t have to wear togas, do they?”

Bridger laughs good-naturedly as we walk out of the cabin. “I think clothing sort of defeats the purpose of this cabin, don’t you think?”

I don’t bother answering because that was rhetorical. Instead, we both trot down the cabin stairs and climb into my work truck. The cabins sit only a couple of hundred yards away from The Silo and nightclub, but the dirt road in between isn’t very friendly on Bridger’s Corvette. We had to take my truck so we could stock the cabin bar with a few cases of liquor and mixers.

“Did everything go okay last night?” Bridger asks as he pulls his hat off, scratches at his hair, and then plops it back on his head. He tends to wear it longer these days, but next week, he’ll probably shave it all off. Bridger changes more than the seasons.

“Yeah,” I say as we bounce down the road toward The Silo. It’s a gorgeous June day outside, perfect for outdoor work with the sun riding high and the temps hovering in the low sixties. I think I might even gear up and ride range today just so I’m not cooped up in the office.

“Dude… I need details,” Bridger says, turning slightly in his seat to face me. “Who was that woman? It’s not every day I see Woolf Jennings carting a woman out of The Wicked Horse and away from The Silo. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen it.”

I pull into my parking spot beside Bridger’s car and cut the ignition. “That woman was Callie Hayes.”

Bridger’s eyes spring wide, and he shakes his head with an amused grin. “That was Callie Hayes? The girl that got away from the mighty Woolf Jennings?”

“She didn’t get away,” I snap at him. “I let her go. Big difference.”

Chuckling, Bridger exits my truck and I do the same. He meets me at the front and leans an elbow on the hood. His face is a bit more serious now. “So what happened last night?”

Leaning back onto the front grill of my truck, I cross my arms over my chest. I could use Bridger’s advice. He knows all about Callie as I got a little mouthy one night after a party during college, and we exchanged relationship failure stories while we continued to drink in the room we shared at the frat house. Her name has come up on another occasion or two—or three or—when I’m lamenting in my beer glass while some sappy country-western song plays in the background.

“Nothing happened. I brought her home, let her get cleaned up, and we talked a bit.”

Bridger just stares at me. He knows me too well to ever accept that as the full story. He can tell by my tight lips that there’s more, because I don’t keep anything from Bridger and he keeps nothing from me. That’s the way of it as best friends and two men who have seen each other doing very depraved things. Hell, we’ve done some of those depraved things together.

I give a heavy sigh. “She broke off her engagement and moved back home permanently. Or so she says.”

“What are you going to do about it?” he asks me quietly. He knows this is some damn serious business to me.

Grimacing, I give him a hard look. “I’m not going to do a fucking thing. Nothing has changed.”

“You asshole,” Bridger says affectionately. “Everything’s changed. She’s not the young innocent anymore. She’s a woman.”

“She may be a woman, but she’s still far too innocent to get caught up with someone like me. She’d freak the fuck out if she knew what really went on at The Wicked Horse.”

I know that to be true because last night after Callie had a shower and dressed in one of my t-shirts and a pair of workout shorts that swallowed her up, we sat down in the Great Room and shared some whiskey. She told me the gory details of how she caught her fiancé in some fem-dom situation. If it weren’t for the disgust in her voice, I would have laughed at the scenario I imagined, but it was too sobering of a tale when she candidly admitted she had come home to take a pregnancy test. For some reason, I wanted to stand up and dance when she told me she was relieved she wasn’t pregnant, and that she’s actually relieved the engagement is off.

Regardless, she reacted badly to that so I couldn’t even begin to imagine how disgusted she would be at The Silo. Hell, several times a week, you can find Angel pegging some dude up the ass in one of the glass-walled rooms.

I push off from the front of my truck and step up onto the wooden boardwalk that spans the entire front of The Wicked Horse. Bridger follows me in. The entire club is empty as it’s late morning, but the staff will start trickling in soon. While we don’t open until four PM, there’s still a tremendous amount to do to get ready for the evening rush.

“You’re really not going to hook up with her?” Bridger asks as we wind our way through the tables toward the office.

I roll my eyes at him. “Man… this isn’t high school.”

“Fine, then. You’re not going to fuck her?”

“No, I’m not going to fuck her,” I grit out as I punch in the alarm code to the office.

But damn, I want to fuck her so bad.

Last night as she sipped at the whiskey with her feet tucked up underneath of her on the couch, I had to almost physically restrain myself from touching her. I listened to her talk about Will and her life over the last several years. I truly heard her bemoan that she hated living back East, hated her job as an event planner, and hated living in the suburbs where she had dinner on the table every night at six PM sharp for Will, and she wore pencil skirts, flats, cardigans, and headbands because she was trying to be the proper fiancée for a hotshot attorney in a conservatively dull community.

Yes, I heard all of that, but it didn’t stop me from studying her beauty while she talked. Her hair was the color of dark mahogany and worn shorter than she used to… just a few inches past the edge of her shoulders. And the way her green eyes seemed to shine like miniature galaxies of green and gold. Those freckles… doing nothing but serving to remind me of her innocent ways, and even though my shirt on her was baggy, I could still vividly imagine those perfect tits I knew resided under the soft cotton material.

Sitting right there on the opposite end of the couch from me.

That right there was the reason I only gravitate toward blonde women. Those ladies of the sunny-colored hair. It’s because they are the exact opposite of Callie Hayes and everything I would truly desire as a man.

But then again… do I really desire her for anything more than some of the dirtiest, hottest fucking I could ever imagine? Hell, even plain old vanilla on flannel sheets with Callie would be hotter than anything I’ve ever done. I just know it.

The real problem, if I just want to lay it out on the line, is that Callie and I would never be compatible long term. I’m not sure I’m built for monogamy. Never tried it, really, and although Callie is the only woman I could ever imagine committing myself too, I’m not sure I’m ready to give up variety. Besides… Callie would never understand my need to have kink in my life, and I would never expose her to it.

Bridger leaves the subject alone thankfully and sits down at his side of the desk. Our office is huge, furnished with a double-sided desk that we can work at if we’re both here at the same time. That’s a rare occasion though as I have my office back on The Double J and since most of my paperwork still revolves around JennCo, I just don’t use this space a lot. Hell, I actually use it more for fucking women if I’m too lazy to walk over to The Silo, and that is the reason why we have a huge, leather couch against one wall.

Logging onto my laptop, I check my emails. I respond to a few before logging back off. Standing up, I tell Bridger, “I’m going to go grab a late breakfast. Want to come?”

“Nah, man,” he says without looking up from the computer. “I’m going over last month’s reconciliations the CPA sent me.”

“Alright. I’m out.”

Just as I reach the door, Bridger stops me. “Hey… we’re going to be christening Bacchanalia tomorrow night. I think you should be there as a show of support to the patron members.”

Normally, the thought of breaking in a new cabin would excite me, especially one built for group sex and swinging. It’s probably the thing that excites me the most… fucking amidst the masses who are fucking. Skin slapping, the air filled with moans and musky scents. Wet dream come true.

But for some reason, immediate refusal to participate comes to mind, and I think to myself, What the fuck?

“Maybe,” I hedge as I pull the door open. “We’ll see.”

Bridger laughs hard behind my back and when I turn to look at him over my shoulder, he’s smirking at me.

“Dude… you need to go for it with Callie.”

“What in the fuck does one thing have to do with the other?” I ask him, irritated beyond belief. And there is no doubt in my mind he’s taking my reticence to participate tomorrow night as being directly related to Callie’s return.

“I’m just saying… you might be passing up something amazing, and since when do you ever back down from a challenge?”

“She’s not some stupid challenge, man. You, out of everyone, should know that,” I growl at him and then I stomp out of the office, slamming the door shut behind me so I can drown out his taunting laugh.

She’s not a fucking challenge, I repeat over and over again in my mind as I get in my truck and turn it toward Jackson.

Callie is many things, but she is not a challenge.

Callie is warm and sweet. Innocent. Endearing. She’s kind and beautiful and sheltered. She is every fucking reason in the book why someone like me could never be good enough for someone like her.

I know that.

Hell, even she knows that.

I told her as much almost eleven years ago when I came just a hair’s breadth away from taking her virginity. I had been drinking and mourning the loss of Callie’s brother, Richard. We had lowered him into the ground the day before, and the day after I found myself at a party where I ran into Callie.

Drunk. Bitter. Angry at the world. It was not a good recipe in normal circumstances, but it was a complete disaster when I found myself alone with Callie. She had just turned eighteen two weeks before. She was only a few months into her freshman year at Duke University when we came together again at Richard’s funeral. I hadn’t seen her in almost a year… the prior Christmas, in fact.

And there she was the next night at a party, tipsy from a few beers with big, glistening tears in her eyes. I hugged her and she hugged me back, and I remembered feeling shame that I would think she felt so good in my arms just a day after her brother was buried. Not comforting good, but sensually good. She was willowy angles and soft curves, innocent freckled face seeking solace in my arms.

I wanted to fuck her.

Bad.

It wasn’t the first time I’d thought that about my friend’s little sister. It was only about the hundredth time. I started noticing her when she was about fifteen. I mean, Callie was always around while we were growing up, but soon she stopped being the pesky little sister of Richard and started filling out in all the right places.

And say all you want about her beauty and budding breasts, what started me thinking about fucking her was the way in which she would look at me sometimes. Even at the age of fifteen, she knew she was a woman with desirous feelings. She aimed them at me sometimes with quick peeks from under veiled eyes that would get my dick hard.

God, Richard would have killed me in the most vicious of ways if he knew the way I looked at Callie sometimes. Even in college, as I was fucking my way through the years, immersing myself in kink and debauchery, I often though of Callie. Sometimes… even while fucking a woman, I’d picture Callie as I came.

It was obsessive behavior for sure, but I couldn’t help myself. And the irony isn’t lost on me that I’m a man who likes my sex down and dirty, rough and kinky, and yet I obsess about a woman who is built for soft touches and gentle words.

Everything changed that night when I thought just to hug her, and she looked up at me with tears slipping out of her eyes and asked me to kiss her. I was drunk, I was horny for the woman in my arms, and yet… I still knew better.

I told her “no.”

She pressed in tight to me and said, “Please.”

She begged me to kiss her.

And so I did. I went ahead, gave in to my fantasy, and I let myself get swallowed up by Callie Hayes. I kissed her like I had never kissed another woman before. I kissed her with something that bordered on almost holy reverence for that woman and when she pushed her pelvis against me, my cock responded mightily. It took over… held my brain and common sense hostage, and demanded I do whatever it took to let it get inside of her sweet heat.

I grabbed Callie’s hand, and we made our way upstairs. We were at a mutual friend’s house… and, of course, in our circles, most of our friends lived in thousands of square feet. Just like the Wyoming range, our class of people didn’t like to be cooped up. I fortuitously found an empty bedroom on the first try.

In seconds, I had her on the bed where I was kissing her again. And Christ… the way she moaned and writhed as my tongue worked against hers. On one of the darkest days of my life, Callie tasted like sunshine and rainbows and sweet cream. I could have almost been satisfied with just kissing her, except she made the mistake of taking my hand and pushing it between her legs. She was wearing jeans that seemed to be painted onto her body, but my fingers tingle right at this very minute as I remember the heat that seemed to radiate from her.