Текст книги "His Kind of Trouble"
Автор книги: Terri L. Austin
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 22 страниц)
Chapter 17
The next four weeks passed by in a blur. Monica hadn’t heard a word from Allie. And it bothered her. She didn’t feel good about the way they’d left things. Monica had every right to be angry at Allie’s constant interference, but she could have handled things differently. Somehow. She could have kept a hold on her temper, for starters.
At the office, Monica worked nonstop on the gala, shored up donors and sponsors, and tackled every crisis that popped up. She had two run-ins with Marcus Stanford, reiterating her position on his wife’s charity, and explained, for the millionth time, why the staff weren’t there to wait on him, type his letters, or photocopy his shit. But she said it nicely and with a smile.
Monica also spent a part of her days avoiding Ryan McMillan. He texted every afternoon, called each morning—which she declined—and sent gifts. Right now, the break room contained Belgian chocolates, flowers, and mini-muffin baskets. Ignoring him wasn’t working. She needed to have the talk. Eventually. Maybe after the gala, when things calmed down.
With everything else going on, Monica hadn’t done any work with the international grants. She’d pretty much given up her goals of changing the foundation’s agenda. Maybe in another year or two, but probably not. Still, every once in a while, Monica would take out the folder and read over the research she’d compiled. Then she’d chastise herself for wasting time and shove it back in the drawer.
On a happier note, after only three days in town, Jules had wandered into the office and volunteered her time. Apparently, talking Cal’s ear off while he replaced an exhaust system wasn’t as thrilling as she’d hoped it would be. Monica immediately put her to work on the silent auction.
Cal’s sister had the vocabulary of a truck driver and an opinion on everything, and she freely shared both. Jules’s clothes still rated a nine on the skank scale, but she’d toned down her makeup and removed the extensions from her hair. They started a routine of eating lunch together, and Monica grew fonder of her by the minute.
Jules had made herself at home in Allie’s mansion. She loved Allie’s fussing—weird, but true—thought Trevor was a god, and played with the twins every afternoon.
“Do you know what your cheeky little nephew, Zack, did?” she asked, lounging in Monica’s guest chair. Today, Jules had packed her boobs into a short white dress that had to be at least one size too tight, and stomped around in a pair of monster heels. “He took my phone while I wasn’t looking and added this farting app. So every time my phone rang that day, it sounded quite rude. The boys thought it was hilarious.”
Monica smiled. “Yeah, you gotta watch Zack. He’s the sneaky one.”
“They miss you.” Jules cast her eyes to the window, sipped on her iced coffee, and failed to appear nonchalant. “You could stop by the house, you know. Take an evening swim or a stroll around the garden.”
“Don’t even,” Monica said. “You know Allie and I aren’t speaking.”
“Which is rubbish, if you want my opinion.”
Monica started tapping on her keyboard. “I don’t. When you fix your relationship with your parents, I’ll take your advice. Until then—”
“Right, get back to work. I’m here for free, you know. It’s not like I’m getting anything out of this.”
Monica glanced up as Jules tromped to the door. “Actually, I’m sending your lawyer a letter, telling him how helpful you’ve been. He’s going to pass it along to the judge.”
Jules turned. “Really?” Her eyes narrowed. “Did Cal put you up to this?”
“No. And by the way, are you coming to the villa tonight?” A couple nights a week, Jules ate dinner with them. Cal enjoyed his sister’s company. They teased each other mercilessly. It made Monica miss Allie, just a smidge. Before Monica had taken the job at the foundation, their relationship had finally been in a good place. Monica wished they could go back to those days.
Jules sighed dramatically. “No. It’s spaghetti night at the Blake house, and I promised the twins I’d be there. Thomas says he can stuff four meatballs in his mouth at once. We’ll see.” She left the office, slamming the door behind her.
As soon as Jules left, Monica began plowing through her to-do list like a woman possessed. In the last few weeks, her life had been divided in half. During the day, she was all business, but she no longer stayed late, and she didn’t work on weekends. Once six o’clock rolled around, Monica blew through the office door…and straight into Cal’s arms. Now, she devoted her nights to pleasure.
They’d eat dinner on the patio, then make love in the pool…and the living room, the kitchen, the foyer. And every night she’d lay in his bed, engulfed in his arms, listening to him talk about his travels.
“What about Egypt?”
“Rode a camel to see the pyramids. I was…twelve, maybe? Camels are disgusting animals. Give me a Mercedes Gullwing any day.”
“Great Wall of China?”
“I’ve seen it. But do you know what’s really fascinating? The Shaolin monastery in Dengfeng, and the nearby martial arts school. Seeing these vast demonstrations, masses of children going through their motions, like a choreographed dance.”
She’d asked him if he’d ever hit the clubs on Ibiza or partied on the beaches in Barcelona.
“When I was younger. That gets old after a while. Temples, ruins, talking to people in the marketplaces—much more interesting.”
“Favorite place in Africa?”
Cal remained quiet for a beat. “Safaris are marvelous. Sleeping in a tree-house suite, watching the animals in their habitat was amazing.”
“What about the poverty?”
“Awful. The conditions in some of the countries are deplorable. No sanitation, no clean water. It’s heartbreaking. That’s not what you want to hear though, is it? You want to hear the good stories, the exciting places.”
Monica rolled over to face him. “No, that’s not all I want to hear. I know what conditions are like in developing countries, Cal. I may not travel, but I can read.” She propped herself up on one elbow. “They need medicine, doctors, more clinics.”
“Didn’t mean to insult you, love. I apologize.”
She sighed. “It’s okay. I just wish the foundation would branch out a little.”
“Allie wouldn’t go for it?” he asked, kissing her chin.
“No. And she’s still not speaking to me right now.”
Cal rubbed his hand along her back. “You two will sort things out. It’s what you do.”
“And what about you and Pix? When are you going to thaw that wall of ice between the two of you?”
Instead of answering, Cal told her about the time he sat in a café and watched rain fall on the Seine, and what St. Petersburg Square looked like at sunset. Monica pictured herself there too, dreamed about it. The more he talked, the more she wanted to see the world. What was it like to climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower? Or see a real Venice canal? It was a lovely fantasy.
Listening to Cal’s sexy voice as he weaved stories of small, quaint villages and exotic, far-off cities was addictive—everything about him was addictive. His touch, his kisses, his smile. She’d never get tired of him, but she could never let herself get used to him, either. Every night, Monica walked a tightrope, allowing herself to open up to Cal, but not too much. It was a difficult balancing act, and Monica had never been good at balancing.
One evening after she got off work, Cal drove her out to Henderson. He’d seen one of his cars up for sale at a recent auction and contacted the new owners, a wealthy couple who lived in a square box of a mansion. They housed their collection in the most ostentatious garage Monica had ever seen—black-and-white slate flooring, climate controlled, and rows of vintage cars that stretched on for days.
Cal stopped next to a red Ferrari. “What do you think?” he asked, bending near the front fender and tugging on her hand until she hunched next to him. “See these lines? Look at that delicious curve of the front panel.” He actually petted the pristine grille.
“And you restored this?”
“Most of it. My lads at the shop helped. V-12 engine, three hundred horsepower. Gorgeous.” Cal moved to the driver’s side door. “Get in. See what it feels like.”
Monica slid into the leather seat. Luxury. This was the ultimate. Even the interior was beautiful—a padded leather dashboard, a polished wooden steering wheel. It felt cool and smooth beneath her fingers.
“Isn’t she something?” Cal asked. “I had to create my own jigs for the suspension parts, and molds for the back panel, but it was worth the effort.” He rubbed his fingertips across the sleek roof.
“If you keep talking like that,” Monica said, “I’m going to get jealous of a car.”
Cal bent down, leaning his hands on the open window. “You should hear how I talk about you. Your chassis is stellar.”
“Are you referring to my ass again?” She shot a quick look to the corner of the room, where the tall, balding owner stood watching them. “What’s his deal? Does he think you’re going to steal something?”
“They only built twenty of these. I don’t blame him for acting proprietarily. Just finding the parts for this beauty took a massive amount of time and work.”
“What did it look like before this transformation?” she asked.
“A woman in Hamburg inherited it from her father-in-law, and it just sat there, collecting dust and corroding in an old barn. Wasn’t even covered up properly. Can you imagine?”
“Ah, poor orphaned Ferrari.” But it was stunning. The overhead lights reflected off the glossy, candy-apple paint. It was sex on wheels. “I wish I could drive it.”
“So do I.” Cal stroked it one more time. “Anyway”—he straightened and helped her out of the car—“I thought I’d show you what I can really do. I haven’t made much headway on my Mustang, not as much as I’d like, at any rate. Without the equipment in my shop, it’s been a challenge.”
“Well, this is impressive. You’re kind of amazing, Calum Hughes.”
For once, he didn’t come back with an arrogant quip. He just smiled, a little shyly. “Thank you, but it was a team effort.”
Before they left, Monica talked the couple into buying tickets to the gala. While the wife wrote out a check, the husband pointed at Cal. “I’ve been searching over ten years for a ’57 Aston Martin. Would love to add one to my collection.”
“I’ll be on the lookout,” Cal said. “I’d love to work on one, as well, but they’re damned hard to find. As soon as I get back to London, I’ll put out the word.”
Monica smiled and accepted the check, but she’d overheard Cal’s conversation, and it put things into perspective. Monica tried not to actively think about Cal leaving, but he would, and soon. Just because they were having a good time didn’t mean he’d stick around. On the drive back to Vegas, Monica reminded herself this was supposed to be fun. No strings, that was their agreement.
“Penny for them?”
“What?” She glanced over at him. Sitting behind the wheel, he always looked self-assured.
He picked up her hand and kissed it. “You’re thinking terribly deep thoughts over there. You grow very quiet when you’re thinking. Want to talk about it? Are you worried about the gala? The board meeting? That’s coming up in a couple of weeks, isn’t it?”
“I was just mentally running through my to-do list for tomorrow.” She rattled off a few mundane tasks, guaranteed to bore him in three seconds.
Monica might like sleeping in Cal’s arms every night, hearing all about his adventures. She even liked listening to him talk about European sports cars. But Cal wouldn’t stick around, not for her, and probably not even for Jules. Leopards didn’t lose their spots. Look at her. Monica had had her shit together until she’d run into Cal, and now she was almost back to square one—falling for the wrong guy.
No, not falling. You’re in control this time, remember? Monica could separate her feelings from sex, right? Men did it all the time. Thank God she’d had this wake-up call before she’d done something stupid, like stumble into love with Calum Hughes.
* * *
Cal was frustrated. Not sexually, of course. He and Monica shagged more often than rabbits. It should be embarrassing, the vast amounts of sex they had, but he was too contented to care. They’d christened every room in the bloody villa more than once. The linen closet had been a little cramped, but worth it.
No, his frustration lay solely with Monica herself. Since their visit to see the Ferrari a week ago, something had been troubling her. He wasn’t sure what had occurred that night, but she’d changed. Not outwardly. Sexually, she was as willing and responsive as ever.
Just five minutes ago, she’d sucked him dry and seemed to take great pleasure in watching his response. Monica had lightly skirted her tongue along the bell end of his cock, then flitted little licks up and down his shaft. When she finally took him deep in her throat, Cal toppled over the edge of sanity, thrusting his hands into her hair in an effort to guide her, force her to go faster.
But Monica had released him and shook off his grasp. “This is my show, Hot Rod. Hands to yourself.” She’d started doing that too—calling him Hot Rod. It was kind of charming.
“Why are you talking? Your mouth should be full.”
Puckering her lips, Monica lightly blew across the tip. His prick jerked at the feel of her warm breath, and Cal clenched his teeth. “You’re slaying me, love. It’s brutal.”
“Death by slow fellatio? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a thing,” he defended. “Look it up.”
“I don’t need a backseat driver. Keep your hands to yourself.”
“Fine, no hands,” he’d ground out. “But turnabout is a bitch—you remember that, Miss Prim.”
She smiled up at him. “You’re going to pay for that.” She took him in her mouth again, and every time he got close, she’d back off. Monica played this game well, goddamn her.
As he neared orgasm once more, Cal had been panting hard, clutching the sheets. Sweat covered his brow. He wasn’t going to beg her for release—he had too much pride. But he had to clamp his jaw shut in order to keep from shouting, “Hurry the fuck up and let me come!” Perhaps she’d read his expression, because ultimately Monica increased her speed, bobbing her head, taking him deeper while her hands pumped the base of his cock.
When he finally came, he shot into her mouth. Long streams of it. She took it all and kept going, milking him dry, giving him possibly the most intense orgasm he’d ever had.
And now he lay here, completely spent, yet still frustrated. No, the sex hadn’t changed—it was this part afterward that had altered.
She lay spooned against him, her head propped on his outstretched arm. Cal brushed his thumb over her stomach, waiting. Waiting for her to talk, to ask him questions, to say something…anything. But Monica remained silent. If he asked what was troubling her, she’d chide him, tell him she was thinking about tomorrow’s tasks.
Bullshit.
Cal knew when she was lying. Always. So he quit asking, because he hated it when she fobbed him off. Resented the bloody hell out of it, actually.
Intimacy. That was the missing ingredient. They’d had intimacy before, and now it was gone. Monica used to talk to him after sex. She’d opened up about her mum a little bit. He’d told her about his fight with Pix, his concerns for Jules.
Monica may be doubling down on the sex, but her heart remained guarded. She held an important part of herself back from him, and Cal didn’t know why.
“Want to hear about the elephants in Sri Lanka?” he whispered, then kissed her neck.
“Next time,” she said.
Cal’s ego felt a bit bruised from that one. Why did a lack of intimacy worry him anyway? That was for twats and people in real relationships. He and Monica were all about sex. They’d made a deal from the beginning.
As Monica fell asleep, Cal stayed awake long into the night, thinking about where he’d land next. His garage manager, Otto, was pressuring him to come back to London and get his ass to work. But Cal didn’t know if he wanted to head to England in the middle of winter.
He could go to Hawaii and surf. Or he could fly up to Alberta, watch the northern lights. But none of it appealed. Trouble was, Cal couldn’t picture himself anywhere but here. Lying next to Monica, smelling her sweet scent as he cradled her in his arms each night.
What if he and Monica came to a new arrangement? Still have fun, of course, but perhaps they could be… What? What would you be, muppet, exclusive? Yes, exactly. Exclusive. So what if he flew back to London for a few weeks or even months? He could come and see Monica in between. Visit Jules to make sure she stayed on course. Long-distance relationships—people did them all the time.
He wouldn’t be able to go haring off on a moment’s notice, but so what? They wouldn’t live in each other’s pockets either, like Trevor and Allie. Not everyone had to. He and Monica were independent people. They didn’t have to get married or live in the same place all the bloody time. They could have their own lives, but still be committed to each other.
Yes, this could work. Cal congratulated himself on his sensible idea and fell asleep around three a.m.
* * *
When he opened his eyes, bright sunshine flooded the room. Monica sat on the end of the bed, pulling on a black stocking. The bed bouncing, that’s what had awakened him. Thought he was in the middle of an earthquake there for a minute. “What time is it?”
“It’s eight seventeen. I’m so late. My stupid phone died.”
Cal sniffed and threw back the covers. “I’ll have to drive you home. We left your car at your place.” Rubbing his eyes, he staggered to the closet and grabbed a set of clothes. He took them back to the bedroom and caught a glimpse at Monica’s bare thigh as he shoved his leg into a pair of ripped jeans. She stared at him as well.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re not going to wear underwear?”
“I thought time was of the essence. We need to get you home to change. Do you really want to have a talk about my lack of smalls right now?”
She shoved her feet into the sensible black pumps. “No. And you don’t have to take me anywhere. I’ve called a cab.”
“Nonsense. I’ll have you home faster. You can show me the back roads.” He slipped a T-shirt over his head and shoved his feet into a pair of ancient athletic trainers. “All ready.”
Monica finger-combed her hair and walked down the hall. “You men have it so easy.”
“No time for a diatribe on my sex,” he called after her. He picked up the bedside phone and dialed Mr. Lawson. “Have the car ready out front, would you, and cancel Miss Campbell’s taxi? We’re in something of a hurry.”
Monica fluttered back. “My purse, my bag.” She made a circuit of the room, stopping to check under the bed.
“You dropped them on the sofa last night.” He took her by the shoulders and shepherded her to the foyer. Her hair was a mess, she wore no makeup, and her clothes had been wadded up on the floor all night. She looked wonderful.
Cal darted into the lounge and grabbed her bags, then followed Monica out the front door and down the stone path. The Mustang waited for them, a valet at the ready, holding open the passenger door.
Cal grabbed a bill and shoved it in the man’s hand. “Ta.” He hopped behind the wheel, let Monica give him side-road directions, and sped ten miles over the speed limit the entire way.
When he arrived in the driveway, he killed the engine. “Go change. I’ll make you a cup of coffee, yeah?”
She turned to him, clutching her bag with both hands like it was a bloody good luck charm. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Monica, my love, why are you wasting precious time arguing? You need to fix that hair.”
Her hand flew to her head and patted it. “Great.” She climbed out of the car and ran inside the house.
Cal got out at a slower pace. Life would never be boring with Monica Campbell. Walking through the front door, he heard the shower running upstairs. He’d been inside her house only a few times, and it was every bit as sad and colorless as he remembered.
Striding to the kitchen, he found the tiny four-cup coffeepot. He opened a few cabinets. All empty, except for one that held paper plates, plastic glasses, and disposable travel cups with lids. It housed the coffee can and filters too, along with stir sticks and little packets of sugar.
As the coffee brewed, Cal checked all the other cabinets and drawers, finding only plastic utensils. Even Cal’s flat in London had proper cutlery. An expired carton of milk and two shriveled apples hid in the refrigerator. This entire house lacked permanency. She lived like a squatter. This was a place to sleep, like a hotel, except even hotels hung bad artwork on the walls.
Monica walked into the kitchen a few moments later. Today’s bland color: gray. Gray pantsuit, gray button-up blouse, gray shoes.
He poured a cup of coffee, doctored it with a packet of sugar, and handed it to her. “Here.”
Was the rest of the house as dismal as the first floor? Was the bedroom this tragic? He had to know. Without a word, Cal walked past Monica and charged up the stairs.
“Where are you going? Cal, what’s wrong with you?”
She dogged his steps as he peeked into the two small bedrooms on the second floor. A few unpacked moving boxes lined the walls, but the rooms were absent of furniture. Then he strode into the master bedroom.
It was equally as appalling. An unmade bed—sloppy, his girl—no headboard, just a mattress and box spring and plain white sheets. Blinds covered the windows, not curtains. There were no personal touches whatsoever. No books, no knickknacks, nothing that said Monica Campbell lived here.
“Cal, get out.”
He thrust his hands deep into his back pockets while his gaze spanned the room, and after taking everything in, settled on her. “I’ve seen hotels in Bolivia that have more personality than this. The clothes I get. I despise them, even though I understand them. But this?” He removed his hands and flung an arm outward. “You need pink pillows and pretty bedding and pictures of your family. Where’s a photo of your mother?”
“Get out of my room.” She set the cup down on a bedside table. She only had the one.
“Where’s your mum? I haven’t seen a picture of her or your sisters or your father in this entire house.”
“I haven’t had time to decorate. I keep telling you that.”
“I’m not talking about decorations. I don’t know a single woman who doesn’t put her own stamp on a place. Darling, no one’s too busy to prop a family photo on the dresser.”
She held up her hand. “Do not compare me to all the other women you know. You need to leave so I can go to work.”
“What do you imagine I’ll do here alone, steal your cache of paper plates?” Cal tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for this pathetic house. But really, the house was just a symbol—like her clothes, like her job. The only time Monica spoke of anything personal was after sex, when her impenetrable guard lowered ever so slightly. Occasionally, she’d share a story about her mother, about her childhood with Allie and Brynn. But even then, Monica never revealed more than morsels, little bits of herself doled out in tiny increments. She always left Cal eager for more, but the minute he asked a personal question, she’d clam up.
Monica Campbell bought hot-pink, fuzzy steering-wheel covers. That was frivolous. She wore frilly bloomers and bras that made his cock stir to attention just thinking about them. But they were hidden beneath her conservative suits. She’d dated Ryan What’s-his-tits, a bloke so utterly devoid of charm, even his own mother must loathe him. Cal would bet his trust fund the man had never given Monica the type of rough, raunchy sex she needed. Yet she’d stayed with him for a year.
Monica Campbell’s entire life was a well-constructed lie.
Cal walked past her to the closet, ignoring her sputtering. Surely she had to own something besides knickers, something that revealed her true nature.
He turned on the light. For a walk-in closet—even a small one—she had very few clothes. All suits, mostly trousers, in every shade of hideous. In the back hung three long dresses covered by plastic dry cleaner’s bags. For her charity galas, obviously.
“Cal.” Monica now tugged at his arm. “I’m serious. Get the hell out of my closet. Get out of my house.”
“Why? There’s nothing here, is there? Not one bit of the real you.” Cal had never been so angry in his entire life. A sensuous, funny woman lay beneath all that fucking gray. “Whatever the hell you’re wearing under that ugly suit, that’s the real you. What color is it today? Purple? Bright blue?”
“Stop it,” she yelled. “I don’t have to justify myself to you.”
He strode past her, out of the closet, and stopped in front of her dresser. He began yanking open drawers and grabbed handfuls of colorful lace. “This”—he shook a hot-pink bra at her—“this is who you are. Colorful and sexy and whimsical.”
Monica marched forward and jerked the scanties from his hands. “What the hell’s gotten into you this morning?” She shoved them back in the drawer and slammed it shut. “When I let you give me a ride home, that wasn’t an invitation to insult me or paw through my personal shit.”
He slowly walked toward her, and Monica skirted around the dresser, retreating until her shoulders hit the wall. Her wide eyes registered shock, but it quickly turned to anger as he kept stalking toward her.
“I’ve tasted and touched every single part of your body,” he said. “But you don’t want me looking in your bedroom, your closet. There’s not one personal item in this entire god-awful little house. Why are you hiding?”
Monica shoved at his chest with both hands, but he didn’t move. Wouldn’t move, not until he had an answer.
“Why are you doing this? I’m not hiding. This is me. This is the real me.” She sounded desperate, as if she were trying to convince herself as well as him.
“Are you really that thick?” He studied her, puzzled by her implausible assertion that this Spartan room, these dull colors, were a reflection of her true spirit. They were just the opposite. Camouflage. “You’re living a lie. I don’t know if it’s for Allie’s benefit or your own. Like that fake Statue of Liberty on the Strip, this character you’re playing is a cheap imitation of the real thing. And the real Monica is brilliant.”
“Shut up.” She shoved at his chest again, harder this time. “Don’t criticize me for being a responsible adult, something you could never manage. And don’t talk to me about living a lie, because when life gets tough, Cal, you run in the opposite direction. You don’t exactly confront things head-on—you haven’t talked to your mom in weeks. So who’s the one hiding, you or me?”
Cal’s eyes narrowed. “Well, I never claimed to be something I’m not.”
“Fuck. You. I don’t owe you any explanations.” Her breath came in shallow gasps as she stared up at him. Twin pops of color brightened her cheeks.
“The hell you don’t. You act like one person when you’re in my bed, and another person when you’re out of it. Will the real Monica Campbell please stand up?”
“There’s an easy solution. I’ll never be in your bed again.”
“Really? Are you having me on right now? You want me every bit as much as I want you.” Now he was breathing heavily, as if his lungs couldn’t take in enough air. He and Monica simply stared at each other, the anger palpable between them.
Then they lunged at each other. Monica threw herself at Cal, ripping at his shirt. He returned the favor, grabbing her blouse and tearing at the buttons. Red-and-white polka dots trimmed in white frills. That’s what she wore beneath the bland gray costume.
She leaped into his arms, and he caught her, stumbling backward until the mattress hit his calves, then he tumbled down and rolled over, pinning Monica beneath him.
Angrily, he kissed her as he yanked her shirt from her trousers in quick, impatient movements and finished ripping open her blouse.
Monica fumbled with the hook on her slacks, and Cal lifted his head. Nudging her hands aside, he helped her lower them down her hips.
She pulled on his collar, scraping his neck with her nails in the process, and jerked at his T-shirt. “Take it off.”
Cal sat up and stripped out of the shirt—she’d ripped the neckline, but the rest remained intact. After dropping it on the floor, he moved back on top of her.
Things often got frenzied between them, but this felt different. Raw and primal. Monica dug her nails into his sides. Cal kissed her too hard and grabbed fistfuls of her hair.
Curving her body around him, she wiggled her fingers into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Condom,” she said, gasping for breath.
“Get one, and hurry up.” He didn’t want protracted foreplay. He wanted to fuck. Hard. Take every bit of his frustration out on her. Unzipping his pants, he wrenched them low enough to free his cock.
In seconds, he had the condom on and placed himself at her entrance. In one powerful stroke, Cal rammed inside her. As he moved, his eyes met hers. Her light blue irises appeared glassy, and her pupils dilated. Cal held her gaze as he pounded in and out of her.
Biting her lip, Monica lowered her eyes until they drifted shut.
Cal stopped moving. “Look at me.” He waited until she complied. This time, her eyes weren’t unfocused—they were full of rage. “Say my name.”
Her lips pinched together. “Asshole.”
He gritted his teeth in a semblance of a smile. “Almost. Try it again.”
She hesitated. “Calum.”
“Again,” he grated, pulling out of her, then driving back inside.
“Calum.”
He continued, bucking his hips over and over. She felt so good, so tight.
Monica reached down to rub her clit. Every time her eyes would start to close, he’d stop moving. After the fourth time, her gaze never wavered.
For once, he came first. Burying his head in the crook of her neck, he continued thrusting until his balls emptied. Monica came then, shuddering beneath him. Her legs twisted against his, her trousers bunched at the ankles.
Afterward, he didn’t move, but kept his full weight on top of her. When his heart resumed its normal pace, Cal rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Neither spoke for several minutes.
“I don’t know what you want from me, Cal,” she finally said. “But I’m not going to turn myself inside out for you. You’re not worth it.”
