I step forward shaking my head for him to stop.
He does.
I’m not even an inch from him now, and he stands taller, looking down on me with a saddened air radiating around him. His eyes are the color of a hurricane, thunderous and turbulent. A storm is happening behind the glazed clouds of his irises right here and now. He’s breathing heavy, and then I realize that I’m not breathing at all. I take in a deep, shaky breath and blow it out again, trying to figure my next move.
I press onto my tiptoes and wait. I want to kiss him. I shouldn’t. He’s my friend, hell, he’s my employer but I know what the briefest of kisses with him feels like, and I can’t help wanting to feel it again.
His breath hitches.
I know what I’m doing is wrong. On some base level buried deep in the back of my mind, there’s the nagging little alarm going off, blaring out “MISTAKE! MISTAKE! MISTAKE!” And I’m worried that it’s not enough to stop me, to stop this. We’re standing face-to-face, our breath is mingling in the too-close proximity; I breathe out and he breathes me in. The struggle is clear on his face; he’s fighting against the urge to take what we both desperately want but can’t have without killing our friendship. I think better of it and lower back onto my heels. What was I thinking?
“Fuck it,” he growls. I raise my eyes to his the instant his lips smash against mine in a violent assault, and I stumble backward from the force of the impact. They’re so soft and wet, a perfect contrast to the light scruff across his face that’s now scratching against my all-too sensitive skin.
“Wait,” I breathe into his mouth in a feeble attempt to stop this kiss, this amazing, sensual kiss. My hands are in his hair, tugging at the messy strands, pulling and pushing as I try to form a coherent thought. “We can’t—”
“We can,” he interjects and presses his forehead to mine, closing his eyes tight. “You want this as bad as I do, Tweet. Just admit it, let it happen, don’t fight it. Don’t fight us.”
There’s a raw emotion to his voice, one I haven’t heard from him before. It sounds a hell of a lot like vulnerability. His composure’s completely lost, and so is he.
“Cal, we…I…” I can’t finish my sentence. I can’t think clearly with him pressed against me like this, and none of the reasons why this shouldn’t be happening seems relevant anymore.
His lips descend slowly this time; he’s giving me a chance to move away, to stop.
I stay still.
This time when his lips meet mine, the brute force is replaced with a passion so intense I can feel it roll off him in waves. His hands fall from my waist and over the swell of my hips; they’re hot and rough and right against my skin. He reaches around and grabs my ass, kneading the muscle before cupping me and pulling me in harder. My traitorous legs immediately lift and circle his waist as he takes a step forward and pins me against the wall. There’s so much desire ricocheting between us it’s almost too much. I’ve never been pinned against a wall like this, not even with Daniel, and we’d been together for a long time. I thought we’d done everything, experienced everything, but this is just…it’s somehow more. Callum is more.
“Shit, Tweet, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fantasized about this,” he mumbles against my jaw. His lips roam my face, leaving hot wet kisses against all the places they travel.
My moan is the only response I can manage while his mouth is at my throat, sucking and licking and nipping. I’m done for. I couldn’t stop this now even if I wanted to and I don’t. I don’t want him to stop, I need this, him. The music is still playing, and the words are a horrible reminder of what I’m doing.
“Stop the music, Cal, please…I…” But what do I say to him? Stop the music because it’s reminding me that you’re not Cole? My stomach twists and my mind races, but then it’s quiet, and his mouth is back on mine. He’s paused the music with his phone and thrown it onto the shelf beside my purse.
“Better?”
God, if he only knew…better doesn’t even come close as I struggle not to cry out in pleasure when his head moves lower, letting his tongue trace a long, languid line down my neck and across my collarbone. I make a noise that sounds somewhere between a yes and a sigh and a groan. I feel his smile, the rise of his cheek pressing tightly against me.
His fingers push through my hair, massaging my scalp at the nape. The sensation sends me right back to the night I was attacked. He’d consoled me, brought me in for a hug I so desperately needed. His thick arms had enveloped me in his warmth as I trembled and shuddered from the sobs that were wracking my body. He’d stayed silent, rubbing my shoulders, and his hands had found my nape as I’d cried into his chest. Awful, heaving, terrified cries, and he hugged me harder. He saved me that night. He’s been saving me from the first moment I met him.
“Cal,” I say in a forced breath. The thrum of my pulse is ringing so loudly in my ears I shake my head to try and right it. I’m not sure if it’s the wine I’ve drunk, or the effect Cal’s having on me, but I’m lightheaded and needy, and so very turned on. His head lifts, and he brings his face back up my body, kissing me lightly all the way up. He’s so close when his face finally reaches mine our noses are touching. The faint smell of whiskey and toothpaste mingles in the air between us. We’re stealing each other’s air, drinking in what the other exhales. I’m writhing shamelessly against him, trying to cause a little friction and ease the building ache.
“What?” he whispers, still pressing me against the wall. Everything is unmoving, quiet and still, except for our chests. They’re frantically hammering at an exhausting rate; each rise and fall lifts and lowers me in his arms.
“Thank you.”
I can tell he’s not sure what I’m thanking him for; but then again, maybe he is, because his eyes are clearer somehow, and he exhales pulling my back from its resting place. He’s carrying all of my weight now. His mouth lowers back to mine, and his eyes slowly drift closed a fraction of a second before mine close too. We’re kissing but not. Our lips are resting against each other’s, mouths unmoving, just still. It’s the best non-kiss I’ve ever had. After a moment, he begins walking us from the room. When I open my eyes, I find his eyes roaming my face before they fix back onto mine.
I lower my face and he lifts my chin with his finger, forcing my gaze back to his. “Look at me, Tweet.”
I’m pretty sure I melt a tiny bit in his arms, but I do as I’m told. My eyes meet his and stay there this time, never straying once, and neither do his. Not even to see where he’s going. Still looking me in the eyes, he walks us down the hall and past my bedroom door toward his.
This is dangerous. Once I cross this line with him I can never go back, and as much as I want to, and fuck do I want to right now, I know I shouldn’t. He’s never been coy in sharing the fact that he doesn’t do relationships. According to…well, everyone, his life is made up of a series of hook-ups, and that’s fine. I’m not judging him, but that’s not me.
My body is thrumming with a need for him; I want his lips back on mine in another non-kiss. I want the roughness of his hands pressing into my skin. I want his touch in places I shouldn’t. My body is on fire in his arms. Desire and heat mixed with a streak of guilt courses through me and pools low in my stomach. I want him too much and then not at all. If he only wants this for tonight…it will ruin me.
He places me on the floor, opens the door to his room and then takes my hand and leads me inside. My apprehension grows tenfold as I step into his room and he closes the door behind me. His room is filled with the scent of him: soap and spice and something that’s just uniquely Callum. I feel completely out of my depth.
“What’s wrong?” he asks softly, sensing my hesitation.