Callum, in his short-sleeved t-shirt which stretches over his obscenely chiseled chest, wearing a frayed hat, and a gingham apron around his trim waist? I’ve walked into a wet dream I never want to wake up from.
I stand in the foyer of Cal’s beautiful home, staring unabashedly at him and drinking in every detail like a woman parched.
“Do you not like tulips?” he asks when I make no move to take them. He frowns at the flowers like they’ve done something offensive. “I didn’t know your favorite kind, so I took a chance.”
“I don’t have a favorite flower,” I reply, though tulips have definitely shot to the top of my list.
“Should I have bought potatoes instead of flowers?” He smirks, gesturing to the bouquet again. Shaking off my surprise, I accept them eagerly.
“No, I mean. . . thank you. These are lovely.”
As he ushers me inside, it takes everything in me not to bury my flaming face in the tulips until I recover. As pathetic as it may be, I’ve never received flowers before. I’m touched he cared enough to buy them. Not that he needs to put in any effort. It’s all but certain he’ll see me naked tonight. That inevitability has my hands shaking, but I can’t freak out and ruin this. I shrug my jacket off to cool myself as Cal ambles up to the stove, checking on a large pot.
“Hope you’re hungry. It’s not a fancy restaurant, but I can work my way around the kitchen.”
“Smells good. Besides,” I add, dropping my purse on the empty stool nearby, “you don’t have to take me to a fancy restaurant. Not like this is a date.”
Cal swipes a spoon from his drawer before waving me over. He dips it into the sauce, blows gently on it and holds it out for me.
“We’re not going to a restaurant because I didn’t want to take a chance being spotted outside, especially if you aren’t comfortable with any kind of scrutiny.”
My lips close around the warm metal as the tang of tomato hits my tongue. I’m torn between complimenting his delicious sauce and assuring him that my comment wasn’t some roundabout hint.
As if he’s guessed my thoughts, his chin dips down.
“This can be a date if you want,” he says gently, eyes lingering on my lips as I lick them. “Or it can simply be two friends hanging out for dinner.”
“A casual date between friends,” I hum. “No big deal.”
“No big deal,” he repeats, teasing me with a friendly wink. I chuckle, at ease with him in a way I’m not with others.
“Here, snack on this while the pasta cooks.” Cal pulls out a green plastic container and dumps the contents into a large wooden bowl. I peer at the flat, yellow, jerky-looking chips, trying to guess what they are, when the sweet scent of something familiar hits my nostrils.
“Mango?” My voice pitches in surprise.
“Dried mango. Couldn’t find the fresh ones, I’m afraid.”
He looks embarrassed. This man, who has taken the effort to remember what I like and found a replacement, is unhappy he couldn’t bring me my favorite fruit fresh. An unfamiliar tension tightens within me, the skin along the sides of my face prickling. What have I done to deserve such special treatment?
Doubts nag me while my body thrums with his closeness, seeking the comfort of his presence. Such vastly contrasting feelings rob me of my voice. I pick a piece, mumbling quietly, “This is good enough.”
When I bite into it, sweetness floods my mouth. The taste of mango washes away all other flavors. A soft curse reaches my ears and my eyes fly open, noting his gaze set intently upon my mouth. That’s when I realize I’ve moaned at the unexpected foodgasm.
Suddenly. Obscenely.Loudly.
“I’m sorry—that was. . . I didn’t mean to. Sorry! I won’t do it again.”
Cal’s throat bobs, sounding choked when he says, “That’s probably a good idea.”
Close your mouth and stop making noises. You sound like a whore.
Namik’s hissed words and the recollection of his bruising grip slithers to the forefront of my mind.
Mortification slams into me, a piercing burn rising up the back of my nose and settling behind my eyes. That prickling sensation from before returns, except now, it spreads down my arms and makes me want to hug myself to keep the shame away.
“I was going to wait ’til later butfuck it. Come here,“ Cal orders gruffly, a curt, impatient sound rumbling in his throat when I don’tmove quickly enough. I glance up just in time to see him eat the distance between us in a single step.
Large hands cup my cheeks, tilting my face up. When his lips press against mine, it isn’t soft or sweet. It’s hot, possessive, andhungry.