Page 15 of Callan

“I’m not your cupcake.”

“That I see,” he mumbles, his eyes moving quickly from my face to my hands. “You’re more like a savory snack.”

His gaze keeps sweeping over the balcony.

“Where is your fucking phone?” he asks in a brutally sexy tone.

A sliver of light falls over his face, and I’m staring at some seriously good-looking man. Crooked eyebrows, a frown sitting in between, locked jaw, lips that could feel like heaven against my skin, dark amber eyes unable to stay still, a simmering fire shining through them, their flames going from ink dark to fiery red.

He is a pain in the ass, I can tell, but he must be a master in the bedroom according to the noise filling the room upstairs in the evenings.

But why go to all the trouble when he could get sex with a flick of his hand, a teasing smile, or even a lifted eyebrow?

He’s sexy even when angry.

I can only imagine how irresistible he might be when he’s in the mood to pick up and have sex with a woman.

Those strong hands could rile up nerve endings a woman didn’t know she had, making her wet between her legs just by trailing her bare skin.

Obsessed with finding my phone––which should be my concern as well––Mr. Devilish himself seems unaware of his impact on me.

I move my hand around the concrete, riffling through the fluffy snow.

It can’t be far, and I hope the screen didn’t crack when I dropped it.

Speaking of bad luck.

This is the second time I’ve dropped it since I lost my job.

He holds me with one arm, not minding the snow lining his back, and runs his free hand over the floor of the balcony.

I use the opportunity to pull away from him.

“Stay still, babydoll, or you’ll get in trouble.”

I huff at him.

“Let me go.”

“Huffing won’t get you far. Where is your damn phone?”

He’s probably sitting on it.

As if he just heard my thought, he shifts slightly and lifts his knees before sliding his hand under his legs.

We see it at the same time, and we both make a go for it. He’s fast, but I’m just as quick. Plus, I have my both hands free. And we fight, the slippery gadget sliding out of his hand while I use my weight to ruin his feeble balance and recover my phone.

“You little cunning fox,” he says, the slightest shred of dark amusement threading through his voice.

None of it seems real, though.

The only thing he cares for is my phone, and it dawns on me that this is not a game for him.

He really is interested in getting those pictures––and my recording however long it is––erased from my phone.

Why does he care about them so much? He didn’t throw a fit when the woman’s husband came home unexpectedly.

He doesn’t like his pictures on my phone?

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