Page 128 of Callan

It’s fancy, but that’s beyond the point.

She looks all right.

Yeah, normally, a woman linked to my arm would wear a sexy dress and heels.

She’d be all smiles and languorous stares.

She’d try to touch me in the car, under the table, or suck me in the bathroom. And we would both act like her expensive dress is in no danger of getting ruined.

“Are you sure I’m all right?” she asks, lifting her gaze to me and catching me eyeing her chest again.

“You look sexy as hell,” I say, studying how the slim fit wool top is molding on her chest, and her perfect hips and legs are hugged by her tight pants.

I move closer and run my hands up her neck before threading my fingers through her hair.

Her shoulders slightly quiver, as do her lips, while I brush her hair away and watch her eyes glint.

My fingers slide to the base of her neck and unbutton her neckline.

The soft swell of her breasts meet my inquiring eyes, and despite standing on the sidewalk and the goosebumps sparked on her by the frigid air, I lift my hand, brush the bottom of her left breast, lower my head, and press my lips against her skin.

“Callan,” she murmurs, chiding me while an embarrassed chuckle lifts off her lips. “You can’t do this to me,” she softly protests while I sink my teeth into her flesh, leaving a mark on her on purpose.

“You’re turning me on,” she says, her breast in my hand, my mouth sucking on her flesh.

I straighten and reach inside my coat before running a hand down my fly and adjusting my rock hard cock.

“See how much you turn me on,” I say, gently taking her hand and pressing it against my bulge.

Her eyes tilt to mine, lit like candles.

“You said no touching,” she reminds me.

Warm and pulsing against her hand, I give her a smile.

“Youare not allowed to do it. I can do it to myself as many times as I want.”

“Torture yourself?” she tosses at me.

“At least we agree on that,” I reply. “Let’s go inside.”

I wrap my arm around her and lead her to the door where the bouncer who knows me well tilts his chin in a greeting and opens a thick metal door without asking a damn question.

MACKENZIE

I’m shakingwith emotion as we enter the club.

It’s a small space with a lot of energy and too many loud people. A large bar occupies an entire wall, while tables for two and bar stools fill the rest of the space.

The crowd splits when we walk into the room.

He knows almost everybody here. And everybody knows him. Men shake hands with him.

A woman pulls up close and whispers something in his ear before pulling away, laughing.

He seems at ease with everybody and does little––okay, nothing––to introduce me to these people.

“You come here often,” I say when we claim a couple of seats at the bar.

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