Page 56 of Callum

Rosalind’s head tips back, a small sound escaping her lips that instantly has the blood rushing through my veins. Her arms wrap around my waist, hugging my hips as she rolls her body into me.

“Is this what you were doing?” My hand falls from her throat, replaced by my gun pressing into the underside of her chin. She doesn’t stop, her hips grinding harder against the front of my dress pants. I can’t help the way my body tenses at the feel of her pressed tightly over my unmistakable erection.

She doesn’t seem to care that I’m a hair trigger away from killing her. If anything, the cool press of steel against her throat seems to encourage her. Rosalind’s body rolls against mine again, and my empty hand drops to her hip. I’m not sure if I intend to stop her or help her; I just need to touch her. “Were you fucking him?”

The question is easily heard over her loud breaths, but she doesn’t answer me. Her leg hitches higher, and I slide my palm along her thigh until my hand wraps beneath her knee. I use the leverage to tip her further back, tilting her hips into mine. The moan that falls from her perfect mouth has my cock pulsing in time with my heart. “Answer me, Red.”

“No,” she breathes against my lips, the word somewhat muffled by how hard I’m pressing the gun into the underside of her jaw. “I wasn’t fucking him.”

“Then what were you doing?” My hand drags along the underside of her thigh until I’m supporting the full weight of it against my forearm. “Why are you in your underwear?”

She huffs a laugh, her eyes flashing with something I can’t read. “Strip Poker.”

“Was that your idea?”

“Hardly.”

I want to bring Bishop back to life so I can kill him again.

“Why then?”

Rosalind’s head tips back, the long column of her throat begging for my touch. “Why do you care?”

“Why, Red?” She stops the rhythmic roll of her body, and it takes a moment for me to realize it’s because I’ve started grinding my hips into hers. My hand flexes against the bottom of her ass, and her breath catches, but she still doesn’t answer me. Dragging the gun along her throat, I stop when it reaches the hollow spot at the base of her neck. “Tell me why.”

She presses those pouty lips into a thin line.

“Dammit,” I snap, slamming her hips to the wall again. She whines at the sudden lack of friction, her entire body tightening with need. “Answer me.”

“I needed the upper hand.”

“Why?”

“So I could get out with my fucking head still attached!”

Her answer makes me pause. “You were running?”

“I was saving my own life,” she spits, attempting to shove my body away from hers. When that doesn’t work, she shimmies a hand between us. It takes me a moment to realize she’s working those talented fingers against my belt buckle. “You know, seeing as you left me alone with a trigger-happy murderer and all.”

“I was reminded that you could handle yourself.” I should stop her progress on my belt. I should pin her hands to her sides and step away from her, once and for all.

I don’t move, my eyes locked on the spot where my gun rests against the notch between her collarbones.

Her hand pops the button on my slacks, dragging the zipper down with practiced ease. “Red,” it’s a warning and a plea. I hate how desperate I feel, how much I need her hands on me. The memories pulse through my body; every time she touched me burned into my skin.

My phone vibrates, reminding me that we’re not really alone. The shots would have been picked up on the monitors, which means someone is currently on their way to check on us.

The only outward reaction Rosalind has to me stepping away is a slight intake of breath, eyes narrowing to slits as she slowly regains her balance without me to lean against.

I press the gun into the base of her throat when she tries to step forward; my arm fully extended between our bodies. We watch each other for a long moment, nothing but the sound of our breathing filling the air.

Without another word, I spin toward the living room, shoving the gun into its holster as I move across the space. I can feel Rosalind on my heels when I stop at the back of the couch, and we both look over the Jackson Pollock nightmare that is now the living room.

A pool of deep red blood gathers beneath Bishop’s body, the entire room covered in little specks of blood and…brains. That’s definitely brains on the wall next to the TV.

This is going to need more than a fresh coat of paint.

“Is that,” I turn to face Rosalind, my eyebrows creeping toward my hairline. “Christmas music?”

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