Page 39 of Any Means Necessary

Reading my mind, Callum's grip on me tightens, one hand remaining solidly on my hip, while the other trails up to the small of my back to play with the ends of my hair.

“Callum, you’re hurt.” I remind him. His hungry eyes move over my face and land on my lips as I speak.

“Then it’s a good thing I have you here to nurse me back to health.” His arms flex, pulling me in closer until my mouth is just a breath from his. My eyes flicker to his mouth, so close and tempting. “Go ahead, Doc. Kiss it better.”

It’s a challenge, and I’ve never been one to shy away from a dare. I lean in ever so slightly and Callum takes my invitation without hesitation. His hand on my back closes the gap between us to take my lips in an all-consuming kiss. Our mouths mold together, passion taking over. The way Callum kisses is devastating, all hunger and need.

God, so much need.

A deep growl rumbles in his chest, vibrating against my hands, and then I’m being crushed against him until I’m not sure where my body ends and his begins. His hand slides from my waist to palm one of my ass cheeks greedily as he all but eats at my mouth. I let out a soft sigh, and I’m drunk on him.

“Fuck, you’re delicious.” His groan is primal, and he drinks me in like he’s a man dying of thirst. I’ve never been kissed like this before.

Callum’s everywhere; his hands on my body, his growls sending pulses of heat between my thighs, his breath mixing with mine as our lips work into a frenzy. It’s like Callum's only purpose in life is to be there with me, like his entire existence depends on invading every one of my senses.

“We’re here.” Roscoe’s voice pulls me from our little cloud of bliss and yanks me roughly back down to earth. Callum lets out a disgruntled grunt, reluctant as he leans back to look at me.

I’m sure I look a mess, all kiss-swollen and disheveled. I can see it in his eyes before he speaks a “go around the block” and pulls me back in. He isn’t done with me yet.

The feeling is mutual.

“Yes sir.” Roscoe’s verbal confirmation reminds me that I’m straddling a man’s lap. I’m suddenly aware that I’m having a heavy makeout session in a moving car. And we aren’t alone. Reading my mind, Callum's hold on me tightens, his lips persuading me back to focus on only him. And fuck if it doesn’t work.

A soft moan escapes me when his teeth catch my bottom lip and gives it a sharp nip before his tongue eases the tender pain. The heat building inside me liquifies, my hips rocking against the hot erection I can feel hardening beneath me. An overwhelming need to unzip him and feel what’s hiding under his pants—what’s promising to completely unravel me—is almost too much to handle.

When Callum’s fingers slip down inside the back of my pants, it’s a slap back to reality. Callum wants in my pants, right here, right now. And I want more than anything to let him in.

We’re in a moving car. And we’re not alone.

Palms flattening on his chest, I push away from him to create space between us. His lips leave mine abruptly, leaving an unsettling cold where there used to be heat. My eyes open slowly, breathless, finding Callum gazing at me. The naked desire in his eyes is the only thing I recognize in his otherwise unreadable expression.

“We shouldn’t,” I breathe.

This is not the time or the place. If I really think about it—without the need and arousal taking over my brain—there might never be a time or place. Realistically, Callum and I don’t work and sex isn’t a good idea.

The way he’s looking at me says he knows it too. He just wasn’t going to admit it.

Callum takes his time pulling his hand from my pants, his fingers skimming over every inch of skin along the way—ass cheek, lower back, side. His eyes keeping mine hostage, he tugs my shirt back into place but doesn’t let go immediately. We stay there for a long moment, just staring at each other while his hand on my shirt keeps me on his lap as we fight to catch our breath.

The wheels are turning in his head, I can practically hear his thoughts warring while he stares me down. If only I could know what he’s thinking. He’s watching every thought cross my face as I think it, reading every emotion. I’m sure of it. And all I get in return is indecipherable intensity and a rock-hard erection pressing hot and heady against my ass.

When his grip on my shirt finally falls away, I’m climbing off his lap and sliding across the back seat to put as much space between us as possible. Callum’s eyes stare straight ahead as Roscoe rounds a corner, his hands working to roll his shirt sleeves back down. The tension settles back into his broad shoulders as he buttons each cuff into place. And just like that, he’s back to calm and controlled Callum, devoid of any warmth.

When he does shoot a glance in my direction, it’s one that looks an awful lot like regret.

***

Callum’s on a mission as he strides through the weathered brick building, and I’m a step behind him. With the distraction in the car, I have no idea where we are—and the man in front of me isn’t giving any hints either.

His large frame fills the narrow hallway, broad shoulders nearly touching each wall with only a few inches of clearance from the ceiling. With the giant man ahead of me blocking my view, I’m basically stumbling along blindly with Roscoe walking steadily behind me.

We take a left at the end of the claustrophobic hallway. The doors that dot the space are as dated as the rest of the building, with small windows of frosted glass yellowed with age.

Callum doesn’t hesitate to open one of the doors roughly, and I’m barely able to read the word ‘Freight’ across the window in peeling vinyl before Roscoe is crowding me into the room behind him and closing the door.

The stench of cigarette smoke and stale coffee hangs in the air. The small industrial office is drab with stained brown carpet, metal filing cabinets, and fluorescent lighting. The room is messy and cluttered until it’s claustrophobic—binders and stacks of paper taking over.

A middle-aged man behind the desk looks up, startled, when we enter, his eyes going straight to the bull charging right at him. His gray-streaked brown hair looks crunchy with gel, matching the patchy goatee on his chin. The gut from a few too many beers is obvious on his lanky body as he slumps in his chair.

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