Page 35 of Blood

“I wasn’t,” he breathes, placing his hand over mine. “Not for me anyway.” There’s a softness he hasn’t displayed before now. It’s nice, complementing his hard shell.

“You baited him. You could have gotten yourself killed.” Anger tries to spark to life, but it dies in embers.

“I was keeping his attention on me. I couldn’t have him turning that gun on you or Kitty.”

Warmth blossoms in my chest. “Do you think it was random?”

His body tenses against my hands. “It’s no secret Ray’s is a Kings’ bar. We take care of Ray. Anyone would have to have a death wish trying to rob that place. Sometimes shit just happens.”

“Like your dad…” Turning, he looks down at me, and vulnerability takes hold, like I’m in a moment that could change everything. “Were you close?”

Large palms cup my cheeks. My hands rest at his wrists as we stare at each other. “He can be a hard-headed bastard, but he did right by Kitty and me. Our mom is a good woman, and although they’re not together, she’s never wanted for anything.” Love. There’s love and respect there. And I get it. He speaks of him as if he’s still here.

“Will you take over as president?”

A slight lift of his shoulders. “Probably.”

“I lost my father when I was a teenager,” I find myself admitting.

His finger strokes over my cheek. “Grief is the darkest road you’ll ever walk. It’s lonely and painful.”

“People always tell you it will get better.” I shrug. “It doesn’t. You just adapt and learn to live with it. It becomes a second heartbeat that lives in the depths of who you are. The thud dulls, but it never stops.” I reach up onto my tiptoes, pressing my lips to his.

Warm hands slide into my hair, one gripping the back of my neck to steady me as he deepens the kiss and his tongue collides with mine, unhurried but full of need. My tits push against the fabric of his shirt. My nipples are hard, sensitive. A groan crawls up his throat.

He lifts me and I wrap my legs around his waist. Callan moves us until my back hits the wall, lodging himself between my legs. His hard cock strains against his zipper, rubbing at the apex of my thighs. The promise of what he has to offer makes my mouth water and my thoughts plummet to the gutter.

Need builds between us. Gentleness is abandoned. Our mouths battle, sucking, kissing, and biting. Large palms squeeze and caress my tits as he grinds into me, dry fucking me. He nearly makes me cum from that alone. My skin hums, my pulse rushing through my veins as I cling to him, thrashing my hips.

“Fuck, I want inside you so bad—want to feel you stretching around my cock,” he breathes against my lips, moving us across the room, his chest heaving. Sitting on the edge of his bed with me straddling his lap, we dual for dominance. I push him backward and begin to climb over him.

“Why does it feel so good?” I murmur more to myself than him. My hips center over the bulge in his pants, and I grind down where I need it, moaning as I twist my hips.

His hands find my tits again, pinching at my nipples. My pussy clenches, desperate to be filled with his thick cock. He grips my hips and spins us so his body is hovering over mine. Roughly, he tugs at my jeans, exposing my lace panties. The blood finds its way back to my brain, reminding me of the tattoo on my inner thigh. My heart drums in my ears. My stomach spirals. I try to grab the material in my hands.

“Shit,” he hisses, and my insides drop. I hold my breath, the air becoming solid in my lungs. “Even your panties are stained in Cutter’s blood. I don’t want to risk getting this inside you.” He shakes his head, crawling off my body. I sigh and shift my jeans up my hips. Closing my eyes, I cover my face. I got carried away. I’m getting too close.

And the worst part: I fucking like how he makes me feel.

I like the people here. I didn’t account for that. Tears burn my eyes. A crack splits right up the center of my body. The high has finally run its course. I’m drained and overwhelmed with a barrage of emotions.

“Are you crying?” Callan’s tone is gentle. His heat covers my body once more as I’m tugged into his chest and strong arms fold around me, offering shelter.

“I’m not crying,” I lie, sniffling.

His phone buzzes, pulling me out of my own misery. “You want to get that?” I wipe my face, trying not to look up at him.

“No. It can wait.” He tightens his hold. And as much as I crave the closeness, I need to recalibrate myself. Pulling away from his arms, I chuckle, a little embarrassed that I’ve fallen apart in front of him.

“I really need to take a shower anyway. Is that okay?”

“Of course.” He jumps up, pulling me to my feet as someone knocks on the door. Pulling the top sheet from his bed, he hands it to me, waiting for me to cover myself before answering.

“Got something,” a man informs Callan. He’s tall and slim, with a crooked nose and scar running through his brow—the guy Callan showed the picture of the ID to when we got back.

His eyes flick to me then back to Callan. “The Winslow kid has an older brother. Armed robbery at local bars is his m.o., but he got picked up for a minor offense a couple days ago. He just got out tonight. No doubt sent his brother to Ray’s in his stead. What do you want us to do?”

Callan shakes his head, his knuckles turning white as he grips the doorframe and the vein in his neck pops out. “Nothing. I’ll deal with him.”

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