Page 81 of Puck Princess

All of that means that I talk to myself more than is probably sane and I don’t have any furniture.

I’ve already ordered some new furniture—a couch, some end tables, a small dining table, a dresser that won’t crush me while I’m reaching for shoes. You know, the staples. But for tonight, I’ve resorted to lying on the fluffy white carpet in what will probably be the nursery while pinning ideas to my baby board.

“Let’s skip the yellow,” I mumble, rubbing a hand on my stomach. “You’re gonna have half my genes, but let's give you a fighting chance, huh?”

Being composed of half of Owen’s genes will certainly help with that. The man is steady. I know he’s felt off-kilter lately with the team, but most people would’ve crumbled under the weight of the shit he handled this year. If there’s anything that can account for and counterbalance my personal failings, it’s Owen Sharpe.

For the millionth time tonight, I miss him. It’s pathetic, really. He went out with the guys for some drinks, and I’m acting like he’s on the moon. But he might as well be. He’s going to go home to his apartment, all the way on the other side of town, and I’m going to fall asleep alone.

I’m suddenly regretting my choice to sleep on an air mattress and considering whether I want to drive across town and brave the salty mood of a post-Spencer Owen when there’s a sudden pounding on the door.

I jump up and pad slowly across the living room. There are no windows out to the hallway, but I stay ducked down just in case. But when I peek through the peephole, I yank the door open at the same time I’m sighing in relief.

“Owen, you scared the sh?—”

He cuts me off when his mouth covers mine. He kisses me like he’s desperate—like he’s suffocating, and I’m his oxygen. It’sdeep and passionate, and I’m too shocked to appreciate it the way I should.

He stumbles in, kicking the door closed behind him, and I break away with a gasp. “Hi.”

He responds by kissing me up against the wall, molding our bodies together until I can’t breathe without some part of me rubbing up against some part of him.

His knee presses between my legs, and I gasp. “Owen, what are you doing here?”

It’s not that I mind. Because I don’t. It’s just a lot. And sudden. And unannounced. And,good lord, it’s a good thing I shaved today. The way this man is kissing his way down my neck and chest, I don’t think he’s going to stop at the belt. My thighs burn just thinking about it.

“I want you,” he growls.

I stroke my fingers through his hair, tipping my head back just to suck in some extra air. “I can see that.”

“I’ve been thinking about everything, about us, and I just…” He pauses like he was going to say something else, but he catches himself. “I need you.”

“I don’t even have a bed. Not a real one.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he murmurs into my mouth. “We fucked in the closet before. All we need is you, me, and less clothes.”

With that, he carries me to the counter and pulls my shirt over my head.

“Owen, it’s cold!” I try to cross my arms over himself, but he pulls them back.

His eyes are black as he takes me in, scraping his attention over my bare skin. He showers my breasts in warm, open-mouthed kisses that make me arch into his touch.

“God, you’re so perfect, Callie. Every inch of you.” He kisses my stomach before making his way back to my face. He cups my cheeks in his palms, calloused thumbs outlining my face. “I want all of you.”

“You have all of me.”

I’m not sure where this is all coming from—what may or may not have happened while he was out tonight—but if he thinks there’s a chance I’m walking away, he’s crazy. Seconds before he got here, I was talking to myself and debating breaking into his apartment to sleep in his bed. I’min.

He drops his forehead to mind, his voice a low rasp. “But I want more.”

I stretch out to kiss him once, quickly. “Then take it.”

He scoops me off the counter and walks me to the living room. I feel the hard length of him against my ass, and I bite back a moan as we shift together.

I’m expecting him to carry me to the closet again, but he lowers me to the living room floor instead.

“But I don’t have—” He peels his shirt over his head, momentarily stealing my train of thought, replacing it with all the dirty things I want to do to his body. “Curtains,” I finally manage. “I don’t have curtains. People can see.”

He looks over at the windows. It’s black out other than the streetlights and the soft glow of the moon. “Let them watch.”

---