Page 116 of The Proposal Pact
I knew he was such a filthy liar when he told me he didn’t like kissing! My lips have been in a permanent state of swollen these past weeks! I let out a small whimper into his mouth that only spurs him along and with his free hand, he pulls me tight into his body until I can feel his erection digging into my stomach.
That restrain, reluctance, and fight he was still putting up inside his head, weakened and dwindled more and more with each day, until over a week later there’s not even a trace of it left behind as he takes me as soon as his feet step inside the apartment.
He takes me when I stop by the station under the guise of bringing him coffee, instead serving myself as his snack. Or rather, hedemandsme to lay down and hold my legs as he brings me to orgasm after orgasm with his skilled tongue, fingers and cock.
Just like he did earlier today.
Scratch that, it was all of two hours ago that I went by the police station to see him. Two. Hours. And we can’t tear apart from each other.
It’s just sex, Sophie. Just chemistry. That’s all.
It’s a mantra I took up after our first time together, in hopes to keep my heart out of this equation. So far, it’s not very effective. Not at all.
With each next second, the kiss grows heavier and hotter, and Clover pulls away from me with a heavy, pained groan. “Damn you, woman. I need to stay away from you, we have a game to watch.”
I giggle, licking off his taste from my lips, and Clover nearly loses it again when he sees me do it.
“You’re a fucking nightmare,” he mutters, fixing himself as he walks into the kitchen to sound of my laugh. “I brought home dinner.” He drops the takeout bag on the counter, along with his badge and car keys, his erection still trying to rip through his pants.
“You know, I could go get dinner for once,” I tell him.
“Why?” He frowns, looking like I’ve said the most ridiculous thing ever.
“Um, because it would be fair?”
Clover has been getting us dinners every night. Not once asking me to do it.
He waves me off. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re busy with work. And besides, it’s always on my way.”
I eye the takeout bag of Chinese that is in no way on his way home. In fact, it’s on the other side of the town. I’ve tried it once last week, when Grace, Luke, Griffin, and Julie invited us out for a couple’s date night and fell in love with it. It was the best Chinese I’ve had—and I’ve lived in New York, mind you.
And now it’s sitting on our kitchen counter.
Ugh, I could strangle this man! See what I mean about my mantra not working? How could it, when he goes and does these little things for me?
“You’re a shit liar, Callum Clover Lovinski. It wasnoton your way, and you work too. I’m not the only one.”
I did start doing some freelance jobs but I’m not so busy that I couldn’t step out to get dinner. In fact, I spend most of my day at Grace’s store, working remotely.
“Sophie, just take it and set it out before the game starts. No need to overanalyze it.”
“Uh-huh.” I let the subject drop even if the butterflies in my stomach, spread their wings once again.
Every day, every freaking day, he goes and does something sweet for me, all while putting up his grumbling persona up.
Like dropping by with my favorite matcha from time to time or massaging my hands at night because I mentioned typing for too long that day. That’s not to mention that the man took sick leave when I had a headache the other day to stay home and make sure I was fine the whole time.
He wouldn’t allow me to get up from the bed, and if I wanted to go somewhere around the house, he’d just carry me!
Is he torturing me on purpose? How am I supposed to not fall for the guy? Completely, irrevocably, and desperately.
Clover goes to take a shower and change while I place the food at our coffee table.
“Did the game start yet?” he yells from the room.
“No, but they’re about to sing the anthem,” I shout back.
A minute later, Clover comes out of the room, in his outfit from hell—yes, I was the one who came up with that name. Because it is! Low-hanging gray sweatpants, mussed hair from the shower, bare feet, and bare chest with all of his tattoos on display for me, is the definition of hell.
