Page 77 of Close Contact
She dragged her hand down the side of her thigh, smoothing out the dress as if it wasn’t already criminal, her fingers grazing the hem. She didn’t know what it did to me.
I swear to fucking God I saw actual stars. Not from love. From blood loss. Every ounce of it was in my dick.
“Baby,” I ground out, voice guttural, “I amthisclose to getting on my knees and begging.”
“For what?”
“You. In this dress. Out of this dress. Bent over this dresser. I don’t give a fuck.”
She smirked over her shoulder. “Too bad.”
I took a shaky breath, trying to pull it together, trying to remember my name—until she fuckingbouncedonce on the balls of her heels like she was testing them. I saw heaven. I saw hell. I saw the edge of sanity and waved to it. My soul briefly left my body. Went to the club without me. Ordered a drink. Prayed for my survival.
And when she turned back around, smug as ever, and whispered, “Let’s go, Fraser,” I just stood there half dead and hard as a rock.
She grabbed her purse as if she hadn’t just lit my entire nervous system on fire.
I had to adjust myself before following her out of the room. If I didn’t, I was going to lose it in the fucking hallway.
I caught up to her at the door, still trying to adjust myself without making it obvious, when she tossed a look over her shoulder.
“Guess I must fuck like a pornstar, huh?” she said, voice light. Too light. “Given how poetic you get about it.”
I tilted my head, thrown. “What?”
She shrugged, all blasé and glossy lips. “Nothing. Just… good to know what you’re here for.”
My jaw ticked, but she was already turning away, strutting toward the elevator as if she hadn’t just tossed something oddly familiar into the air, but I couldn’t place it. I didn’t know what to do with that.
So I let it go… for now.
I keptmy hands to myself.
Barely.
She sat beside me in the car like temptation incarnate, legs crossed and bouncing subtly—either from nerves or just to fuck with me. Probably both. This fucking dress that barely qualified as fabric? It was a sin against me personally. The ruffle skimmed the tops of her thighs every time we turned a corner.
With the hand not on the steering wheel, I gripped my knee, my jaw, anything that would keep me from dragging her into my lap and making us unforgivably late.
Then she tucked her hair behind her ear and I saw it. That bite mark.Mybite mark. The one that got me in this predicament to begin with.
It was faint, barely visible under the layer of make up she’d applied. But under the overhead streetlights filtering through the window? It stood out clear as fucking day, but it drew attention to the fading ones peeking out from the hems of her dress.
I smirked. “You’re going to out yourself.”
“What?” She blinked, then pulled the visor down to check her reflection. She paled. “MonDieu.”
I bit back a laugh. “You really thought you were getting away with this?”
“I tried! I packed one dress.One.It was Monaco, I didn’t think I’d actuallywin,let alone need to”—she gestured to herself with a huff—“plan forthis.I did my best to cover them.”
“My best,” I echoed, leaning closer, letting my lips brush the shell of her ear before returning my attention to the road. “You can’t hide me, baby. Why do you think I mark you?”
She turned to face me, horrified. “Callum.”
“What?”
“You’re worse than I thought.”
