Page 58 of Wicked Duty
“Feels good.” Her voice slurs a little.
Lust jolts through me, racing straight to my dick. What the hell was I thinking? This is nothing like how it used to feel with my sister. I can only hope Lucy doesn’t notice the giant erection inches away from her head.
I’m hyperaware of each minute shift of her body. Every quiet sigh. Every breath. My skin tingles as I stroke her through the thin pajama top.
I want to touch more. Move my hand farther down her body, or up to tease her hair. Trace the shell of her ear. Feel her bare skin beneath my fingers.
A growing part of me wishes that Ihadclimbed under the covers and held her close. Maybe then…we both could’ve fallen asleep like this.
Relax. This is just my job. I’m keeping her safe from her dreams.
Yeah, right. I can’t even convince myself.
Lucy releases a quiet sigh. “Callum.”
I lean over to whisper back. “Yes?”
But she doesn’t reply. When I peek at her sleeping face, I find her lashes kissing her cheeks. Her breaths deepen as she drifts into unconsciousness.
I thump my head against the wall and groan.
I’m so incredibly fucked.
Chapter 22
Lucy
I wake up the next morning alone, well-rested, groggy, and feeling utterly ridiculous.
The sleep I managed after that hellish nightmare rejuvenated me. But when I remember the way my head rested in Callum’s lap, with his warm, reassuring palm on my back after I begged him not to leave me…
I cringe as I strip off my pajamas to shower, mortification mauling me like a dog would a new chew toy.
Why in the world did I ask him to stay?
He’s not Maya or Nika.
No one’s paying him to sing me lullabies or rock me to sleep.
What must he think of me now?
I lean my forehead against the marble shower tiles in defeat, allowing my eyes to drift shut as the water drenches me from head to toe.
First, I kissed him, and he kissed me back. Then I clung to him like a pathetic weakling after a typical nightmare—something I should’ve managed on my own.
I bang my head against the wall and stew in embarrassment for another second before shaking it off. Torturing myself withrecriminations benefits no one. If anything, I should reroute my thoughts to something productive…like the competition.
As I hop out of the shower and dress, I focus on exactly that. Yesterday, I won, but today, the slate is wiped clean. I need to be at my best if I hope to conquer round six.
A destination shoot in SoHo. No one’s up for elimination today, but the photos will be posted online for viewer voting. Those tallies will count toward the scores the judges will use to whittle us down to the top three.
Two hours later, the models gather downtown. We climb into luxury cars beneath the bright, offensive daylight.
When I’m ushered into the back seat of a Ruby Red Porsche Macan and find Callum in the driver’s seat, solemn as ever, my cheeks burn. I inflate my lungs and realize I’m in for another delightful day of him scrutinizing my every move.
Darren must’ve pulled some strings to land Callum in this additional role as my chauffeur.
And here I was hoping to avoid alone time with him for the next few days. Or weeks. Maybe years. However long it takes to recover from a severe case of “embarrassed AF.”
