Page 70 of I've Got Your Number

The sweet, keening cry she let out, followed by her sobbing my name as she flew was all I needed to free my own release. The base of my spine tingled, my balls tightened, and then my essence was pulsing into her. My hips moved with hers, my thumb diddled her clit. We were both shuddering and moaning.

I kissed her as we came down, swallowing her sighs and gasps. I pulled her tight to my chest and then twisted, lowering my back to the bed, and keeping Catie on my chest. I loved the feel of her slight weight draping on me. I loved the humid stroke of her breath on my neck. I loved that we were still connected, my dick still in her.

I loved her.

I opened my mouth prepared to spill my soul to her.

But she laughed and toyed with my nipple. “God, you’ve wrecked me. Completely wrecked me. But what a way to wake up.”

I rested my fingers on her wrist and tapped rhythmically on her pulse point. “Well, I still didn’t get you fed.”

She chuckled. “Guess you had other ideas. Now, about that peach cobbler.” She rolled away and I gasped as my dick slipped free of her body. She leaped out of bed, as if energized. Even from her position at the side of the bed, the long, steady growl of her stomach reached my ears. She slapped her palm over the noise. “I’m going to shower real fast, let you feed me, and then let you drag me back up here for some more…protein.” She spun toward the bath, then cocked her sexy ass and grinned over her shoulder at me. “Last one in the shower has to stand away from the spray.”

I threw back the sheet and sprang from the bed. “Red, I have six shower heads. No such thing as away from the spray.” I slapped her ass as I sprinted ahead of her into the bathroom.

24

CATIE

Despite Callan’s truly fabulous wake up call, my spirits sank lower and lower as we prepared breakfast. James was missing this morning, so while Callan worked at the stove frying bacon and eggs, I fed the animals. Elvis slopped his food and water all over the protective mat under his bowls. Frank’s dish was next to his, and the cat batted Elvis’s nose as the dog lost interest in his kibble and snooped into the pâté-style food. Frank actually hissed and arched his back at Elvis. The dog responded by rolling over and showing his belly to Frank. Frank turned tail and ignored the dog, which almost brought a smile to my lips.

Callan set in front of me a plate heaping with fluffy scrambled eggs and an indecent amount of bacon, then settled on the stool next to mine. He pulled an equally full plate to him, and then took a sip of his coffee. “Dig in,” he instructed. “This is how my dad used to fix eggs for me after Mom died. Said it would put hair on my chest.” He rubbed his hand over his bare sternum.

Dutifully, I lifted a fork with eggs toward my mouth. They smelled tangy and amazing, and flavor burst on my tongue, peppery, herby, creamy, and just the tiniest sweet tingle at the end of the bite. “I don’t need hair on my chest, but I’d eat these every day.” I forked another bite up and chewed slowly.

But my stomach tightened the longer I sat there, worried about looking at the Internet, but eager to do it to find out if the press had discovered my identity. The sensation washing over me was akin to knowing how much it would hurt when the bandage was ripped off, but doing it anyway. I reached for my phone, because Ineededto see.

Callan stopped me with a hand on my wrist. “I know what you’re doing. I already looked. There’s nothing new.”

I slumped in relief. Safe for another day, or hour, or minute. Who knew what might happen. Or when. “Thanks,” I muttered as I pushed the nearly untouched plate away.

“Red…” Callan swiveled his stool and arranged his knees around mine. He pressed his palm between my shoulder blades.

I reached for my coffee. “I’m okay. What happens happens, and we’ll deal.” I stressed thewe’ll, because I knew he was in this with me. And if I hadn’t already fallen in love with this man, I’d be tumbling. “Nothing we can do will change this course. You can only protect me so far, but what about protecting you? This storm could blow back on you. That video—” I just couldn’t finish.

“I’m not worried about any fucking revenge porn video. That is about your ex’s insecurities. And probably shows him as an inadequate and inconsiderate lover. You know I haven’t watched it. Don’t need to because I have the real you in my bed. Gonna keep you there for years to come. That’s written in our stars, Catie-belle. Count on it.” He chucked a finger under my chin and drew my gaze to him. The earnestness and admiration in his eyes was blinding. “If the video comes out, I believe people will say shit like man, why was that smokeshow with that loser?”

The anxiety that had been crawling up my throat subsided and breath came easier to me. I cupped my hands on his scruffy cheeks and kissed him, letting every ounce of my love, trust, and gratitude filter from my lips to his. I broke the seal between our mouths and sighed as he traced his tongue around the rim of my lips.

“I love you, Catie,” he whispered into my mouth as he gripped the sides of my head.

“I love you, too, Callan.”

“I told you yesterday there were things I wanted to say to you. To ask you.” He slid his hands to my shoulders. “The time still isn’t right. Too much shit still hanging above us for this to be perfect the way I want. The way I plan for this to happen. But you should know…” He gulped, then continued, “My knee has an appointment with the ground in the near future. The very near future.”

His gaze searched my face, as if seeking to know if he’d get the answer he wanted.

I lowered my hands to his thighs and quoted his song lyrics back to him. “The world spins the same regardless of who waits. And I’ll wait for you.”

His arms snugged around my back and pulled me to his lap. His head lowered, and before I closed my eyes for his kiss, I saw the knowing, luminous smile heat his lips and gaze.

* * *

Four days and two pretend DoorDash deliveries from Barry later, I was still in limbo. The paparazzi hadn’t discovered who I was, but they were still camped at the gate, and there was still rampant speculation on social media. I limited my searches to any post that was hash tagged with Callan’s name, or mystery woman. Theories about who I might be were straight-up wild, and we’d laughed over some of the comments and memes. But I limited my time to fifteen minutes each time I opened Twitter or Instagram. Callan’s suggestion, but I was happy to accommodate his request.

My brothers had Facetimed me Sunday night to say they’d seen the picture that had been posted on the Internet. My dad had, too, and they’d had to sit on him to keep him from loading his car with cement mix and rope then driving to Steve’s house to threaten him.

During the call, my dad had wandered around in the back of the frame, muttering about my fucking ex-husband. But he’d stopped when Callan kneeled next to me during the call and introduced himself to my family. I could see the hero worship in my dad’s face as Callan outlined his plan to protect me and my reputation. Dad even went so far as to call Callan “son,” which made my heart swell and my brothers giggle like schoolgirls. Lance, my oldest brother, side-texted me during the call that Dad hadn’t ever called Steve “son”, so I’d better not fuck this up.

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