I never want this moment to end.
I’m on a high I never want to come down from.
I’m flying.
So high, this is dangerous and definitely not good for me—and I still want it. I want more of it, of Callan Bad Boy Carmichael.
He licks my lips. “You’re coming so fast, so hard, and so very frequently tonight there won’t be a day that you come and not think of me.” He licks me again, a flick of his tongue. Warm. Wet.
He plays me with his fingers.
“Open up to me, Olivia,” he murmurs into my mouth.
The tip of his cock replaces his fingers.
And I do.
I lie in my bed on Saturday, still buzzing head to toe, my body humming with arousal, my lips tasting of Callan.
My phone rings. I start when I see an unfamiliar number on the screen and quickly pick up, dreading for it to be him. Dreading for it to not be him.
He left while I was sleeping.
That can’t be good.
I answer but remain silent on the line.
There’s a corresponding silence for a moment, then he speaks, and his voice trails over me, so warm and textured, I close my eyes for a moment.
“You have a good time last night?”
“Yes.”
“So did I.”
I stare out the window. “Really? Why did you leave?”
“I had breakfast with my dad.”
“Oh.” I swallow. “So this . . . this attraction between us. We can make it go away, right?”
He laughs.
“Callan. I’m going back home soon, I wasn’t really looking for anything else. When I seduced you I was buzzed and you were this hot stranger I loved talking to.”
“You don’t like talking to me now?” There’s amusement in his voice and this odd husky tenderness.
“Actually I do,” I quickly explain. “But I don’t want to be attracted to you. I want to focus on work. No distractions. It seemed a good idea to just get each other out of our systems.”
“Is it working for you?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Let me know when you do.”
“Okay.”
“Good night, freckles.”
“Good night, Callan.”
I hang up and stare at the phone. Freckles? What does it mean? Does it mean we’ll go on? No. There is no way we can go on. I text him early the next morning after a sleepless night.
No regrets, but tomorrow you’re Mr. Carmichael. And that’s what you’ll be from now on.
I’ll see you tomorrow.
Miss Roth.
The next weekend, the interns are ready for our night out, and I’m ready for fun. I’m all dressed up in a skimpy, cute little black dress, red heels, a long, simple gold necklace and a pair of bangles, my hair loose.
“I’m so ready to dance!” I say. I want to forget Callan and dance my sexual frustration away.
“Change of plans. George’s brother can get us into Havoc, a very exclusive club only the VIPs of the city go to, mostly all single.” Janine wiggles her brows as we ride a cab toward the club.
“Just give me a song and a dance floor. And a drink,” I say.
“I’ll dance with you,” says George.
“Thanks, George.” Then I notice Janine doesn’t look too pleased about it.
We hop out of the cab. The driveway outside the club is lined with fancy cars.
There, among the long line, is my brother’s Rolls-Royce Ghost.
God. Really? Fuck! I panic. “Wait!” I grab Janine by the arm.
“A problem, Roth?” George asks me.
I hesitate, then exhale. I don’t want my brother to be disappointed, but I’m sure he doesn’t want me at the clubs just for my protection, not because he doesn’t want me to have fun. Plus I’m feeling homesick. I’ve never slept in an empty apartment. I’ve always lived with my parents before. And I don’t want to think of freaking Callan.
I shake my head. It’s a big city, and a big club, and I’ll just find my own little corner of it to dance in.
Once we’re let inside by the bouncer after George tells him his brother’s name, I scan the crowd and see Tahoe is standing by a group that’s sitting in a booth. He glances at his watch as Regina hugs one of the girls goodbye, then wraps an arm around her waist and leads her away.
I exhale, give a little prayer of thanks, then I scan the crowd again.
A man with dark hair shifts in the booth and there is the anonymous man of my wet dreams, the one who’d never had a face before Callan.
Some girl is hovering over him and I feel a pang of jealousy. Really, she’s welcome to all his cigarettes, thank you. I could use the extra minutes of life.
I head to the opposite corner of the club and Janine follows as she skims the hot guys available. “Table or mingle?”
“Dance,” George says, and he takes my hand.
“Drinks first,” I tell George.
Armed with our cocktails of choice, we end up on a spacious floor under flashing strobe lights, mirrored chandeliers, and in between a hundred dancing people. I listen to the music, a wicked song by Adam Lambert, and I move to the rhythm, closing my eyes and sipping my drink.
Chills run down my spine all of a sudden.
I open my eyes and I see, past elbows and shoulders and moving forms, him watching me from his table.
I have a sudden image of me dancing for him the first time we had sex, when I didn’t know who he was, and I can’t stop dancing. I move my hips and hold his copper gaze.
He starts smiling as if to himself and raking me with his eyes, as if he’s a biologist studying an animal in a zoo.