I spend the rest of the afternoon in a fog, working through my churned-up emotions. I’m terrified by the thought that somebody might have seen us kissing. Every time the door to the office opens, I expect to see Diana from HR standing there.
There’s some respite from my nerves at four o'clock when Charlie walks in, his right hand raking through his mop of blond hair. “Hello, stranger.” He perches on the corner of my desk and takes my calculator, tapping at the rubber buttons. “Long time no see.”
I lock the screen on my keyboard and slump into my chair. Though I hate to admit it, he's a welcome distraction to the maelstrom in my head. One of the best things about Charlie is that everything is simple with him.
“I've been too busy convincing my boss I'm not a coke-head,” I tell him. “Telling the truth is exhausting.”
“Oh, don't be like that.” He pouts. “I said I was sorry.”
Rolling my eyes, I pick up the 200g bar of Dairy Milk I found on my desk this morning. “Yep, nothing says I'm sorry like a bunch of half-dead roses and a petrol station chocolate bar.”
“It was Sainsbury’s Local, actually,” he says, snatching the bar from my hands. “Why haven't you eaten it? Is there something wrong with my chocolate?”
“I wasn't in a chocolate mood,” I say, taking it back. Running my thumbnail along the seam, I rip the packaging open, then offer it to Charlie. He snaps off a row, stuffing four squares into his mouth, and for one blessed moment it renders him silent.
“So,” he says, his mouth full. “Did the big bad boss let you off?”
“Do you care?” I ask. “Because it didn't look like you gave a shit when your skinny arse was sneaking its way out of there. I could have been in a lot of trouble you know?”
“But you aren't,” he says simply. “And if you were, I would have come clean. I'm a jerk, but I'm not an arsehole.”
I raise an eyebrow. “There's a difference?”
Before he can answer, my phone starts dancing on the table like a man on hot coals, buzzing furiously. Callum's nickname is on the screen, and I immediately feel guilty. I’m lucky it's Charlie here, and not Caro Hawes or Diana from HR, they'd be able to read me like a book.
“Just a text,” I say lightly. “I'll read it later. No biggie.” Of course, I'm desperate to find out what Callum wants. Will he mention the kiss, or will he apologise again? The thought of him regretting it makes me feel sick.
“I've got a meeting in ten minutes, anyway,” Charlie says, looking at his watch. “The monthly Health and Safety board. Somehow I've been elected as the student representative.”
“Great,” I reply, my mind still at the back of the café.
“So, um, there’s something I wanted to tell you.” He shifts on the desk, knocking off my note pad. Cursing, he bends down to pick it up, his hair flopping into his eyes. “A few of us are going out for Caro's birthday in a couple of weeks. Dinner followed by some clubbing.”
As soon as he says her name my stomach drops further. At this rate it should reach the ground floor in five minutes.
“Sounds nice.” I wait for him to invite me, already trying to think of excuses why I can't go. A night out with Caro Hawes doesn't sound very appealing.
“She's hired out a private room at a Japanese restaurant in Soho. Sushi followed by karaoke or some rubbish like that.” He looks up at me, a sad expression on his face. “But it's really small. She wanted to invite you but there are already too many of us.”
“Of course she didn't want to invite me,” I say with a low voice. “She hates my guts.”
Charlie doesn't try to deny it, instead he shuffles the business cards lined up by my keyboard. “I just thought you should know, in case you wondered where we are on a Friday night.”
Slowly, I lick my dry lips. “Everybody's going?” I ask.
“Well, not everybody.”
“All the other interns,” I clarify. “They've all been invited?”
Charlie nods. “And a few of the partners. Caro's dad's footing the bill.”
It's pathetic, because I really don't want to go, but the fact I haven't been invited is humiliating. All the other trainees plus a host of partners will know I'm not there.
Then another thought grabs me, and even though I shouldn't ask, I can't help myself. “Is Callum Ferguson invited?”
His answer does nothing to calm my churning stomach. “Yes, and Jonathan Cooper. I think all the technical partners are going.”
By the time Charlie leaves my mood has plummeted. Luckily, I remember the text from Callum. I unlock my screen, a smile playing at my lips as I read his words.
Can I take you to dinner tonight?
It takes me thirty seconds to tap out a reply. Two meals in one day? People will talk.
I'm only half-joking. But there's something so compelling about this need to be near him that I can barely bring myself to care.
A moment later, my phone vibrates again. Maybe this time we can sit at the same table.
My grin widens. All those doubts and worries seem to evaporate, replaced by an aching need to see him. For a girl who lives for work, suddenly I'm counting down the hours. Still, I can't help teasing him, marvelling at how easy it is to feel comfortable with a man I once worked for.
Does that mean I have to look at you while you eat?
Of course, his reply sends a blush to my cheeks and warmth to my thighs. If you're lucky, babe.
When six o'clock arrives I'm not ready to leave. I've been stuck in a video conference for the last two hours with a group of managers from Grant Industries who have nothing better to do than ask the same question in ten different ways. It's only lunchtime in New York, and they’re just gearing up, unaware that I really, really want to go out to dinner with Callum bloody Ferguson.
“Can you go over the timeline for the Exodus project?” one of the managers asks with a nasally twang. Though I sigh inside—I sent this information over in the pre-meeting pack—I patiently talk them through the project plan. Jonathan Cooper sits beside me, twirling a pencil between his fingers, and I sense he's as frustrated with the repetitiveness of the questions as I am.
Jonathan is my assigned Supervisor for the project. Though he's Callum's friend I get the sense he doesn't know there's anything at all going on between us, and I plan to keep it that way. I've grown to like and respect him, enough to care what he thinks about me. Plus there's the small matter of the report he has to write so that I can get my degree.
Grabbing the remote control, Jonathan turns the microphone to mute. Even though the Americans can't hear us, he still whispers.
“You think we're still going to be here at nine?” he asks. “Maybe if I change into my pyjamas or start brushing my teeth they might get the fucking hint.”
My lips twitch, but I try not to laugh. It's okay for him to be irreverent, but I'm nowhere near high enough up the food chain to be rude about a client.
The meeting goes on in New York with the occasional input from us. Though Jonathan looks attentive, under the table he's scrolling through his Blackberry, answering emails. When they ask another question about delivery timescales, I keep a smile plastered on, showing them the charts which cover everything in detail.
I'm about to tell them about contingencies when the door to our videoconference room opens, and Callum walks in, his jacket slung across his shoulder. His jaw is dark where a day's growth of beard is starting to make itself known, and his shirt is unbuttoned so I can see the tender dip of his throat.
In short, he looks mouth-watering.
“Am I interrupting?” he asks, then sees the video is on, recognising some of the faces from Grant Industries' Manhattan office. He greets them with a salute, and a few of them say ‘hi’ back. He pulls out the chair beside Jonathan and sits down, stretching his long, muscled legs in front of him. I try not to look at the way the fabric tightens over his thighs, and how it’s tight between his hips, but the view is so distracting I can't tear my eyes away, at least not until I'm asked another question.
“When will the first run be?”
“June twenty-fifth,” I answer, remembering they like me to say the month before the day. “But if we decide to use the second protocol, we might be able to bring that forward.”
Callum shifts in his seat, and the movement triggers my perception. Our eyes meet, and there's a dryness in my throat that wasn't there before.
“Let's call it a day for now,” one of the Grant Industries’ executives suggests. “Maybe we can schedule another catch up for next week.”
“Sure,” Jonathan drawls, his thumb hovering over the 'off' button. “I'll ask my secretary to set something up.” He presses the button, and the cameras whirr back into the wall. The screen turns off, leaving the room dark, and it makes me realise just how late it is.
“Well, that was a ten-minute meeting dragged into three fucking hours.” Jonathan says, rubbing his face. “I don't know how many times we had to go over the bloody schedule, it's like they didn't believe us.”
“I hope you're not pissing off my clients,” Callum remarks sarcastically. “Anyway, since we charge by the hour next time try and drag it out for longer, okay?”
“Maybe you'd like me to dial in in my pyjamas?” Jonathan smiles. “Or perhaps I can send them a flash of my girlfriend's tits. Speaking of which, I was supposed to meet her at a restaurant half an hour ago, so if you'll excuse me.” He stands up and grabs his papers, stacking them neatly into a pile. “Thanks for staying late, Amy, you did well to keep your temper.” He looks over at Callum. “She's doing great.”
“She is,” he says softly.
Then it's just the two of us, and the room seems to shrink in size by about fifty per cent. Callum gently wraps his fingers around mine.
“I've been thinking about you all afternoon,” he murmurs. His thumb brushes my wrist. I wonder if he can feel my pulse race. “Wondering when I can kiss you again.”
“Not here,” I say breathily. Though if he tried I don't think I could stop him. “Somebody might see,”
“Delayed gratification then. Let's go and grab something to eat, and we should probably have a talk.”
Immediately, my stomach drops. “A talk?”
“After what happened last time I want to make sure we both know where we stand. I don't want to wake up in the morning to find you gone again.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You seem very sure I'm going to stay over,” I say. “What makes you think I'm not going home after dinner?”
He takes a step forward, holding my hand, until our arms are the only barriers between us. I still feel an intense need to press my chest against his. But somewhere in my horny, stirred up mind, I'm aware that I'm at work, and that a liaison with my boss is strictly forbidden.
“What makes me think it, Amy,” he lifts both our hands up, using his finger to trace along my bottom lip. “Is the way you look at me with those pretty blue eyes, the way your lips plump up whenever you do.”
“Maybe I have a new lipstick,” I murmur.
“Then I'll kiss it off.”
“Here?” I ask, a hint of alarm in my voice.
He shakes his head. “No, Amy, not here. When I kiss you—and I will kiss you—it's going to be so fucking hot it will blow the non-fraternization clause to smithereens. So I suggest we get out of here before I get us both sacked.”
I nip his finger before licking it softly with my tongue. His eyes blaze in response, and he retreats as if he's been burned.
I know I have, and I like the feeling much more than I should.
When we come to a stop outside Callum’s house I frown, glancing at him from the corner of my eyes. “I thought we were going to eat?”
“We are.” Callum pulls his key from the ignition before unbuckling his seatbelt. His movements are calm, collected. A contrast to the nerves that seem to be my constant companion. “I wasn't planning on starving you.”
“We're eating here?” I don't know why, but when he mentioned dinner and a talk, I pictured it happening in some dimly lit, expensive restaurant in the West End.
Not his house.
My question makes him smile. “That’s the plan. Is it a problem for you?”
I find myself backtracking. “Not at all, I just didn't know you could cook.” I unfasten my seatbelt. “You can cook can't you? You're not expecting me to whip something up or anything, because I have to tell you I can cremate water.”
It's a true fact. Neither Alex, Andie or I inherited my mum's cooking skills, in spite of her many attempts to teach us. We'd starve without microwave dinners and Mum’s Sunday roasts.
“No, Amy,” Callum says slowly. “I’m not going to ask you to cook for me. I'm thirty-three years old, I think I can manage to cook us some dinner.”
I don't tell him that cooking well isn't an age-related thing.
“Okay then.” I open the car door and hop out onto the dull-grey pavement, sucking in a lungful of fresh air. Though the sun hasn’t yet gone down, the moon is already out, an orphan half-visible in the wide blue expanse. I look at it for a moment, feeling somehow insignificant, but then Callum grabs my hand and we walk towards his house.
It feels strange, holding hands with him. His fingers weave through mine and his thumb brushes the inner skin of my wrist, and nice turns altogether dirtier.
I'm not sure why his hands fascinate me so much. It's not as if he uses them for much more than typing on a keyboard, yet they're strong and long and when I look at them I can't help but remember what they did to me that night.
In his house.
This house.
Oh God.
“Hang your coat up there,” he says when we've walked into the hallway, pointing at a row of hooks. “I'll go and open a bottle of something and get started on dinner.”
“Good, I'm starving.” I've recovered my equilibrium enough to give him a cheeky grin. “Hop to it.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he calls from the kitchen, then under his breath he mutters, “Cheeky bitch.”
“Oi, I heard that.”
“You were supposed to,” he replies, good humour lacing his voice. “Because you are a cheeky wee bitch.”
“Wee?” I walk into his kitchen, my eyes raised. “Did you really just call me 'wee'? I'm not sure whether to be more offended by that, or the way you're a walking stereotype.”
He puts down his knife, gently laying it on the chopping board. There's a glint in his narrowed eyes, a playful anger that sets my heart racing. Then slowly, deliberately, he walks towards me.
I back up until my hips are pressed against his black granite work surface. A minute later, he’s against my front as he towers above me, so tall it feels like I'm craning my neck.
When he's this close it makes it hard to breathe. Though I'd never admit it, he does make me feel 'wee'.
“What?” I manage to get out.
The corner of his lip flickers, but otherwise his expression remains neutral. I wait for him to say something, but instead he stares, his dark-green eyes never wandering from my face. A lump forms in my throat, big and rough.
After a long moment, he wraps his hands around my waist and lifts me until I'm sitting on the work surface. Though the granite feels cold through the fabric of my skirt I don’t complain, because all I can think of is the way he's pressing his hips into mine, and the long, hard ridge of his cock.
“What are you doing?” I murmur.
“This.” He pushes again, the movement sending a thrill that makes my toes curl. Then his hand is on my chin, tipping it up until our lips meet. He pushes his tongue inside the seam of my lips at the same time as I wrap my legs around his back. We're kissing and rocking, hands everywhere they shouldn't be, the only sound in the room our loud, embarrassing gasps.
Callum stands straight, his hands underneath my bottom. For a second I think he's going to turn around and carry me into his bedroom, but instead he pushes his hand under the hem of my skirt, his fingers seeking out my warmth. He slides one inside me, then two, his thumb pressing against me in the most delicious way. I close my eyes tightly, my thighs flexing like a clamp around his hips.
“Amy,” he whispers. I barely hear him. Blood rushes through my ears like a swollen river. I rock my hips, creating a rhythm that matches my heartbeat, unashamedly riding his fingers as my body reacts to his touch. Then he fumbles for his zip, releasing his hard, pulsing cock, and I reach for it. The next minute I'm pulling my knickers to the side, guiding him until his tip is brushing against my slickness. He pushes until I open up for him.
Callum steadies me, his hands holding me firmly, lifting me up and down until we're both panting loudly, breathing into each other as we kiss. I can feel the pleasure building and swirling at the pit of my stomach, radiating out with every thrust. Though we're both dressed—my skirt ruched around my waist, his trousers pooled at his feet—my nipples are hard enough to press through my thin bra and blouse, rubbing against his muscles.
That's when I feel it. The crescendo. The high. It takes me over, cell by cell, until I feel like I'm melting into him. Electricity courses through me, fizzing at my skin, and I freeze in his arms. My mouth is open and my voice silent as I ride the sensual, dizzying wave.
“Amy,” he says again, his lips trailing down my throat, nipping at my skin. “You feel fucking amazing when you come on me.”
He waits for my orgasm to settle before he moves again, reigniting the flame I thought had gone out. I squeeze around him and he moans, his thrusts becoming erratic and hard, and I can tell by the way his breath stutters that he's reaching his peak.
“Callum,” I whisper in his ear. “I want to feel you come inside me.”
He groans and angles his hips, fingers tightening on my behind, pressing in so hard I know he's going to leave marks. But I don't care, because nothing else matters apart from his pleasure, so I squeeze him tight until he mutters against my chest.
“Fuck, shit, fuck I'm going to come.” His accent broadens, as if he can't even control that. His eyes are shut, his lips swollen and red, and all I want is to see his expression when he lets go.
My wish is fulfilled a minute later, when his hips slam into mine, a low groan escaping his mouth. He stills, his hands holding me tight, his face glorious as his orgasm overtakes him. At that moment I realise I could spend my whole life watching Callum Ferguson come.
It takes a moment or two for him to recover, but when he does, he pulls out of me, gently lowering me to the floor. A thin, white line of semen rolls down my inner thigh, and he watches it, licking his lips.
“That might be the sexiest thing I've seen,” he says, his eyes still trained on my leg. “I might have to make you eat dinner just like that.” He presses his finger to my thigh, spreading the wetness, then moves his hand up until he presses the pad against my mouth.
“Lick,” he orders. For some reason I do exactly as I'm told, peeking my tongue out. His fingers tastes salty and wet—a curious mixture of him and me—and I suck it into my mouth.
“Are you trying to turn me on again?” he asks gruffly. “Because it's fucking working.”
I smile. “No, I'm just bloody starving.”
We spend the next few minutes cleaning up in his bathroom. He washes me gently with a flannel, lingering on my thighs, and pulls my skirt down, trying fruitlessly to smooth out the creases. His trousers are already fastened, but I'm pleased to see they look as messed up as my clothes.
The other thing I notice—which surprises me—is the lack of awkwardness between us. We talk easily as we leave the bathroom, laughing and giggling, and I love the way everything slots together so perfectly.
Pun absolutely intended.
Callum returns to peeling potatoes and chopping onions, passing me the glass of wine he poured out before we were distracted. I sit at the small glass table in the corner of his kitchen, sipping Sancerre and admiring the way his bottom looks beneath the dark blue wool of his trousers.
“I should have asked you about birth control,” he says, slicing a red pepper into thin strips. “Although the words 'closing the stable door' and 'after the horse has bolted' spring to mind.”
“Did you just compare yourself to a stallion?” I tease, still shocked by my lack of embarrassment. I remember how things were with Luke, when I could barely bring myself to say the word 'condom'. “And I'm on the pill, thanks for asking.”
He turns around, knife still in hand, and fixes me a grin. “It's not my fault you're so fucking gorgeous I lose all common sense.”
I roll my eyes. “The excuse of stupid men everywhere. This is why the planet's overpopulated.”
He frowns. “Because you're gorgeous?”
“No!” I protest, laughing. “Stop trying to sweet talk me. All I'm saying is that birth control is a two-way thing. I knew I was covered, but you...”
“I just wanted to see me dripping down your legs,” he says, his pleasant tone belying the dirtiness of his words. “And yes, I'm an idiot for not talking about protection before, but for the record I'm clean. I wouldn't put you in any danger.”
I soften. “I'm clean, too.” I made sure of it after seeing the photo of Luke with that girl. “For what it's worth.”
Even when he turns back to resume chopping, I can tell he's smiling from the tone of his voice. “Not from where I'm standing, babe. Everything you've done tonight suggests you're very fucking dirty indeed.”