Page 82 of 'Til All the Seas Run Dry

“It wasn’t fair then, Callum, and it isn’t fair now.”

“But it was effective,” he said, coming close enough to feel the heat radiating off her body.

She swallowed, and in the air between them, Callum could almost taste her. He wanted to taste her. He took another step closer, her chest brushing against his as she panted.

“You like to fight.”

“Sometimes,” she admitted, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. “Sometimes I like to fight.Likedto fight.”

“You liked to make up more,” he said, reaching a hand up but not touching her. Only just barely.

“I’m mad at you.”

“I’m mad at you too.”

“It’s not the third date.”

“You dinnae care. The dates dinnae count. Your mind’s made up to leave anyway, so what does it matter?”

“I… haven’t…”

“You havenae what?”

“I haven’t made up my mind.”

“You’re passing the business to Esther.”

“Maybe it’s time for something new.”

“You willnae go to a concert with Robbie.”

“I don’t like breaking promises.”

The tension between them was thick enough to be sliced like a layer cake, soft and thick and filled.

“You havenae made up your mind?” Callum asked, not allowing hope to become one of those feelings, not again. Not yet.

She looked at him then, her eyes focusing on his for the first time since she’d come downstairs, and shook her head. He touched her cheek, skating his fingertips across her cheek, into her hair, and then down to spread his fingers wide, thumb in front of her ear, fingers wrapping behind her neck. He leaned closer, feeling her breath feather across his face. Jory closed her eyes. Callum knew that look. He knew it better than he knew his own face. Jory wanted to be kissed. She probably wanted a hell of a lot more than that, but Callum didn’t make assumptions anymore.

“Jory?” he said, his lips not touching hers, but just barely.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” she said, green eyes peeking behind half-open lids as she gazed up at him.

“So we willnae fight,” he said and took a step back, giving her space.

She reached out, grabbed the elastic waist of his athletic shorts in her fist, and pulled. And then his mouth was on hers. Ravenous. Her arms were around his neck and he reached behind her, hooking hands behind her thighs before scooping her off the floor. She gasped and wrapped her legs around his waist. He could have held her there for hours—it wouldn’t have taken any strength at all—but he wanted to be as close to her as he could be. He turned and pressed her against the wall, groaning when she squirmed against his aching cock. The athletic shorts were slick and light, and he felt every bit of her heat through them as he thrust against her.

“Fuck,” she hissed, biting his neck.

“Careful,” he groaned.

“Why?” she asked, licking a stripe up to his earlobe, which she caught between her teeth.

With his lips against her shoulder, he said, “Because I’ll bite back.”

He scraped the points of his fangs, letting her feel them. He imagined biting her, tasting her—all of her—imagined biting her sex, tasting her slick and her blood on his tongue at once, married with the salt of her skin. Jory shivered, and he licked the place where his teeth had touched, pressing more firmly against her core with his hips.

“Put me down,” she said sharply. “Put me down now.”