Womanizer

“Can I think about it?”

  He glances at his watch. “Fifteen seconds.”

  “Oh, come on! Give me a week.”

  “You leave in what? Four weeks? That’ll take a week off my time.” He strokes his hand over my leg again. His pupils are dilated as he watches me smoke, as if he enjoys watching me do something naughty.

  “It’s not your time. Not yet. Wow, I’ve given you every second of the day this week . . .”

  “I want every second of your nights too. I mean to have them.”

  “Give me one week, Callan,” I say. “I’m still high from . . . well, the last time.”

  He frowns, but leans back on the lounge and spreads out his arm, taking the cigarette I extend, putting it between his lips and drawing a long, deep inhale. He calmly says, his eyes glimmering, “You know you want this as much as I do.”

  “Maybe.” I drop my head to hide the smile on my lips. “Give me until Monday. That’s in ten days, not this Monday.”

  “You know your weekdays, good for you, Olivia.”

  I laugh and nod.

  He laughs and pulls me to his chest, and I reach for the box of Marlboros and pull out a second cigarette. Callan takes it and lights it with the last of the first cigarette, then he hands it over and lets me take the first hit.

  “I don’t sleep with my bosses,” I say.

  “You mean Lincoln. Thank god.”

  “Callan.” I laugh. “Nope. Just you, it seems.”

  I offer him the cigarette but he doesn’t seem to notice; instead, he stares at my features as he lifts his hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear so that it won’t get in the way of my eyes meeting his. He leaves his thumb on my temple in the smallest caress over my skin and the shell of my ear.

  It feels intimate, the way we stare at one another, intimate by saying nothing, just letting him rub his thumb over my ear.

  My hands are shaking when I finally extend the cigarette, and he takes it—still watching me.

  I watch him.

  He inhales as if he has all the time in the world, exhales the smoke out slowly through a slit between his lips, then offers me one last hit, and when I shake my head, he puts it out, neither of us looking away.

  God, he looks so handsome right now in black slacks and a wine-colored shirt.

  He looks at me with a smile, waiting. Waiting for my answer.

  “Let’s start with a date. That’s all I’m asking to start with.”

  “You make it sound so simple,” I whisper.

  “It’s simple,” he says.

  Urgh. Is it?

  Why could he not be the mailman like I thought he was? It could be simpler. It could be easier to enjoy a date or two and maybe even hope for a little more if he were the nice, harmless guy I’d thought he was—not my boss, so that everyone can think of me as some office slut; not my brother’s friend, so my brother can see me with new disappointed eyes; not some player whose mere attractiveness turns me into one of those girls. One of those legions of silly little groupies.

  I cannot be one of those, damn it, that’d be so pathetic.

  I am pathetic! I just caught myself grinning like a fool.

  I groan and I hear myself saying, “Okay.” I want it to be simple.

  He smiles. A brilliant smile. “Pick you up tomorrow then,” he says, a quiet statement.

  I breathe, nodding. “Tomorrow. But Callan, I don’t want anyone to see us—it could get messy and the last thing I need is messy when I’ve been trying so hard to make a name for myself.”

  “I understand,” is all he says.

  I smile and he leans over and places his hand on my waist, pressing his lips to mine, kissing me.

  My body—which had been sort of aching for this—kicks into full speed and every part of me starts to buzz as our tongues meet, mesh, play, in the softest, longest, most delicious kiss of my life.

  That night, I text Nana on impulse because I need to tell someone. My parents will tell me it’s not proper. My brother will not be happy I chose him. And my friends wouldn’t understand. Nobody would understand except maybe two people in my life, and I can’t talk to Callan about it, either.

  Nana calls me as soon as she reads my text. I exhale when I hear her Betty White voice, and say a little prayer heavenward that she’s free to talk tonight.

  So I tell my grandma that I’ve been sort of seeing/not seeing a guy at work and feel confused.

  “Do I get a name for this young man?” she prods.

  “He’s Callan Carmichael, Nana—”

  “Oh my!” Nana says. “My grandson’s friend—and your boss?”

  “Nana, don’t judge.”

  “I’m not judging.”

  “Nana, please don’t tell Tahoe.”

  “What biz does this have to do with Tahoe?”

  “He’s just protective. Callan and he are friends.”

  “Then he can’t be that bad.”

  “Yes, but he’s a notorious womanizer and . . .” I begin listing all the reasons why I shouldn’t like him to my nana. “He’s really not as adorable as he seems, he’s been running me to the ground. He takes over companies that don’t want him to take over and squashes them, selling the parts or simply robbing them from the owners to absorb into his other companies and become even richer.”

  “Smart, ruthless man. How sexy.”

  “Nana!” I groan. I sigh and add, “I just needed someone to talk to.”

  “Livvy,” Nana says, “you can’t have a timeline for when you find the right man for you. The fact that you’re focused on work and career doesn’t mean that you can’t still have time to fall in love.”

  “But I’m not falling in love,” I contest.

  “Okay then.” She sounds like she doesn’t believe me.

  “I know I haven’t shown real interest in a man before, but it’s because you know I have a bigger plan. I was looking at the bigger picture and now he’s—” I throw my hands in the air. “Blocking it!”

  “Yielding to an infatuation, or whatever you young ones call it these days. Fucking . . .” She snickers. “Is not necessarily a bad thing.”

  “Oh, Nana!” I laugh hysterically.

  “One thing I know for sure,” she adds, “is that life has its own timing.”

  When we hang up, I grab my Queen of Effing Everything pillow and drop on my bed, glancing at my phone and searching NOT DRAKE on the screen.

  I grin and lie down, setting my phone aside.

  I like how infuriating he is. How he pushes me and brings out my competitive side.

  How he smokes and dangles that cigarette from his mouth.

  His touch and his kiss.

  Hell, I love how he just plain told me he wanted to see me.

  I just don’t know that I like wanting him like this.

  In Nana’s generation, she was expected to be just a housewife. When my grandfather passed, she had to raise five kids on her own with no degree, and trust me, feeding five kids on cookie sales and knitting was hard. She always told me how much she would have liked to be prepared to be alone. I want to be more than just a young housewife, though it was nice seeing Rachel and Saint as a family. I definitely picture a family in my future; it’s something I’ve always wanted. Just not now, and I don’t think that’s what Callan wants either or might ever want.

  I know he’s not asking me for that.

  He’s just asking for more . . . and I’m afraid if I take that one step, he’ll pull me to the ledge and take everything.

  I don’t like ledges.

  But part of maturing is letting go of your fears.

  I turn off the light. I think of Callan’s gorgeous smile and the sexy movements of his tongue when he kisses me on the mouth and, well, when he kisses me anywhere, really. He’s so hot. Addictive. God, he’s such a beautiful man, it’s not fair to be tempted like this.

  I punch my pillow into shape and burrow my cheek in it, trying to get some sleep.

  Has anything preceding this mom
ent compared to the excitement I feel for this date?

  You’d think it was my first date. It’s not.

  But my nerves are ridiculous.

  It’s just the first date with a guy who makes my knees weak and my heart literally throb. Urgh. My Hot Smoker Guy makes my breath slow down until it’s nonexistent, or speed up until I’m basically panting for him.

  This is a big no-no, I know. But my body doesn’t get it!

  I have spent practically the whole day getting ready for tonight. I went to get my nails done after barely even having breakfast because I was so nervous and excited I didn’t feel hungry. I also got a bikini wax. I was tempted to wax it all off, but remembering how Callan seemed to like me natural, I left a nice little landing strip on my you-know-what.

  I then mentally rummaged through my closet for the perfect outfit and decided to go lingerie shopping. Lace, satin, ruffles, sequins, patterns, strings, and bows called out to me from all corners of the boutique lingerie store.

  I finally settled on a matching bra and pantie set that I was sure would drive Callan crazy. I wanted something sexy but effortlessly so.

  When I got home, I tried on the black lace thong that I got with a lovely satin bow on the back, and the black bra with lace detail on the cups. The black makes my skin look smooth and decadent, and I knew I looked good.

  Hell, I looked more than good. I got all giddy and danced around my apartment in my new lingerie to sexy music, letting my mind wander to tonight, and how I hoped it would end . . .

  Noticing the naughty path my thoughts were taking, I took off the lingerie because I didn’t want to ruin it with how, ehm . . . excited I was getting. Already!

  I tried to entertain myself the rest of the day until it was time to get ready. I watched some mindless TV and tried to do some things for work, but nothing could get my mind off tonight.

  I had woken up that morning with a text from Callan (I figured it was time I changed his name on my contacts), and the way my stomach felt when I saw his name for the first time, really, on my phone screen is indescribable. Butterflies would be an understatement; let’s just leave it at that.

  I’d been trying hard to keep it just business—but underlying the business there were always these looks.

  This want.

  It’s become unbearable.

  The text said to be ready by seven thirty, and that he would pick me up at my place.

  When the clock struck six, I finally decided to start getting ready. I got in the shower and soaped up until I smelled amazing all over.

  I got out of the shower and dry-brushed my skin, and then put on some moisturizer before wrapping myself in my short bathrobe and proceeding to blow-dry my hair.

  Ten minutes later, my hair was dry and silky straight. I did my makeup and put on a pair of diamond earrings that my grandma had given me when I turned twenty, and walked into my closet. I decided to wear a red satin dress that flowed around my knees, though the material plastered itself to my breasts and the tops of my thighs whenever I walked. So it was the perfect combination of elegant and sexy. I finished it off with a thin necklace and strappy heels.

  The whole time I was getting ready, I kept sneaking glances in the mirror and I was amazed by what I saw looking back at me.

  I’m still shocked by what I see as I apply the finishing touches to my lips. I am basically glowing. My eyes are bright, my skin looks smooth, the dress looks like it was made for me, and the smile on my face reflects everything I feel inside.

  Which is overwhelming, giddy excitement.

  I’m tucking my lipstick and makeup into a small clutch purse when the doorbell rings. My heart trips in my chest as I start for the door. I take a deep breath and turn the knob.

  And standing in front of me is the most delectable man on this planet.

  Gulp!

  Dressed in slim black slacks and a dark gray shirt, the man looks like the deadliest guilty pleasure.

  He takes his time drinking me in with a burning warmth in his copper eyes, starting at the tip of my head and traveling to my lips, my breasts, my stomach, and the tips of my freshly painted toes.

  I hear him inhale sharply, and the gaze I am met with when he finally meets my eyes steals my next breath.

  I see pure, unrestrained lust, and a glimmer of something else. Something possessive. Something feral, something forbidden.

  I feel like a switch went off in his head, I feel like his eyes hold a promise in them.

  “Olivia,” he says. Low.

  “Callan.”

  He smirks, then takes two steps toward me and puts his hands on my waist, pulling me to him and wrapping me up in his intoxicating and delicious smell. He looks down at me and whispers something under his breath.

  The next thing I know, he dips his head and places his warm, smooth lips on my neck. He kisses and rubs them across my neck, and I can feel my legs turn to Jell-O. His hand cradles the side of my face as his lips travel to my cheek, where he whispers in my ear, “You look good enough to eat.”

  “Thank you,” I breathe.

  “You ready?”

  I’m about as ready as can be. I nod. “So we’re doing this.” I laugh nervously. I duck my head. “Just one date, okay?”

  “One date for now.” He gently runs his thumb along my lower lip. A rueful smile curves his mouth. “Did you think I only wanted to sleep with you, Livvy?” he asks.

  I swallow.

  “Was that what you thought I was asking for?”

  I’m breathless and flushed, because maybe I did think that.

  He moves his hand as if ready to brush my hair back, but instead he peers into my face. “That’s not what I want from you. I like you too much. I enjoy being with you.” He leans closer and absently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m enjoying that shy little pink shade on your cheeks quite a bit right now.”

  I smile and eye him. “Where are we going?”

  “Depends on whether we make it out of here. It’s taking every ounce of my willpower not to take you back into your bedroom and bury my head between your legs.”

  I suck in a sudden startled breath. “Callan!” I lightly smack his shoulder.

  He takes the hand that smacked him and looks me in the eye, his stare unapologetic as he kisses my knuckles. He grins. “Come on.”

  He leads me to the elevator and down to his car.

  He drives us in his Range Rover Sport while I silently rationalize my actions.

  Callan seems at ease with what’s about to happen, while I sit in a mess of hormones on the front passenger seat.

  He drums his fingers as we’re stuck at a stoplight for a while. “Fucking traffic,” he growls. He lifts his thumb to my face and traces a dent in my cheekbone with his knuckle. “What are you thinking?”

  “You know what,” I groan.

  He smiles. He’s not as calm as I think he is, his eyes blazing with hunger. I have never enjoyed a feeling the way I enjoy the way he makes me feel. Grown up, but vulnerable like a little girl. Thrilled but almost scared, as I am when I get too close to the ledge. Warm in all places and like my body got plugged into an electric outlet. My nipples hard, my panties wet.

  “I sometimes wonder if I imagined everything that happened the other nights. I’m not sure you’re really as good as my memories claim.”

  “I’m better.” He smiles and shoots me an intent stare. “I’m looking forward to tasting you this time, Livvy, sucking that pussy of yours for a long, hard while.”

  “Oral?”

  “That’s right. It’s driving me crazy not to know what you taste like.”

  I clutch my thighs together.

  Goodness!

  I’m boiling in my skin.

  His Range Rover Sport is all man. Smooth, dark leather and an engine that sounds like a monster ready to be unleashed. It’s the kind of car that he tampered with to make fully his—with modifications like a matte finish and a different grille and custom wheels.

  People stare
as we drive by.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, reading my thoughts, “the windows are tinted.”

  I gulp and nod, feeling my stomach tie itself up in knots.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “My place. I’m cooking for you.”

  My heart rate doubles as I realize we’re going to be alone. In his mansion.

  Before I finish that thought, he reaches out his hand, palm up, silently asking me to hold it.

  Callan Carmichael wants to hold my hand.

  I swallow and try to still the throbbing, reckless beat of my heart.

  I feel like a teenager again.

  I turn to look and see him staring out at the road, his other hand at the top of the wheel, with a cocky smirk on his face. His profile is stunning, with light scruff on his jaw. His hair looks soft and sexy with a slightly messy look, his nose and jaw perfectly defined. His lips smooth and pink, promising a thousand dirty pleasures. His face looks like it was carved by an angel.

  He clenches his jaw when I don’t immediately take his hand, and then he wiggles his fingers at me and edges his hand closer.

  I laugh and he chuckles. I give in and hold his hand.

  It’s warm and huge compared to mine. His grip is steady and comforting. I let myself relax into the seat, and I’m suddenly met with an overwhelming sense of belonging.

  Belonging in this car, next to this man, with my hand in his.

  We get to his place, and before I know it we’re heading into his home from his huge ten-car garage.

  As we cross the living area, I see candles on the dining table and settings for two, with a red rose on the place setting I assume is mine. I smile. “Callan, this is incredible.”

  I turn to look at him, and he’s already looking at me.

  He doesn’t say anything, just smiles back and kisses me on my forehead.

  “You hungry?” he asks, walking to his sprawling kitchen, with an Italian marble island that has plates of cut raw veggies, different-colored peppers, some greens, along with various spices.

  “I didn’t know you cooked.”

  He nods, turning on the stove. “Yeah, well. Mother left when we were little. My father tried to make cooking a game for Cullen and me. The kitchen was the one place where we felt like a family.”