Womanizer

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.”

I’m silent, just listening.

He throws some chopped veggies and potatoes with herbs on the stove and stirs them a little before dribbling some extra virgin olive oil on them. I walk over and peek at the food cooking on the stove. “I hadn’t realized I was so hungry until I saw all this,” I confess.

He turns around from marinating two steaks on the island and hugs me from behind, places a hand on my growling stomach and lays a kiss on my exposed shoulder. “I got a head start before picking you up. Food’s almost ready, baby; you don’t have to wait long.”

I gulp and try to overlook the fact that he just called me baby, but the sound of his deep, rumbling voice calling me his baby does some serious things to me. I clench my thighs together, silently begging my body to calm down because we haven’t even had dinner yet and I’m already thinking about being in bed.

“So, what did you do today?” I hear Callan ask.

“Oh, nothing, I lounged around the apartment, watched some TV, got my nails done . . .” I trail off and admire him walking around the kitchen, occasionally checking this and that, sprinkling spices and stirring and adjusting temperatures. “What about you?” I ask.

“I went on a run, went to Carma to review some options for our next takeover, bought a painting at an auction. The usual,” he responds.

“Sounds like a very busy day.”

He turns to look at me, leaning back against the counter with his arms across his chest. “I guess you could call it that. I made an effort to distract myself.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because if I didn’t, I would’ve been at your door as soon as you woke up.”

My stomach clenches at the thought, and my heart races.

I smile and answer honestly. “That would’ve been nice.”

We look at each other, a thousand unspoken words fluttering in the space between us, and the moment is broken when the timer for the steaks rings and it’s finally time to eat.

We sit down and he pours us both a glass of red wine, the reason being it “enhances the flavors” in the food.

I mock him for that comment but quickly shut up as soon as I take the first bite—because this is seriously some of the most delicious food I have ever tried.

I tell him so, and he just smiles in thank you.

We talk about everything. About Carma, about his anal dress code (I tease him about keeping my bra and hair band somewhere around his house), our favorite foods, my fear of heights, and his reason for smoking. We talk about anything and everything, effortlessly moving from one topic to the next.

I have never felt so comfortable, or so at home, with another human being in my life.

His eyes make me lose track of time. Everything about him drives me crazy . . . his smell, his touch, his voice.

When we’re finished eating, we wash the dishes together and finish in no time. At one point, I splash him with water and he solemnly tells me, “Big mistake.”

I begin to laugh, but then he picks me up and slings me over his shoulder like a caveman.

I start to shriek and laugh in total delight, all the while demanding he put me down. He walks effortlessly with me slung across his shoulder and lays me down on his couch in front of his huge flat-screen TV.

He places his hands on either side of me, caging me in.

I lean back away from him.

“Playing hard to get?” he demands, staring at me intently but playfully.

I shake my head. “No.”

“No?” he repeats, challenging my answer.

I gulp but respond again, “You heard me, Carmichael.”

He chuckles, but when I meet his eyes, there’s no laughter there. “Kiss me,” he says, fluttering his lips over mine.

I don’t answer.

“I don’t know if you noticed, Olivia, but that was not a question . . .”

My heart speeds up and I feel myself getting wet between my legs as he gets closer to me, his breath fluttering over my lips. I keep trying to act like I don’t want to kiss him but I know he can see the truth in my eyes.

I am dying to kiss him. I am dying to taste him. For him to taste me.

“Kiss me,” he says again, this time more gently.

I look at him, his eyes fiercely looking at mine as his hands frame my face tightly. I see the desire in his eyes, I see the pain, the relentlessness, the ambition; I see caring.