Cal began to move slowly. He wanted to savor this, make it last. He couldn’t ever recall a feeling quite like this one—as if he and Monica were connected, and not just physically. He would sound a complete knob if he uttered that thought aloud.

He licked the little dent in her chin. He loved that dent. Cal wanted to take it slow this time, fuck her gently, but this wouldn’t satisfy her for long. Monica liked it hard and fast. He’d give that to her. Eventually. But right now, he wanted to draw it out, prolong the pleasure for both of them.

“More,” she demanded.

Cal gave her a hard kiss, but kept up his steady pace. He pulled out almost all the way and then slid back into her. Over and over again until she bit his shoulder.

“I hate you,” she panted.

“Do you really?” Cal pulled out of her entirely.

“Okay, maybe hate is not the right word.” She tried to place her hands on his shoulders, but he moved out of her reach and rose to his knees.

“I should say so.” In a swift move, Cal hooked his hands around her thighs and pulled her ass toward him. He draped her legs on either side of his chest until they stuck straight up in the air. He stroked his hands up and down her calves, over her shins. “Your turn. What’s your middle name?”

“Taylor.”

Positioning himself at her entrance, Cal slid back inside her. “Monica Taylor Campbell.” He embedded himself all the way, stretching her to capacity.

When he pulled out, she opened her mouth to protest, but he rammed back inside her, filling her again. “Monica Taylor,” he ground out. “So fucking tight.”

As he worked in and out of her, her breasts jiggled slightly. He watched them, couldn’t take his eyes off them. With both of his arms hooked around her legs, he thrust back and forth. When he sensed her urgency, he placed his hand on the top of her pussy, and with his thumb, found her ripe little clit. He brushed it—once, twice—then she came.

“Cal. Oh God.” She scratched at the back of his hand. Monica closed her eyes, and her pussy tightened around his cock.

Cal continued to pound hard while stroking her. Occasionally, he’d swivel his hips, providing a different sensation, a hot friction. Her walls clamped down on him, testing his endurance. A fine sheen of sweat covered his chest and arms. “Fuck. I want this to last.” He clenched his jaw. “Going to come, love.” He stopped playing with her and wrapped his hand around her other leg, then he picked up the pace, slamming into her faster than before.

Cal came with a hoarse shout, his hands gripping her thighs like they were the only things keeping him steady. His cock jerked inside her, and she shuddered around his shaft, draining him.

Once he stopped moving, Cal planted a kiss near her ankle, his breath harsh from exertion. “Amazing.”

He pulled out of her and gently lowered her legs. Cal dropped a little kiss on her shoulder, then slid off the sofa and onto the floor.

* * *

Monica sat up and simply took him in. With his chin resting on his forearm, he looked beautifully masculine. He smiled at her—a drowsy, blissful half grin.

Something about the tilt of his lips tore at her heart. Monica’s day had gone downhill from the time she’d opened her eyes this morning, but it had all fallen away when she’d stepped into his arms this afternoon. They weren’t just having fun—well, she wasn’t. How Cal touched her, like she was special—that meant everything.

Oh God. She didn’t want this. Not now, not with him. He was going to break her heart, and she’d handed it to him on a platter. Shit.

The realization brought Monica out of her peaceful haze, making her scramble off the sofa and reach for her underwear. She grabbed her panties and pulled them on. Cal settled his hands over her upper arms.

“Monica. Look at me, love. What’s happening right now? You’re thinking again.”

“It’s just been a hell of a day.”

He stared at her, his light green eyes dancing over her features like he could read her thoughts, but then his expression changed to one of boredom. Cal slid his hands down her arms before relinquishing his hold. “Oh, dear,” he said with a yawn. “Look who’s lying again. How original.”

“Shut up.” She slipped her bra over her shoulders and adjusted her breasts.

“I’m not looking to get in a row right now. I’m still basking in the afterglow. Give me a few to work up a lather, and then we’ll have a go.” He stood and threw away the condom before walking to the liquor cabinet. He poured a finger’s worth of whiskey. “Cheers.” He tipped his glass before taking a sip.

Flicking back her hair, she faced him. He was still naked and semi-hard. How was that possible? “I’m not lying, I’ve had a shiteous day.”

He picked up the restaurant guide and perused it. “Of course not, darling. You’re living your truth.” His dry tone raised the hair on the back of her neck.

Marching over to him, she plucked the menu from his hands and tossed it on the floor. “I’m not having this argument again.” Her gaze fell to his penis. She couldn’t fight with a naked man. “Put some clothes on.”

He smirked. “Makes you nervous, does it? My being in the buff?”

“Yeah. I’m trembling.”

“You were ten minutes ago. Yes, you’ve had a bad day. But that’s not what this is about, so please don’t insult me. You’ve been upset since you set foot in this house. If you’re still tetchy about this morning, say so.”

“I’m not tetchy. I’m not even sure what that means.”

But he was right. Again. Monica lied about everything—she lived behind a persona she’d created. She’d been running so hard from the mistakes of her past that she’d done a U-turn in her life, and now she was as screwed up as ever. But the lie was comfortable, and the truth seemed almost paralyzing. Buried deep inside, under all the responsible behavior and professional demeanor, Monica’s wild child remained alive and well. And she liked being let off the chain. Monica reveled in hot sex with Cal. She loved the freedom it gave her, the excitement. The emotion.

She’d been lying about her feelings for him too. Monica thought she could handle a no-strings sexual relationship. All of her peppy self-talk about being in control and eyes wide open was bullshit. She’d fallen in love with Calum George Hughes. How could she be so damned stupid? Loosening the tight reins on her old ways had led to this—love. Of all the men she could have chosen, she’d picked Cal Hughes, a man who never stuck around. A man she couldn’t count on. All those years of playing the good girl, dating appropriate guys, living a straitlaced life—blown to bits.

Suddenly, her body was on fire, as though every nerve ending burned beneath her skin. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead. Monica felt as if her heart might burst through her chest at any moment. Pain, sharp and biting, ripped through her torso. All of these revelations at once—they were too much. Maybe she was having a heart attack. This was what dying felt like. “I have to go.” She spun away. “I have to get out of here.” She began gasping for air. She couldn’t breathe.

He plucked her up in his arms and walked to the overstuffed love seat by the window. Sinking down, Cal held her as she struggled.

“Let go. Let me go.” She pushed against his chest and tried to rise, but he tightened his hold.

“No. You’re having a panic attack. Deep breaths.” When she ignored him and tried to break free, he gave her a little shake. “Deep breaths. Come on. In.” He held her gaze with his own. “And out. Again.” He breathed with her. Inhale. Exhale.

After three or four minutes, Monica’s heart began to slow down. With a shaky hand, she pushed her hair away from her face. “What’s wrong with me?”

Cal stroked her back. “You’re just scared, that’s all.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” But she was lying, of course. She couldn’t seem to stop herself. In truth, Monica was terrified of him, of herself, of her feelings.