“Where’s everybody else?” I ask him.

“I told them to go ahead in the other car. Jack’s driving us.”

He takes my hand, pulling me close.

“Nothing under that skirt, I hope,” he murmurs.

“Of course not,” I say primly.

Jack is already waiting by the town car, holding the door. He’s been marginally nicer to me since robbing the casino with my brothers and cousin. I don’t know if it’s because he likes my family or because he’s scared of them. But he hasn’t made a single rude comment since. And I haven’t had to shoot him at all.

Callum and I slide into the backseat. I can see that Cal already put the partition up. He turns on the music too, louder than usual.

“How far is the restaurant?” I ask him.

“I think I’ll have just enough time,” he says.

Not bothering with his seatbelt, he gets down in front of me and puts his head under the skirt of my sundress. I gasp and turn the music up a little more. Then I lay back against the seat.

Callum is licking my pussy with long, slow motions. His mouth feels incredibly soft with the fresh shave. His lips caress my skin, and his tongue slides between my folds, warm and wet and sensual.

I love fucking him in the car. I never knew why people had chauffeurs, and now I realize it’s one hundred percent for this reason—so you can turn a boring commute into the best part of your day. Someday, when we all have robot cars, you’ll look into the other windows and that’s what you’ll see—everybody banging.

I’m starting to get a Pavlovian response to the smell of leather conditioner. Suddenly it’s the most erotic scent in the world.

I love the feel of the seats against my bare skin, and the way the motion of the car rocks me and presses me all the tighter against Callum’s tongue. He’s so fucking good at this. He looks so cold and stiff, but actually his hands and mouth are like warm butter. He can tell exactly how hard to lick and suck, so it’s maximum stimulation without tipping over into too much.

I’m rocking my hips, riding his face, trying hard not to make any noise. I may have given up my vendetta with Jack, but that doesn’t mean I want to put on a show for him.

But it’s hard to stay quiet when Cal slips his fingers inside of me. He gently twists and slides them in motion with his tongue, finding all the most sensitive spots.

I squeeze around his fingers, my breath quickening and my skin tingling. Warmth spirals outward from my belly. My pussy is soaking wet and extra sensitive.

With his other hand, Callum reaches up and pulls down the front of my dress. Freeing one of my breasts, he caresses it with his hand, gently pinching and tugging on the nipple.

He gradually increases the pressure, until he’s roughly squeezing my tits, pinching and pulling at the nipples. For some reason, this feels fucking fantastic. Maybe it’s because I’m already so aroused, or maybe it’s just because I like when Cal is a little rough in bed. There’s so much tension between us that it gives relief to the aggression. It gives us somewhere to channel it.

I’ve never had a relationship quite like this. There were always people I hated, and people I liked, and those two categories were polar opposites. My boyfriends always fell in the “sweet and fun” category, not the “drive me fucking insane” one.

Callum is becoming a little bit of both. And somehow that makes my attraction to him ten times stronger. He captures all my emotions: resentment. Jealousy. Rebelliousness. Desire. Temper. Curiosity. Playfulness. And even respect. He bundles it all together in one package. The result is absolutely irresistible. It captivates me entirely.

Cal keeps licking my pussy, fingering me, and squeezing my tits all at the same time. Stimulating every part of me until I’m squirming and grinding against him, ready to explode.

I can feel the car turning, starting to slow.

It’s now or never.

I let go, cumming over and over again on the flat of Cal’s tongue. The rolling waves of pleasure crash over me. I have to bite my lip and squeeze my eyes tight shut to keep from screaming.

Then the car stops, and Cal sits up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Just in time,” he says.

I’m panting like I ran a mile.

“Your hair is crazy,” I tell him.

He smooths it back with the palm of his hand, smirking at me.

“Yes, yes, you did a great job,” I say, laughing.

“I know,” he says.

He takes my hand to help me out of the car.

We take the elevator up to the fortieth floor of the Stock Exchange Building. I haven’t actually been up here before, though I know the restaurant is supposed to be nice.

The view really is stunning. Imogen has, naturally, snagged the best table in the place. We have a panoramic view of the city laid out below, and part of the lake as well.

The others are already seated. Nessa’s wearing a flowered romper, her light-brown hair pulled up in a high ponytail. She’s got more freckles now that it’s getting hotter. Riona has her hair down—unusual for her. She really does have the most stunning hair I’ve ever seen. Thick, wavy, deeply hued. I think she dislikes how vivid it looks. How much attention it steals.

Tonight, however, she’s almost in as good a mood as everybody else. We’re all talking and laughing, ordering decadent things off the menu. I look around at Cal’s family and for the first time I don’t feel like a stranger. I feel comfortable at the table. Happy to be there, even.

We’re talking about the longest book we ever read.

“I read War and Peace!” I tell them. “I’m the only person that ever did, I think. I was stuck at this cabin and it was the only book on the shelf.“

“I think The Stand might be my longest,” Riona muses. “Unabridged version, obviously.”

“You read Stephen King?” I ask her in astonishment.

“I’ve read every one,” Riona says. “Up until the most recent one, because I haven’t had time—”

“She was so scared of It,” Callum interrupts. “She’s still terrified of clowns.”

“I’m not scared of them,” Riona says loftily. “I just don’t like them. There’s a difference . . .”

“Do you want more wine?” Cal asks me, holding up the bottle.

I nod, and he refills my glass.

When he sets the bottle down, he drops his hand down to my lap. He finds my hand—the one not in a cast—and intertwines his fingers with mine.

His hand is warm and strong, squeezing just the right amount. His thumb gently strokes mine, then goes still again.

Cal and I have fucked plenty of times. We kiss, too. But this is the first time we’ve ever held hands. He’s not doing it for show because we’re at an event. And he’s not grabbing me to pull me close. He’s holding my hand because he wants to.

Our relationship has proceeded in such a funny, backward way. Marriage first. Then sex. Then getting to know each other. And finally . . . whatever this is. A feeling of warmth and desire and affection and connection spreads through my chest, a feeling that burns and grows stronger by the moment, especially when I glance over at the man sitting next to me.

I can’t believe it.

I think I’m falling in love.