His thumb traced a circle against my spine. A small movement. Devastating.
Twelve. Thirteen.
"Callum."
His eyes met mine in the mirror. Dark. Hungry. "Yeah?"
"You're shaking."
He was. A fine tremor running through him, visible in the hand that wasn't pressed against my back. He made a fist, released it. Made it again.
"I'm trying—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I'm trying to be careful. I don't want to?—"
"What?"
"Scare you. Push too fast. Ruin this by being—"Another swallow. "I want this too much. I'm afraid I'll get it wrong."
My heart cracked open.
This man. This guarded, controlled, infuriatingly composed man—standing in an elevator with his hand on my back and his walls in rubble, admitting he was scared of wanting me.
I turned. Faced him instead of his reflection. His hand slid to my hip, holding on.
"You're not going to scare me," I said.
"You don't know that."
"I know that I've been thinking about this since the couch. Since before the couch. Since you walked into my coffee shop a year ago and insulted my foam art and I wanted to pour hot espresso on your head and also know what you taste like." I stepped closer. He stopped breathing. "I know that I spent the entire drive home thinking about what I want to do to you when we get through your door. I know that if you try to be noble right now, I might actually lose my mind."
Fourteen.
His hand tightened on my hip. "Willow?—"
"Stop being careful." I fisted the front of his shirt. "I don't want careful. I want you."
The elevator dinged. Fifteen.
The doors opened. Neither of us moved.
Then Callum made a sound—low, rough,somewhere between a groan and a surrender—and his mouth crashed into mine.
He kissed me against the elevator wall, one hand braced beside my head, the other hauling me against him. Not careful. Not measured. Desperate, the way I'd been desperate for weeks without letting myself admit it.
"Inside," I gasped against his mouth. "Now."
He pulled back. His eyes were wild, his breathing destroyed, and he looked at me as if I'd taken a battering ram to everything he thought he knew about himself.
"Yeah," he said. "Okay. Yes."
He grabbed my hand. We half-ran down the hallway, and I would've laughed at the absurdity of it—two adults sprinting toward his apartment—except I was too busy trying to keep up in heels and too turned on to find anything funny.
He fumbled with his keys. Dropped them. Cursed under his breath.
I pressed myself against his back, my mouth finding the spot below his ear. "Nervous?"
"You're not helping."
"I'm not trying to help." I bit his earlobe. He shuddered. "I'm trying to make you hurry."
