“But I can,” Alejandra declared proudly. “I love those books. They’re only called smut because women write them. No one calls any book by Declan Byrne smut, and half of it is sex and murder.”
Asma gasped. “I love you already. Who’s your favorite author?”
“Cleo Torrente for romance. But I’m a Maia Solo’s fan too. Lately I’ve been deep-diving indie authors.”
“Oh my God. Yes. I just finished her latest series.”
Alejandra clutched her chest dramatically. “Chef’s kiss.”
“We lost them,” Leif muttered.
“Oh, come on.” Alejandra turned to Callum. “Don’t tell me you only read books written by men?”
“Actually, no,” he replied. “I just prefer straight fantasy over fantasy-romance.”
“Why?” she frowned, genuinely offended.
He shrugged.
“I’m sending you a list,” she said.
“It’s a lost cause,” Asma muttered. “I’ve tried to make them understand the superiority of a book written by a woman.”
Oh, but if Callum knew how many positions she’d tried thanks to those books… Would he be intrigued? Turned on? Or terrified? Honestly, she didn’t care. He looked like the type to not just read the instructions, but improve them.
As everyone turned to watch the DJ announce the arrival of the bride and groom into the garden, Alejandra leaned in, whispering just loud enough for him to hear over the applause.
“I’ve learned a lot from those smut books. You should give them a try.”
Callum didn’t miss a beat. “Maybe you could teach me athing or two then,” he whispered back, his hand sliding under the table, fingers grazing her thigh.
Her breath caught.
Her entire body snapped to attention like he’d flipped a switch.
Her eyes darkened with lust as she turned her face toward his. He smelled like clean linen, sun, and a little bit of wine. Her mouth was inches from his.
“I’ll show you later,” she murmured, heat curling in her belly.
His fingers squeezed her thigh, firm, slow, confident.
“Whatever you want, Alejandra.”
10
CALLUM
OSSESSIONE - Samurai Jay, Vito Salamanca
Spanish women were something else.Alejandra? She was from another planet entirely.
She wasn’t just gorgeous, she was a fucking force. Her confidence, her laughter, the way she moved her body with complete control—it wrecked him. And now, after hours of flirting sitting next to each other, brushing hands during toasts, and exchanging innuendos under their breath, his cock was aching. Painfully hard just from her proximity. When she touched his arm, smiled at him, whispered some clever line about mythology or fantasy books, he swore he was seconds from coming in his goddamn pants.
She wasn’t just a surfer. He’d been an idiot to even assume that. She was funny, smart, well-read, and so in tune with the world around her it made him feel like he’d lived his whole life behind glass.
But this couldn’t or shouldn’t be about feelings. He couldn’tfall for her. She was always traveling, chasing waves in tropical corners of the world. He had London. Sometimes Wales. His roots were deep. Hers were saltwater and sun.
Still, that didn’t stop the fire burning in his veins when she appeared beside him at sunset, while he was finishing a joint behind the villa, the beach glowing gold in the distance.
