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I t’s not the first time I have to fuck my hand because of this woman. And I do, before we all meet up for food and drinks—fuck. I shouldn’t do this. I know better. But I can’t help it.

And after I paint the shower with my cum, I swear to myself— it’s the last fucking time .

She’s so close now.

Almost in my grasp, and I am mad for her.

I wait in the lobby with Connor and Clementine, hands shoved in my pockets, forcing myself to be still.

The rest of the party is running late, and the wait is grating on my nerves.

I’m the oldest one here, aside from that fucking guy, and acknowledging it doesn’t do me any favors.

I don’t like dwelling on things that can’t be changed.

And yet—here I am.

“Whiskey?”

Connor’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. I glance over just as he hands me a tumbler, two fingers of neat amber fire sloshing inside the crystal glass.

I raise a brow. “Platinum label?”

“Fuck yeah.” He dips his head in acknowledgment, his smirk lazy, satisfied.

I don’t even hesitate before taking a sip.

The burn is smooth, rolling over my tongue and sinking into my bloodstream like an old friend.

I’m a fan of this particular label—so much so that I hunted down the creator a few years back in Montclair.

The man owns a bar there with his wife.

Good people.

Good whiskey.

Hell, I liked the town so much, I bought a house there.

A place to disappear to when the noise of the world gets too loud.

“You boys and your whiskey.”

Clementine shakes her head, but there’s no real heat behind it. She’s grinning at her man, the kind of grin that speaks of quiet admiration and deep, settled love.

She takes a sip from her water glass, and my mind stirs with suspicion.

She doesn’t normally stick to water.

My gaze flicks to Connor, to the way his hand rests on the small of her back, protective, instinctive.

I wonder—is there another little Callahan on the way?

I don’t ask.

Because, fuck no—I do not want to know about my cousin’s bedroom activities.

But thinking about kids sends my brain spiraling in another direction entirely.

Thinking about kids makes me think of her.

Aella.

Aella—swollen with my child.

Aella—barefoot in my kitchen, wearing nothing but my shirt and the curve of my name in her mouth.

Aella—her green eyes soft, her body full and lush with the weight of something we made together.

Fuck.

I want that.

I want it so bad it knocks the breath out of me.

My grip tightens around the glass.

I throw back the rest of the whiskey, because the alternative is madness.

What the hell am I doing?

Aella is so damn pretty it hurts.

T oo sweet. Too soft. Too fucking good for me.

She’s better than this life, better than my shadowed hands and all the violence that shaped them.

But none of that stops me from wanting her.

From craving her.

From standing here, fists clenched, barely keeping myself from grabbing and taking.

Yeah, I’m desperate.

And my actions? They reflect that.

I don’t have the self-control to pretend anymore.

Not when she steps off the elevator, wrapped in a dress so sinfully red it should come with a fucking warning sign.

My feisty little Pixie takes commands well.

I told her to wear the red.

And fuck me—she did.

I grin, slow and sharp, satisfaction unfurling in my chest as I take her in.

Every inch of her.

My gaze travels, heating as it devours the sight before me.

The sleek fall of her dark hair.

The soft curve of her waist, the long stretch of her legs.

That dress clings to her like a second skin, the fabric hugging every curve, every valley, every part of her she shouldn’t be showing off to anyone but me.

It’s like the damn thing was poured on.

And all I can think.

All I can see.

Is how easily I could peel it the fuck off.

She’s the perfect little package.

Her tits are high and perky. Large, but not overly so.

Her waist indents a little, flaring out as it travels over those wide hips to that juicy ass. I can’t help but want to bite it.

Then it’s her thick thighs and toned calves on display, followed by tiny little feet stuck into a pair of mile high stilettos.

Geezus. Fuck.

I want to drag her to me and claim her here and now with my mouth.

I want to grab a fucking blanket and wrap her up, tuck her away from covetous eyes.

A million emotions roll through me, but I am helpless to do anything about them.

Not here. Not now.

I tell myself that a dozen times, but it’s doing nothing to help.

I scrub my hand over my face.

Because that is the least of what I want to do to her.

What I really want is so much worse.

I want to fuck this woman on my cock every which way I can.

I want to cover her in me .

Tattoo myself onto her skin.

My scent. My saliva. My sweat. My cum.

I want to drink from the source of her sweet nectar. Devour her.

I want to pull her hair as I fuck her from behind, make her scream my name as I paint her womb and get her swollen with my kid.

I want it all with her and I want it yesterday.

Dinner is a riotous affair, and I am glad for the sit down table and atmosphere. It’s camouflage and I really fucking need the break.

Any more of Aella standing there, her gorgeous body on display, my cock straining to punch a hole through my slacks, and someone was bound to notice.