scowled at Alyssa and turned away again.
“I'd say,” Alyssa threw an arm around Callum's shoulder and rested the other hand on his hip, “That I'm a better fan than she is.” Her face came very close to his now so that she was breathing softly into his ear.
“You might be a better fan,” he said, “But seems to me that girl's a better fan, you know?”
Alyssa bit at his earlobe playfully. “Don't be so sure.” His eyebrows raised involuntarily. His hands came to rest around her thin frame. Her smell intoxicated him, and the nape of her neck brushed against his lips and stirred nervous energy between his legs. “Forget her, I want you to take me,” Alyssa said.
With wide eyes, Callum looked from Alyssa to the blonde and back again. “How about both?”
“Not a chance!” shot the girl by the elevator.
Alyssa smiled. She ran the small tip of her tongue up his neck to where his ear began. “Make your choice, one or the other.” His jaw tightened, he inhaled sharply through closed teeth. The blonde by the elevator was perceptibly unhappy, and her drunken fury washed away any attractive feature about herself faster than a cigarette butt swept into a storm drain.
“Let's go,” he said, letting out a mischievous growl that surprised Alyssa. This guy seemed a little immature.
CHAPTER 4
They entered the elevator and left the blonde in the lobby, pouting and disheveled. When the elevator dinged and they had reached the top level, the doors opened straight into Callum's penthouse apartment. The place domineered a three hundred and sixty degree view of the city. Alyssa didn't notice because she was too busy making out with Callum. The two were all over each other with passion and fire. The deep crimson on her lips smudged onto his own mouth and stained red the exposed parts of his face above a gallant beard that shone almost gold under the hallway lighting.
In a feverish embrace, they moved past the entrance and toward the sofa, where she fell on top of him, grinding her hips against his in unbridled anticipation. He tugged the black top from out of her red skirt and pulled it over her head. She tossed it aside and the dull orange of the lounge room lighting drew lines on the delicious curvature of her breasts. She gnawed on his collarbone and removed his shirt slowly, admiring the way that beads of sweat accentuated the stark lines of his abdomen. He was tattooed from neck-to-toe, swirling images of skulls and rum bottles and scrolls inscribed with ancient lettering. Alyssa ran her tongue down his torso towards the buckle of his belt.
“Hold on,” he said with a hand on her shoulder, “Let's have a drink.” She sat up and saw the private bar by the giant windows that cornered the skyline into a neat canvas. He slid out from under her and walked over to it, taking a couple of tumblers down from the shelf.
“What do you drink?” he asked.
“Vodka orange?”
He nodded, mixing her drink and pouring himself a scotch on the rocks from a fifty-year-old decanter of Dalmore. She traced him with a feline gaze as he returned to the couch with the drinks in hand, passing hers over then falling back into the plush leather couch to sip at his own. “A bloody good show,” he said, raising his glass.
She tapped hers against his. “A bloody good show,” she said.
Through the couch, both could feel the other's heart still racing, as he tried to catch his breath. Primal instinct hung thick and throbbing in the air between them, their casual quiet drinking was a deliberate, devious dalliance on both their parts, delaying and dilating the inevitable deed to come. Alyssa relished the waiting. A pause in the momentum dripping thick with the unspent drive. Neither of them looked at each other but both were on the verge of pouncing. The very intentional act of delaying the event had both parties feeling like a hissing kettle.
Soon, very soon, the drinks were done. Condensation on empty glasses slid downwards
“I'd say,” Alyssa threw an arm around Callum's shoulder and rested the other hand on his hip, “That I'm a better fan than she is.” Her face came very close to his now so that she was breathing softly into his ear.
“You might be a better fan,” he said, “But seems to me that girl's a better fan, you know?”
Alyssa bit at his earlobe playfully. “Don't be so sure.” His eyebrows raised involuntarily. His hands came to rest around her thin frame. Her smell intoxicated him, and the nape of her neck brushed against his lips and stirred nervous energy between his legs. “Forget her, I want you to take me,” Alyssa said.
With wide eyes, Callum looked from Alyssa to the blonde and back again. “How about both?”
“Not a chance!” shot the girl by the elevator.
Alyssa smiled. She ran the small tip of her tongue up his neck to where his ear began. “Make your choice, one or the other.” His jaw tightened, he inhaled sharply through closed teeth. The blonde by the elevator was perceptibly unhappy, and her drunken fury washed away any attractive feature about herself faster than a cigarette butt swept into a storm drain.
“Let's go,” he said, letting out a mischievous growl that surprised Alyssa. This guy seemed a little immature.
CHAPTER 4
They entered the elevator and left the blonde in the lobby, pouting and disheveled. When the elevator dinged and they had reached the top level, the doors opened straight into Callum's penthouse apartment. The place domineered a three hundred and sixty degree view of the city. Alyssa didn't notice because she was too busy making out with Callum. The two were all over each other with passion and fire. The deep crimson on her lips smudged onto his own mouth and stained red the exposed parts of his face above a gallant beard that shone almost gold under the hallway lighting.
In a feverish embrace, they moved past the entrance and toward the sofa, where she fell on top of him, grinding her hips against his in unbridled anticipation. He tugged the black top from out of her red skirt and pulled it over her head. She tossed it aside and the dull orange of the lounge room lighting drew lines on the delicious curvature of her breasts. She gnawed on his collarbone and removed his shirt slowly, admiring the way that beads of sweat accentuated the stark lines of his abdomen. He was tattooed from neck-to-toe, swirling images of skulls and rum bottles and scrolls inscribed with ancient lettering. Alyssa ran her tongue down his torso towards the buckle of his belt.
“Hold on,” he said with a hand on her shoulder, “Let's have a drink.” She sat up and saw the private bar by the giant windows that cornered the skyline into a neat canvas. He slid out from under her and walked over to it, taking a couple of tumblers down from the shelf.
“What do you drink?” he asked.
“Vodka orange?”
He nodded, mixing her drink and pouring himself a scotch on the rocks from a fifty-year-old decanter of Dalmore. She traced him with a feline gaze as he returned to the couch with the drinks in hand, passing hers over then falling back into the plush leather couch to sip at his own. “A bloody good show,” he said, raising his glass.
She tapped hers against his. “A bloody good show,” she said.
Through the couch, both could feel the other's heart still racing, as he tried to catch his breath. Primal instinct hung thick and throbbing in the air between them, their casual quiet drinking was a deliberate, devious dalliance on both their parts, delaying and dilating the inevitable deed to come. Alyssa relished the waiting. A pause in the momentum dripping thick with the unspent drive. Neither of them looked at each other but both were on the verge of pouncing. The very intentional act of delaying the event had both parties feeling like a hissing kettle.
Soon, very soon, the drinks were done. Condensation on empty glasses slid downwards
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