Over and over, he did this, each time making me more and more frantic.
“Callaway!”
He smiled at me, licking his fingers.
“Yes?”
“Please!”
“What do you want, baby? You want to come?”
I nodded frantically, letting my head fall back.
“You want me to use my fingers? Or my mouth?”
“Fingers. Oh, God, please.”
He shook his head.
“Alright, sweetheart. You asked nicely. I’ll give you what you want.”
He hoisted one of my legs up around his waist and reached below my thigh to slip a finger inside me. We both moaned.
“You’re so tight, baby . . . Jesus.”
His other hand found my clit. He used his index finger to press down on it and circle. I gasped at the dual sensations of his one finger sliding in and out of me, the other busy driving me wild on my clit. I lost control of my body, writhing and wiggling against him, flexing my back and holding onto his shoulders for dear life.
“That’s it, baby. Reach for it.”
Callaway’s voice was husky and tender, sending me over the edge. I cried out, my head falling back as I peaked and exploded into a thousand shards of light. I shook all over his busy hands. He didn’t stop for a second. He added a second finger, sliding it deeper inside me, circling the other finger so quickly I thought that he must be half machine.
I was floating, cresting and falling without coming all the way down. His lips found my neck as I convulsed against him. He made an appreciative sound, a sound that was one hundred percent self-satisfied male.
Of course, he wasn’t satisfied, I realized. But I wasn’t exactly sure what to do about that.
“You did so good, baby.”
“Call . . . that was . . . is that normal?”
He grinned at me.
“Probably not.”
“It’s never been like that when I . . .”
He bit his lip.
“When you what, sweetheart?”
“When I touched myself before.”
He swallowed and closed his eyes.
“Lord, give me strength,” he whispered, and I giggled. I reached down his body. He caught my wrist, his eyes snapping open again.
“Can I . . . do that for you?”
“Yes, but not today. I don’t think I can handle it.”
“Are you sure? I want you to feel good too.”
He pressed a kiss to my forehead.
“I do feel good. Now, why don’t you take a nap? I’ll be back in a few hours to take you to Crestwood.”
He picked me up and carried me to my tiny bed. He even pulled the covers back and put me inside. He laughed when I pulled a nightgown out from under my pillow and slid into it.
“What?”
“You’re just . . . too cute to be real.”
“Well, I am real.”
“I know.”
He pulled the blankets up and over me.
“You rest. I’ll see you later.” He held up my keys. “I’ll let myself out.”
“Okay.”
He pressed a kiss to my forehead, and I sank into my pillow with a smile on my face.
Chapter Nine
Callaway
“She’s going to kill me.”
“What did you do now?”
I pulled on a beer and leaned over the piece of wood I was sanding. I’d needed to get into something tonight. And since heavy drugs were off the table, woodworking was the next best thing.
“No, she’s not mad. I mean . . . you know.”
“She took you back?”
“Yeah.”
“But she still won’t screw you?”
I gave Whiskey a sour look and he laughed.
“This is unreal. You are the guy who has never not gotten laid. What was your record again?”
“Ten.”
“You fucked a girl ten times in one night?”
“No. I fucked two girls, five times each. Actually, I think it was four and six.”
“And now you’re a monk.”
“She’s worth the wait.” I adjusted my nuts, saying a prayer that I wouldn’t have to wait too long. My balls were heavy and full. They felt like lead weights. I doubted whacking off would even put a dent in the load I was brewing. “Molly is special.”
Whiskey nodded. He might like taking the piss out of me, but he got it. He’d been head over heels with Becky from the start. He’d waited for her too.
I focused on the table I was making. It was a simple side table, but I was using it as a test run for an idea I had for a larger dining room table. I was starting to think about settling down, and this was a step in the right direction.
“You have any hickory around? I want to do an inlay.”
“Jack probably does. He has everything.”
Whiskey and I were handy, but Jack was a master craftsman. Bikes and woodworking, and probably anything that required dexterity and know-how. I aspired to be as good as him someday. Of course, he couldn’t tat like I could. But I wanted to be able to make furniture and build a house like he could.
We’d all been over to help out with his secret project a couple of days a week for months now. If it had still been light out, I would have gone over there now. The big man was teaching me a lot, and I was eager to repay the favor with sweat. Even Lucky and Mac were helping out, though Lucky was a contractor so he probably enjoyed it a whole lot less.