As he neared orgasm once more, Cal had been panting hard, clutching the sheets. Sweat covered his brow. He wasn’t going to beg her for release—he had too much pride. But he had to clamp his jaw shut in order to keep from shouting, “Hurry the fuck up and let me come!” Perhaps she’d read his expression, because ultimately Monica increased her speed, bobbing her head, taking him deeper while her hands pumped the base of his cock.
When he finally came, he shot into her mouth. Long streams of it. She took it all and kept going, milking him dry, giving him possibly the most intense orgasm he’d ever had.
And now he lay here, completely spent, yet still frustrated. No, the sex hadn’t changed—it was this part afterward that had altered.
She lay spooned against him, her head propped on his outstretched arm. Cal brushed his thumb over her stomach, waiting. Waiting for her to talk, to ask him questions, to say something…anything. But Monica remained silent. If he asked what was troubling her, she’d chide him, tell him she was thinking about tomorrow’s tasks.
Bullshit.
Cal knew when she was lying. Always. So he quit asking, because he hated it when she fobbed him off. Resented the bloody hell out of it, actually.
Intimacy. That was the missing ingredient. They’d had intimacy before, and now it was gone. Monica used to talk to him after sex. She’d opened up about her mum a little bit. He’d told her about his fight with Pix, his concerns for Jules.
Monica may be doubling down on the sex, but her heart remained guarded. She held an important part of herself back from him, and Cal didn’t know why.
“Want to hear about the elephants in Sri Lanka?” he whispered, then kissed her neck.
“Next time,” she said.
Cal’s ego felt a bit bruised from that one. Why did a lack of intimacy worry him anyway? That was for twats and people in real relationships. He and Monica were all about sex. They’d made a deal from the beginning.
As Monica fell asleep, Cal stayed awake long into the night, thinking about where he’d land next. His garage manager, Otto, was pressuring him to come back to London and get his ass to work. But Cal didn’t know if he wanted to head to England in the middle of winter.
He could go to Hawaii and surf. Or he could fly up to Alberta, watch the northern lights. But none of it appealed. Trouble was, Cal couldn’t picture himself anywhere but here. Lying next to Monica, smelling her sweet scent as he cradled her in his arms each night.
What if he and Monica came to a new arrangement? Still have fun, of course, but perhaps they could be… What? What would you be, muppet, exclusive? Yes, exactly. Exclusive. So what if he flew back to London for a few weeks or even months? He could come and see Monica in between. Visit Jules to make sure she stayed on course. Long-distance relationships—people did them all the time.
He wouldn’t be able to go haring off on a moment’s notice, but so what? They wouldn’t live in each other’s pockets either, like Trevor and Allie. Not everyone had to. He and Monica were independent people. They didn’t have to get married or live in the same place all the bloody time. They could have their own lives, but still be committed to each other.
Yes, this could work. Cal congratulated himself on his sensible idea and fell asleep around three a.m.
* * *
When he opened his eyes, bright sunshine flooded the room. Monica sat on the end of the bed, pulling on a black stocking. The bed bouncing, that’s what had awakened him. Thought he was in the middle of an earthquake there for a minute. “What time is it?”
“It’s eight seventeen. I’m so late. My stupid phone died.”
Cal sniffed and threw back the covers. “I’ll have to drive you home. We left your car at your place.” Rubbing his eyes, he staggered to the closet and grabbed a set of clothes. He took them back to the bedroom and caught a glimpse at Monica’s bare thigh as he shoved his leg into a pair of ripped jeans. She stared at him as well.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re not going to wear underwear?”
“I thought time was of the essence. We need to get you home to change. Do you really want to have a talk about my lack of smalls right now?”
She shoved her feet into the sensible black pumps. “No. And you don’t have to take me anywhere. I’ve called a cab.”
“Nonsense. I’ll have you home faster. You can show me the back roads.” He slipped a T-shirt over his head and shoved his feet into a pair of ancient athletic trainers. “All ready.”
Monica finger-combed her hair and walked down the hall. “You men have it so easy.”
“No time for a diatribe on my sex,” he called after her. He picked up the bedside phone and dialed Mr. Lawson. “Have the car ready out front, would you, and cancel Miss Campbell’s taxi? We’re in something of a hurry.”
Monica fluttered back. “My purse, my bag.” She made a circuit of the room, stopping to check under the bed.
“You dropped them on the sofa last night.” He took her by the shoulders and shepherded her to the foyer. Her hair was a mess, she wore no makeup, and her clothes had been wadded up on the floor all night. She looked wonderful.
Cal darted into the lounge and grabbed her bags, then followed Monica out the front door and down the stone path. The Mustang waited for them, a valet at the ready, holding open the passenger door.
Cal grabbed a bill and shoved it in the man’s hand. “Ta.” He hopped behind the wheel, let Monica give him side-road directions, and sped ten miles over the speed limit the entire way.
When he arrived in the driveway, he killed the engine. “Go change. I’ll make you a cup of coffee, yeah?”
She turned to him, clutching her bag with both hands like it was a bloody good luck charm. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Monica, my love, why are you wasting precious time arguing? You need to fix that hair.”
Her hand flew to her head and patted it. “Great.” She climbed out of the car and ran inside the house.
Cal got out at a slower pace. Life would never be boring with Monica Campbell. Walking through the front door, he heard the shower running upstairs. He’d been inside her house only a few times, and it was every bit as sad and colorless as he remembered.
Striding to the kitchen, he found the tiny four-cup coffeepot. He opened a few cabinets. All empty, except for one that held paper plates, plastic glasses, and disposable travel cups with lids. It housed the coffee can and filters too, along with stir sticks and little packets of sugar.
As the coffee brewed, Cal checked all the other cabinets and drawers, finding only plastic utensils. Even Cal’s flat in London had proper cutlery. An expired carton of milk and two shriveled apples hid in the refrigerator. This entire house lacked permanency. She lived like a squatter. This was a place to sleep, like a hotel, except even hotels hung bad artwork on the walls.
Monica walked into the kitchen a few moments later. Today’s bland color: gray. Gray pantsuit, gray button-up blouse, gray shoes.
He poured a cup of coffee, doctored it with a packet of sugar, and handed it to her. “Here.”
Was the rest of the house as dismal as the first floor? Was the bedroom this tragic? He had to know. Without a word, Cal walked past Monica and charged up the stairs.
“Where are you going? Cal, what’s wrong with you?”
She dogged his steps as he peeked into the two small bedrooms on the second floor. A few unpacked moving boxes lined the walls, but the rooms were absent of furniture. Then he strode into the master bedroom.
It was equally as appalling. An unmade bed—sloppy, his girl—no headboard, just a mattress and box spring and plain white sheets. Blinds covered the windows, not curtains. There were no personal touches whatsoever. No books, no knickknacks, nothing that said Monica Campbell lived here.
“Cal, get out.”
He thrust his hands deep into his back pockets while his gaze spanned the room, and after taking everything in, settled on her. “I’ve seen hotels in Bolivia that have more personality than this. The clothes I get. I despise them, even though I understand them. But this?” He removed his hands and flung an arm outward. “You need pink pillows and pretty bedding and pictures of your family. Where’s a photo of your mother?”