“Get out of my room.” She set the cup down on a bedside table. She only had the one.
“Where’s your mum? I haven’t seen a picture of her or your sisters or your father in this entire house.”
“I haven’t had time to decorate. I keep telling you that.”
“I’m not talking about decorations. I don’t know a single woman who doesn’t put her own stamp on a place. Darling, no one’s too busy to prop a family photo on the dresser.”
She held up her hand. “Do not compare me to all the other women you know. You need to leave so I can go to work.”
“What do you imagine I’ll do here alone, steal your cache of paper plates?” Cal tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for this pathetic house. But really, the house was just a symbol—like her clothes, like her job. The only time Monica spoke of anything personal was after sex, when her impenetrable guard lowered ever so slightly. Occasionally, she’d share a story about her mother, about her childhood with Allie and Brynn. But even then, Monica never revealed more than morsels, little bits of herself doled out in tiny increments. She always left Cal eager for more, but the minute he asked a personal question, she’d clam up.
Monica Campbell bought hot-pink, fuzzy steering-wheel covers. That was frivolous. She wore frilly bloomers and bras that made his cock stir to attention just thinking about them. But they were hidden beneath her conservative suits. She’d dated Ryan What’s-his-tits, a bloke so utterly devoid of charm, even his own mother must loathe him. Cal would bet his trust fund the man had never given Monica the type of rough, raunchy sex she needed. Yet she’d stayed with him for a year.
Monica Campbell’s entire life was a well-constructed lie.
Cal walked past her to the closet, ignoring her sputtering. Surely she had to own something besides knickers, something that revealed her true nature.
He turned on the light. For a walk-in closet—even a small one—she had very few clothes. All suits, mostly trousers, in every shade of hideous. In the back hung three long dresses covered by plastic dry cleaner’s bags. For her charity galas, obviously.
“Cal.” Monica now tugged at his arm. “I’m serious. Get the hell out of my closet. Get out of my house.”
“Why? There’s nothing here, is there? Not one bit of the real you.” Cal had never been so angry in his entire life. A sensuous, funny woman lay beneath all that fucking gray. “Whatever the hell you’re wearing under that ugly suit, that’s the real you. What color is it today? Purple? Bright blue?”
“Stop it,” she yelled. “I don’t have to justify myself to you.”
He strode past her, out of the closet, and stopped in front of her dresser. He began yanking open drawers and grabbed handfuls of colorful lace. “This”—he shook a hot-pink bra at her—“this is who you are. Colorful and sexy and whimsical.”
Monica marched forward and jerked the scanties from his hands. “What the hell’s gotten into you this morning?” She shoved them back in the drawer and slammed it shut. “When I let you give me a ride home, that wasn’t an invitation to insult me or paw through my personal shit.”
He slowly walked toward her, and Monica skirted around the dresser, retreating until her shoulders hit the wall. Her wide eyes registered shock, but it quickly turned to anger as he kept stalking toward her.
“I’ve tasted and touched every single part of your body,” he said. “But you don’t want me looking in your bedroom, your closet. There’s not one personal item in this entire god-awful little house. Why are you hiding?”
Monica shoved at his chest with both hands, but he didn’t move. Wouldn’t move, not until he had an answer.
“Why are you doing this? I’m not hiding. This is me. This is the real me.” She sounded desperate, as if she were trying to convince herself as well as him.
“Are you really that thick?” He studied her, puzzled by her implausible assertion that this Spartan room, these dull colors, were a reflection of her true spirit. They were just the opposite. Camouflage. “You’re living a lie. I don’t know if it’s for Allie’s benefit or your own. Like that fake Statue of Liberty on the Strip, this character you’re playing is a cheap imitation of the real thing. And the real Monica is brilliant.”
“Shut up.” She shoved at his chest again, harder this time. “Don’t criticize me for being a responsible adult, something you could never manage. And don’t talk to me about living a lie, because when life gets tough, Cal, you run in the opposite direction. You don’t exactly confront things head-on—you haven’t talked to your mom in weeks. So who’s the one hiding, you or me?”
Cal’s eyes narrowed. “Well, I never claimed to be something I’m not.”
“Fuck. You. I don’t owe you any explanations.” Her breath came in shallow gasps as she stared up at him. Twin pops of color brightened her cheeks.
“The hell you don’t. You act like one person when you’re in my bed, and another person when you’re out of it. Will the real Monica Campbell please stand up?”
“There’s an easy solution. I’ll never be in your bed again.”
“Really? Are you having me on right now? You want me every bit as much as I want you.” Now he was breathing heavily, as if his lungs couldn’t take in enough air. He and Monica simply stared at each other, the anger palpable between them.
Then they lunged at each other. Monica threw herself at Cal, ripping at his shirt. He returned the favor, grabbing her blouse and tearing at the buttons. Red-and-white polka dots trimmed in white frills. That’s what she wore beneath the bland gray costume.
She leaped into his arms, and he caught her, stumbling backward until the mattress hit his calves, then he tumbled down and rolled over, pinning Monica beneath him.
Angrily, he kissed her as he yanked her shirt from her trousers in quick, impatient movements and finished ripping open her blouse.
Monica fumbled with the hook on her slacks, and Cal lifted his head. Nudging her hands aside, he helped her lower them down her hips.
She pulled on his collar, scraping his neck with her nails in the process, and jerked at his T-shirt. “Take it off.”
Cal sat up and stripped out of the shirt—she’d ripped the neckline, but the rest remained intact. After dropping it on the floor, he moved back on top of her.
Things often got frenzied between them, but this felt different. Raw and primal. Monica dug her nails into his sides. Cal kissed her too hard and grabbed fistfuls of her hair.
Curving her body around him, she wiggled her fingers into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Condom,” she said, gasping for breath.
“Get one, and hurry up.” He didn’t want protracted foreplay. He wanted to fuck. Hard. Take every bit of his frustration out on her. Unzipping his pants, he wrenched them low enough to free his cock.
In seconds, he had the condom on and placed himself at her entrance. In one powerful stroke, Cal rammed inside her. As he moved, his eyes met hers. Her light blue irises appeared glassy, and her pupils dilated. Cal held her gaze as he pounded in and out of her.
Biting her lip, Monica lowered her eyes until they drifted shut.
Cal stopped moving. “Look at me.” He waited until she complied. This time, her eyes weren’t unfocused—they were full of rage. “Say my name.”
Her lips pinched together. “Asshole.”
He gritted his teeth in a semblance of a smile. “Almost. Try it again.”
She hesitated. “Calum.”
“Again,” he grated, pulling out of her, then driving back inside.
“Calum.”
He continued, bucking his hips over and over. She felt so good, so tight.
Monica reached down to rub her clit. Every time her eyes would start to close, he’d stop moving. After the fourth time, her gaze never wavered.