“A call to Flores,” she says, grasping the direction of my request immediately.
“To his local man, yeah. The DEA couldn’t mobilize enough agents to be on standby, but Flores has access to resources the DEA doesn’t have. I have a burner phone for you to hold onto. You can take it with you if you don’t want to sit up here waiting. Keep your own phone on you too. We’re supposed to meet Zavala at a restaurant nearby, but if I know him, he’ll be sending a handful of mercenaries to haul us to a different location, probably back to the compound, which is half an hour outside the city. I’ll try to text, but if you don’t hear from me within two hours after we leave, you call the number programmed into the phone.”
Having a mission of her own seems to mollify her and she finally relaxes, but the worry doesn’t completely leave her face. In an effort to wash the remaining anxiety from her mind, I lean in and kiss her.
She responds with a resigned groan, as if succumbing to the desire despite still believing it’s a bad idea, but one kiss won’t kill me. It’s when I get the bright idea to stand with her in my arms that I realize my mistake. The muscles across my back flex, pulling at the small incision and sending a jolt of pain straight through me. I hiss and sit back down when the pain flares hotter.
“Mason,” she admonishes. “You know better.”
I grimace. “Wanting you isn’t going to go away.”
“Well, then it’s a good thing I’ve got hands. I’m more than capable of taking care of you in every way. Now lie down.”
She slips off my lap and pushes against my shoulders, and I obey, falling back onto the pillows while she stands over me. I itch to touch her, but decide to enjoy the moment and just watch instead. If there was music, she’d be dancing. As it is, she sways a little, twisting sensuously as she pulls her sweater over her head, then unclasps her bra, letting it slide down her arms before dropping it onto the growing pile of clothes beside me on the bed. Then she slips out of her leggings and panties before climbing onto the bed to straddle me, completely naked.
I can finally touch her when she leans over me to kiss me again, and I nearly groan at the enticing sensation of her silken skin beneath my palms. She shivers and moans into my mouth when I find her breasts and tease my knuckles across their tips on my way down her body.
When I reach between her legs I find her wet and hot, her clit already swollen. I tease her until she’s panting, and she whispers, “Need you so much.”
“Then take me, Callie. You know I’m yours. Take me.”
She wastes no time unfastening my jeans, and the second she releases my erection, she’s sliding down me. It’s my turn to gasp and curse at the acute pleasure that blasts through me when she takes me to the hilt and fucks me slowly. I’d love nothing more than to roll her over and take control, but watching her ride me to her own climax is a thing of fucking beauty.
I don’t even bother to try to silence her when her orgasm takes hold. Her cries reverberate through the room, and my eardrums are having little orgasms of their own at the sound. Then I’m flying over myself, my own rough groan mingling with hers.
I open my eyes to the curtain of her hair surrounding my face and her panting breaths hot against my cheek.
“I love you, Mason Black. Promise you’ll come back to me,” she whispers.
“I promise.”
36 Callie
Only fifteen minutes after Mason and his brother leave, I’m grateful for his suggestion that I don’t need to just sit here waiting. I’m too anxious to stay cooped up in our room, so I come up with the bright idea to find a baby boutique somewhere and pick up a few things for Zoe when she arrives. I have no idea what she’ll need, but it’s better to be prepared, isn’t it?
I’m completely out of my element, though, and just wind up staring at the selection of disposable diapers as it occurs to me that I have no idea how big this baby is. All I know is her birthday, April 10th, which would make her nine months old. At a complete loss, I pull out my phone and tap a text to my roommate in LA. If anyone would have the answer, it’s a pediatric surgeon.
“SOS. What size diapers do nine-month-olds need?”
I have no idea what Felix is doing. It’s the middle of the day in the middle of the week, so he’s likely at work, but he responds to my question within seconds.
“Holy shit, are you still alive? You didn’t come home on Monday. Was worried.”
“Long story. Right now I just need help shopping for an infant. Also . . . may need a favor when I get back to LA.”
I tack the last part on when it occurs to me Zoe will need a proper pediatrician to look her over when we get home, and I’m betting Mason hasn’t thought that far ahead.
“Anything for my #workwife. What’s the sitch? Did you decide to hell with neuro and steal a baby?”
“Um . . . better keep the details to a minimum for now. Will fill you in when I’m back. Can you help? Sizes???”
A stuck-out-tongue emoji appears on my screen, then he types, “The age should be on the labels, genius. Unless the baby was a preemie, the appropriate age range should fit.”
“She’s a normal healthy baby, as far as I know. I won’t meet her for a few more hours.”
“Something tells me you had a far more exciting holiday than usual. Can’t wait to hear the story.”
“I’ll fill you in later. Will be in touch.”
When I look back
