Crashing into Love by Flora Ferrari

Chapter Five

Conrad

I try to take deep breaths to force some calmness into me, to force myself not to howl and beat my chest like a beast. I was so damn close to kissing her, to tasting those perfect lips. I could feel her body against mine, my manhood pushed against her.

But maybe it’s a good thing her mother interrupted us now, and not after I laid my lips against hers. If I’d made contact, I know I wouldn’t have been able to stop.

I know I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself from bending her over the couch and grinding the inflamed tip of my manhood up and down her between legs, letting her get good and wet before I drove myself inside her tight, needy young hole.

Fuck.

I’m not doing a very good job at calming myself down.

“It’s okay, Mom. Everything’s fine.”

Callie’s mother is bone-thin, wearing an oversized top that hangs right down to her knees. Her cheeks are gaunt and her eyes have a sunken quality, as though she’s a few days away from starvation. Her hair hangs down to her shoulders in greasy strands.

“Who is this?” she warbles, sounding like a woman on the edge.

“It’s Conrad,” Callie says, walking over to her mom and laying a hand on her shoulder. “He’s my…”

She looks at me, a question in her eyes. They’re even more gorgeous in the flickering candlelight, dancing alluringly. “I’m her friend. It’s lovely to meet you, Miss Simpkins.”

“Mrs,” she spits. “My name is Mrs. Simpkins.”

I flinch at the bite in her tone but nod. There’s something wrong with this woman. She seems like she’s going to burst into uncontainable tears at any moment like they’re going to shatter through her and break her.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Simpkins,” I say, nodding. “I meant no disrespect.”

Callie’s face lights up at my apology, a silent thank you coming from her alluring eyes.

“What was all the commotion?” her mother rasps. “I heard yelling. And there was a loud noise. Have the power people contacted us yet? Have they said when they’re turning on the lights? I don’t like it in the dark.”

“Mom, I called them. But they’re not going to…”

I take a step forward, raising a hand. “Go and pack a bag, Mrs. Simpkins. You’re not staying here tonight. I’ve invited you and your daughter to stay at my apartment until this power situation is sorted out. I’ve got two spare rooms, both with ensuite bathrooms. You don’t have to worry about any of this.”

“I don’t have to worry?” she says slowly, blinking like a child as she looks between me and her daughter.

I stare hard at Callie, giving her the silent message to tell her mother yes.

“That’s right, Mom,” Callie says, unable to hide the note of surprise in her voice. “Conrad’s going to let us stay with him. Isn’t that nice?”

Her mother looks at me, biting her lip. She really does seem like she’s in an awful mental state. My chest tightens when I remember how Dad looked after Mom’s death, and I remember the way Mrs. Simpkins interrupted me to say Mrs…

Is something similar going on here?

“Why?” she whispers.

“Because I’m Callie’s friend,” I tell her. “I don’t like the idea of her staying here when there’s no power and the door’s broken. You don’t have to take me up on my offer, but I promise there are no strings attached.”

“So I should pack a suitcase?” she says, turning slowly to Callie.

“Yes, yes, I think so.” Callie’s voice is still unsure, as though she can’t quite believe this is happening. “Do you want any help?”

A flare of life comes into Mrs. Simpkin’s eyes, a note of pride, and for a second she reminds me of Callie when I first arrived at the apartment. There’s the same desire to transcend her circumstances.

Or maybe in her mother’s case, it’s a desire to transcend herself.

“No, I can do it. What should I bring?”

“Clothes, toiletries, anything you don’t want to leave behind,” Callie says. “I really don’t mind helping you.”

“No, I’m fine,” she says. “And the photo albums, of your father, of you when you were a girl? Should I bring those?”

“Yes, Mom, whatever you like. Honestly, I don’t mind helping.”

Her mother turns and strides into the bedroom, closing the door behind her without another word. A moment later the sound of drawers opening and closing reaches us.

Callie stalks across the room, stopping just short of me. There’s a multitude of emotions in her expression, something like disbelief, gratitude, and resentment all mixed together.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks, a fierce note in her voice. “I don’t understand.”

“I can’t let you stay here,” I snap. “Those assholes could come back. And if I’m not here to protect you…”

“But why? We only met a few hours ago.”

I can’t stop myself anymore, despite the fact her mom might interrupt us at any moment.

Lunging forward, I grab her by the hips and pull her right up against me, so she can feel my flaming manhood. I grind myself against her and lean down, bringing my lips a hairsbreadth away from hers.

She gasps, and then I still the sound with a kiss.

It’s like she doesn’t know what to do at first, as I push my lips closer and closer against hers, as I smooth my hands around from her hips to her ass. I can’t stop, squeezing her ass indulgently, driving myself forward with more and more force.

Fuck.

She tastes so good, as she finally relaxes into the kiss and her mouth opens, our tongues clashing together. The base of my manhood throbs when she makes a moaning sound through the kiss, her hands rising and clawing onto my shoulders.

There’s still some shyness in her, in the way her tongue moves, in the way she lightly holds onto my shoulders as though afraid to squeeze me fully.

I growl and kiss her harder, unable to stop the torrent of passion, unable to stop the thundering rightness of this moment. I’ve never felt so certain in all my life that this is the right thing to do, the only thing to do.

She whimpers as the kiss naturally ends, leaning back in my embrace and staring up at me with those gorgeous sparkling eyes of hers.

“Why?” she whispers. “Freaking heck, Conrad. Why did you do that?”

“Are you complaining?” I snarl, kissing her again.

She whimpers as I crash my lips into hers harder this time, with more force, hungry to taste her, to feel her body pulsing against mine.

There’s so much tension in her, so much lust. I can feel it blazing against my body.

And then it’s like my seed is drumming inside of me, telling me to tear down her shorts and take her savagely right here, even if her mom is going to return in a second. My seed commands me to push apart her thick fleshy thighs and drive up into that young perfect place, take her until she’s gasping and creaming and trembling.

“What’s wrong?” Callie asks when I move away, throwing myself back almost violently.

“I can’t,” I growl. “Not—”

Not here,I was going to say, but then the door to her mother’s bedroom opens.

She stands there like a horror movie villain for a second. I beat the thought down, angry with myself for being so goddamn cruel. Clearly, something is wrong with her and it isn’t fair that I should think of her in those terms.

As I stare at her – at the uncertainty in her face and the childlike need in her eyes – I make a promise to myself to help her in whatever way I can. Callie’s clearly been taking care of her on her own.

“Callie, can you help me?” she asks quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Mom.”

Callie turns and slowly walks away from me, stopping to aim a look over her shoulder. I can’t read it. It’s too convoluted with emotion.

Callie walks into the bedroom and closes the door.

I sigh and close my eyes for a moment, trying to still the lust still coursing through me like waves against the hull of a ship. They smash over and over into me, telling me to stalk in there and grab Callie, drag her out here and finish what we started.

To try and distract myself, I walk around the small living room, looking down at the sad pile of sheets and pillows stacked next to the couch. There’s a small desk near the window, with a couple of books sitting next to an open notepad.

The heading of the notepad reads, Key Concepts in Interior Design.

Is this Callie’s true dream, to work as an interior designer?

I look around the small living room again, noting the little touches here and there. There’s a print on the cracked and damp wall of a nature scene, as though my woman wants to bring some life in here, some vibrancy.

A tatty old blanket is thrown over the back of the couch, but it’s that calculated sort of messy, as though to give it an artist’s boudoir appeal.

She’s doing her best with her limited supplies, her limited money, and a tight feeling stabs me as I think about all she could achieve if she was given the proper funds, the proper support.

Goddamn, my woman should have never been living here, should have never been subjected to a life like this.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, warning myself to stay calm on the car ride home, warning myself not to leap across at her and press her up against the window. There’s so much tension hovering in me, howling, blaring, willing me to claim her each and every moment.

Even when we’re in public.

Even when her mother is right there.

I wouldn’t, of course.

But the impulse is there, impossible to ignore, and it’s only getting louder.