Crashing into Love by Flora Ferrari
Chapter Six
Callie
I sit in the passenger seat, glancing across at Conrad as he guides the car through the city at midnight. Mom is asleep in the back seat, her eyes closed, snoring softly. Even in sleep, she can’t stop her face from warping in pain, as though she’s reliving things she’d rather forget.
Conrad handles the car deftly, guiding it casually through the city. I study his firm jaw and his shining silver hair, his glinting wolfish blue eyes, trying to convince myself that all of this is truly happening. I really crashed into Conrad’s car, he really came to my apartment and defended me against dickhead Todd and his friends, and now we’re going to his freaking house.
And the kiss.
My lips still tingle with the phantom pleasure of it, whispering all through my body.
I squeeze my legs together as my sex gives an urgent pulse, as though willing me to reach across and grab onto his leg, slide up to his manhood and rub firmly.
He grabbed my ass so freaking hard, digging his hands in, growling as our lips pressed together.
“I can’t. Not…”
And then he trailed off, leaving my overanxious mind to fill in the blank.
I can’t, not with you?
Is that what he was going to say?
Maybe he’s been working long hours and he hasn’t been on a date in a while, and the only reason he kissed me is because I was there. But then he realized what he was doing, kissing someone half his age, dorky and inexperienced, someone he’d be embarrassed to be seen with in public.
But then surely he wouldn’t be offering us his help if that was the case. Unless my first theory is right.
He’s playing the Good Samaritan and it has nothing to do with the lust we shared, fleeting and broken, a promise that will be left unfulfilled. He’ll probably snap at me if I ever bring it up.
The city rolls by as we drive from my crappy neighborhood, over the bridge, and toward the nicest neighborhood I’ve ever seen. The buildings are like shining beacons in the moonlight, stretching up toward the sky, and the streets are clean and well-maintained. None of the street lamps are broken and I don’t see signs of any graffiti.
“This is where you live?” I murmur.
He glances at me, face tight, and then nods shortly. “Home sweet home.”
“It’s beautiful. I can’t believe you’re letting us stay.”
His face tightens even more at my words but I can see a heat in his eyes. His temples pulse and his jaw trembles, everything about him seems on the verge of erupting. But is he angry at the situation or is it something more...
“I need you, Callie. I need every fucking part of you.”
But no, no, that’s just my imagination playing cruel tricks, making me think of things that couldn’t possibly be true.
Mom wakes up as Conrad is guiding us into the underground garage. Blinking and leaning forward, she looks around the semidarkness. “Are we there yet?”
An anxious wave washes over me at the childish quiver in her voice, as though the whole world is full of danger and it’s only a matter of time before another catastrophe slams into us. It’s difficult and sad not to think about what sort of woman Janet Simpkins used to be, brave and confident and full of life.
“Yeah, Mom. We’re just going to park and then head upstairs to Conrad’s apartment.”
“Okay, that sounds nice. Thank you for this, Conrad.”
Conrad looks into the rearview mirror. I’m not sure he’s capable of fully smiling, but he offers her a smirk, and his eyes gleam with genuine kindness. “It’s not a problem at all. I can’t stand the idea of Callie staying in that place. And you.”
And you, tacked onto the end like he thinks I’m his main priority. Sizzling silly heat moves over my skin at the thought, but I have to be careful – have to stop dissecting his every word, every gesture as if it all has some hidden meaning.
We climb from the car and Conrad walks around the back, opening the trunk and grabbing our suitcases. We were able to pack pretty much everything we own into those suitcases, which is a sad but true fact.
He hefts them, his muscles barely straining, handling them like they weigh nothing. Nodding toward the elevator at the end, he leads the way, striding ahead as I study the way his shirt pulls tautly from shoulder to shoulder, his back thick with muscle, throbbing he’s ready to turn feral at any moment.
I walk behind him, fighting all the fantasies which flood into my mind. But it’s difficult not to imagine that I’m a piece of luggage and he’s carrying me just as easily, handling me like I weigh nothing like he can do anything he wants with me.
The memory of the kiss is burned into my lips, my soul, my everything.
The elevator is spacious and clean, well-lit.
But despite the space, I can’t stop from inhaling the scent of Conrad, his musky manliness, and glancing in the mirror so I can keep eye-fucking his thick arms, his bulging shoulders, his handsome face, and his azure penetrating eyes.
Up and up we go, and then the doors open onto a short hallway that ends in a single door.
“No neighbors?” I murmur, walking into the hallway and looking around at the clean walls and the pristine carpet.
It’s crazy how magical these simple things seem to me now, but it feels like forever since I’ve lived somewhere that didn’t stink and wasn’t covered in graffiti and grime.
“Not in the penthouse suite,” he says. “Come on.”
He walks up to the door and then quickly drops the suitcases, so suddenly I think something is wrong. I glance at him sharply.
He moves forward and grabs something from the door handle, almost too quickly for me to see. But I can make out a flash of pink material, lacy frill…
Panties? Were they pink panties?
My heart starts slamming in my chest like I’m going to be sick, like the whole world is going to crash down and squash me into a cruel mess. I look at him and he stares down at me, his eyes glimmering with something, something dark.
I scream at myself to ask him what the heck that was, but then the moment seems to pass. He reaches into his pocket and takes out his key, unlocking the door.
His apartment is a huge open-plan modern penthouse, with a wide entrance leading to a beautiful kitchen. The counter is marble with flashes of obsidian through it – lights switching on automatically as we walk in, allowing me to see.
Calling the space to the right the living room would be the biggest understatement of the century.
It’s massive, with four cream couches arranged around a giant seventy-inch TV, and past that is a workout area, a punching bag hanging from the wall, a bench and some dumbbells, a rowing machine.
Hallways lead off from the wide open space, presumably to the bathrooms and the bedrooms.
But one thing strikes me as I gaze around the massive modern penthouse.
It seems cold. There are no pictures on the walls, no flurries of personality.
Conrad stands at my side, looking down at me with that same unreadable expression. Every time I look at him, I think about that flash of pink, the frilly fabric.
Was I wrong?
Maybe it was something else completely, a note left by the building’s manager or something, on pink paper. And then my overactive mind dreamed up the frilly material and the lace of the panties.
“I spend most of my time at the hospital,” Conrad says, as though reading my mind.
Mom takes a few steps into the room, gazing up at the exposed rafters in the ceiling, the industrial-style lights which hang down and light everything with a bright white glow.
“This is a lifeless place,” she murmurs.
“Mom,”I hiss, as embarrassment shoots through me. “Don’t be so rude.”
“It’s fine,” Conrad says, chuckling. “I can’t say I disagree. Come on. I’ll show you to your rooms.”
He turns and strides down one of the hallways. I can’t stop studying the muscles which tighten across his back, pushing through his shirt. It’s like a compulsion.
Mom and I trail after him, our footsteps making click-click noises on the hardwood flooring. I can tell Mom is getting tired, agitated by this new environment, and all she wants to do is go back to sleep.
I fight down the rage which courses through me – rage that I always have to be the grownup now, rage that she doesn’t even seem here, really, more like she’s a ghost floating next to me. I can’t remember the last time I felt like mom was, well, mom.
It’s not her fault. I have to remind myself of that, but it’s so hard some days.
Conrad stops outside a finely-carved oak door, sort of in a cabin style, which doesn’t really match the modern surroundings. My mind brims with all the ways this place could be made homelier, all the ways little touches could bring life and personality, and love.
It could become the sort of place to raise a child, at least the first one or two before we moved out to the suburbs and…
I slam down on those thoughts, cursing myself.
He’s clearly got another woman if those pink panties are any indication, probably a string of billboard-model type women who leave him little gifts outside his door, reminding him of them.
“Here you go, Callie.” He waves a hand at the door, laying down the suitcase with his other hand. “Let me show you to your room, Mrs. Simpkins.”
“Please, call me Janet,” Mom says, almost sounding like her old self for a moment.
“Okay, Janet it is.” Conrad nods. “Follow me.”
I watch them go, smoothing my hands over my belly, as my womb sends impossible messages to my heart.
Go to him tonight, mount him, writhe atop him until he explodes inside of you and you can start your life together.
Sighing, I grab my suitcase and push the door open.
