Chapter 41 FORTY-ONE
Two days of this bullshit. Two days of passing each other in the kitchen like strangers. Good morning. Have a good day. Thanks. You too. Like robots. Like they hadn't fucked each other's brains out in San Francisco less than a week ago.
Lennox was going insane. She was actually losing her mind. It didn't even make sense because in their last conversation, she was the one who had drawn the line.
She tried to stay busy. Youth center stuff. Digging into the Phoenix contract thing which led absolutely nowhere. Anything to not think about Callum or how the penthouse felt too big and too small at the same time.
Thursday night she was laying in bed scrolling her phone because sleep was a joke at this point. Some society gossip account popped up on her feed. She almost scrolled past it.
Then she saw the photo.
Callum. At dinner. Some fancy place. And next to him, this woman. Blonde. Beautiful. Hand on his arm. Laughing at something he said. The caption was talking about Manhattan power couples or some shit but Lennox couldn't read it because her vision was going blurry.
She locked her phone. Threw it across the bed.
This was fine. Totally fine. They'd agreed to be professional. What he did wasn't her business. She had no claim on him. No right to be pissed.
Except she was pissed. Really fucking pissed.
She tried to sleep. Gave up after an hour of staring at the ceiling seeing that woman's hand on his arm. Seeing him smile at her. Wondering if he'd brought her back here. If they were together right now while Lennox was losing her mind in the next room.
Fuck this.
She got up, threw on shorts and a sports bra and went to the gym. The penthouse had one tucked in the back. Small but it had what she needed.
A punching bag.
She wrapped her hands sloppily, didn't care if she did it wrong. Just started hitting. Hard. Harder. Putting everything into it. All the anger and jealousy and confusion and wanting things she couldn't have.
Her knuckles hurt. She didn't stop.
The elevator sound. Footsteps.
She knew it was him before he said anything. Could feel him there.
"You're up late."
She didn't stop punching. Didn't look at him. "So are you. How was your date?"
Quiet. Then, "Jealous?"
She laughed. It came out harsh. "Of a contract husband? Please."
She heard him move. Fast. Suddenly he was right there, hand catching her wrist before she could throw another punch. Spinning her around, pushing her back against the wall.
His face was close. Eyes dark. Pissed.
"You want to say that again?"
Her heart was going crazy. "What, the truth? That this is all fake? That you're not actually my husband?"
"Keep talking."
"Why? You gonna remind me about the rules? About keeping things professional?" She shoved at his chest but he didn't move. "Go back to your blonde dinner date. I'm sure she's waiting."
"That was a business dinner."
"Right. Business. She looked real professional with her hand on your arm."
"You're jealous."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"Fuck you, Callum."
Something snapped in his face. Then he kissed her.
Not nice. Not soft. Angry and desperate and wrong in every way that mattered. His hand in her hair, yanking her head back. She bit his lip hard enough to hurt and he made this sound, low and rough.
She should push him away. Should remember they agreed this couldn't happen.
Instead she grabbed his shirt, pulled him closer, kissed him back just as hard.
His hands went to her thighs, lifted her up. Her back hit the mirror with a thud that should've hurt but she didn't feel it. Just wrapped her legs around him and kept kissing him like she'd die if she stopped.
"We said we wouldn't," she gasped against his mouth.
"I don't care."
"We agreed."
"Fuck what we agreed."
He didn’t give her time to argue. His hands were rough, tearing at her top. The mirror was a line of ice down her spine, but she didn’t feel it, not with the way he was burning against her. He fumbled with his belt, the metal buckle a frantic sound in the quiet space, and then he was inside her, a hard, deep thrust that knocked the air right out of her.
This wasn't gentle. This wasn't making love. This was a fight, pure and simple. Each slam of his hips was a punishment, a way to stake a claim, and she took it, met it, urged it on. Her legs tightened around him, pulling him deeper, her hands clawing at his back like she wanted to crawl right under his skin. It was all teeth and ragged breaths, a frantic, messy battle to see who would break first. When the release finally tore through them both, it was sharp and ugly, leaving them gasping and staring at each other’s wrecked reflection in the cracked mirror.
After, they were on the gym floor. Breathing hard. Not looking at each other. Her back hurt from the mirror. She had rug burn on her shoulder. His shirt was somewhere across the room.
She sat up first. Found her clothes. Started getting dressed without saying anything.
"Lennox."
"Don't."
"We should..."
"No." She pulled her shirt on inside out, didn't bother fixing it. "We shouldn't."
She left. Walked to her room on shaky legs. Closed the door.
Heard his door close a few minutes later.
Lay in bed staring at the ceiling, body still humming, knowing they'd just made everything way more complicated.