CRAVING DADDY'S BEST FRIEND

Chapter Twenty Two: The Catalyst

Abigail Macron

Julian’s smile widened, entirely unaware that his polite invitation to Malibu had just turned him into a lightning rod. "It's a date then," he murmured, his eyes lingering on my face with a soft, aristocratic warmth. "I'll have my father’s assistant coordinate the gate passes with your dad's office."

"That is a Perfect one," I replied automatically, but my mind wasn't on the beach houses or the corporate calendars.

Across the lawn, Caleb didn't move. He stood on the stone steps like a dark statue, the ambient light of the gala catching the brutal symmetry of his jawline. He took a slow, heavy swallow of his drink, his eyes unblinking, burning into the space between Julian and me. Then, without a word to the passing guests who tried to greet him, he turned and melted back into the shadows of the mansion’s west wing.

The warning shot had been fired.

"If you'll excuse me, Julian," I said, offering a practiced, fleeting smile as I set my untouched champagne glass on the balustrade. "The breeze is getting a bit cold. I should head back inside."

"Of course. Let me escort you—"

"No, stay, enjoy the view," I interrupted softly, already stepping away into the grass. "I need to look for Jasmine anyway."

I didn't look for Jasmine. The moment the crowd swallowed me, I altered my trajectory, slipping past the bar and the ice sculptures, heading straight for the dim, recessed hallway of the west wing. This part of the estate was quiet, housing my father’s private study and the secluded lounge rooms used for high-stakes card games during his dinners.

The corridor was carpeted in deep burgundy wool, completely swallowing the sound of my heels. The walls were lined with dark oil paintings, the air cool and smelling faintly of floor wax and expensive citrus mist.

At the very end of the hall, the door to the auxiliary liquor lounge was cracked open, a sliver of pale amber light spilling onto the floorboards.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside, my heart striking an erratic beat against my ribs.

Caleb was standing by a low mahogany sideboard, his back to me. He had already poured a heavy double of Scotch, the crystal decanter hitting the silver tray with a sharp, echoing clink as he set it down. He didn't turn around when the door clicked shut behind me, but his broad shoulders tensed, the fabric of his tuxedo jacket stretching tight across his back.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Abigail," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that felt like a physical weight in the small room.

"I'm just doing what my father expects," I said, stepping further into the room, the emerald silk of my gown whispering against the carpet. "Julian is the son of the lead underwriter. Isn't that what a good vanguard looks out for? The firm's relationships?" Right or wrong,

Caleb spun around with a suddenness that made me gasp. He set his glass down on the sideboard, his dark eyes flashing with a bold, untamed madness that made the air in the room completely evaporate. In three long, predatory strides, he closed the distance between us, his massive shoulders completely trapping me against the heavy velvet drapes of the window.

"Don't throw your father's business in my face to justify letting that boy touch you," you are aware that it will piss me off he hissed, his face inches from mine, his breath hot and smelling of raw Scotch and old smoke. His hand shot out, his large, calloused fingers gripping my chin with a firm, bruising intensity that forced my head back. "I watched him look at you, Abby. I watched him think about what it would be like to take you out to Malibu and put his hands on your skin."

"And what did it feel like, Caleb?" I challenged, my breathing shallow, my chest heaving against the front of his shirt as I looked directly into the storm in his eyes. "Watching someone else look at the territory you claimed on my father's desk?"

A low, guttural growl tore from his throat—a sound of pure, defeated surrender to the jealousy ripping through his iron discipline.

"It felt like I wanted to burn the whole valley down," he whispered confidently.

He didn't waste another second on words. His mouth crashed down on mine with a brutal, punishing velocity that stole the oxygen straight from my lungs. It wasn't a kiss of passion; it was a desperate, lawless reassertion of ownership. His tongue parted my lips with a rough, demanding sweep, tasting of the bitter Scotch, erasing every trace of the polite, debutante world I had just stepped out of.

I groaned into his mouth, my hands clawing at his shoulders, my fingers digging deep into the expensive wool of his tuxedo jacket as the sheer velocity of the sensation sent a wave of liquid heat crashing through my veins. The danger of the hallway, the hundreds of guests just fifty yards away, the threat of my father walking in—it all acted like high-octane fuel on the fire between us.

Caleb's large hand slid down from my jaw, his rough palm a trail of fire against the bare skin of my neck, before gripping the fabric of my emerald gown. He didn't tear it this time; he simply used his brute strength to lift the heavy silk, pinning my left leg up over his hip, anchoring me against his massive frame with one effortless display of power.

His heavy, rigid sugarcane pressed white-hot against my core through the thin barrier of his trousers, a ruthless, unyielding demand that had me writhing against him, my head falling back against the velvet drapes as a sharp, needy whimper escaped my throat.

"He doesn't get to look at you, Abby," Caleb rasped against my throat, his lips dragging down my jawline to bite firmly at the exact spot where my hair had been covering his marks. "Nobody looks at you but me. Nobody touches you but me."

"Then don't let them," I gasped, my fingers twisting in his hair, pulling him closer, wanting him to go deeper until the outside world was entirely obliterated.

We were standing on the edge of a precipice, the spotlight of my father's empire hovering just outside the door, but in the dark of the west wing, Caleb Macron was no longer the loyal partner. He was the king of a ruinous, beautiful damnation, and I was entirely his subject.