Trusting the Finicky Touch of McCullen
# Sway The low, resonant thrum of electronic bass from the VIP lounge above was a distant pulse beneath the leather soles of her boots. Down here, in the underbelly of the exclusive club, the air was cooler, smelling of aged whisky, expens
Chapter 1
The low, resonant thrum of electronic bass from the VIP lounge above was a distant pulse beneath the leather soles of her boots. Down here, in the underbelly of the exclusive club, the air was cooler, smelling of aged whisky, expensive cigars, and engine grease—a scent that felt more like home than any perfume. Maya leaned against the polished mahogany bar of the private cellar bar, the intricate ink on her forearm a stark contrast against the fine linen of her black button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows. A faint scar traced the line of her jaw, a story from a stubborn gearbox. She swirled the amber liquid in her glass, her green eyes scanning the shadowy room.
He emerged from the gloom as if conjured by her restless energy. Cole McCullen. Even in the low light, his presence was a tangible shift in the atmosphere. Tall, broad-shouldered, his tailored suit did little to conceal the powerful frame of a former racer. The crisp white of his shirt was open at the throat, a glimpse of dark ink beneath. His blond hair was tousled, his beard a shadow along a strong jaw, but his blue eyes held a focused intensity that cut through the smoky haze. He moved with a quiet, predatory confidence that made the back of her neck prickle.
“Trusting,” his voice was a low rasp, barely audible over the muted music. He didn’t use her first name. Not here. It was part of the unspoken game they’d played all year.
“McCullen,” she replied, her tone matching his coolness, though a spark of heat ignited low in her belly. She took a slow sip of her drink, her full lips glistening. “I hear the new suspension setup on the ’69 is giving you trouble in the turns.”
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “It’s finicky. Requires a… precise touch.” His gaze dropped to her hands, where faint oil stains still lingered under her short nails, then traveled back up, a slow, deliberate journey that felt like a physical caress. “Your brother said you’d be here.”
“Leo talks too much,” she said, but a playful glint softened her serious expression. This was their ritual. The business talk, the casual mentions of her brother—their mutual anchor to reality—all serving as a thin veneer over the current that had hummed between them since that frantic, champagne-soaked kiss at last year’s party.
He stepped closer, closing the distance until she could feel the heat radiating from him, could smell his cologne mixed with the faint, clean scent of his skin. The dominance in his posture was effortless, not aggressive, but assured. It was a challenge she secretly craved. “He also said you finished the rebuild on the Shelby. Ahead of schedule.”
“I don’t like loose ends,” she murmured, her gaze locking with his. The air grew thick, charged. The mysterious, dark ambiance of the cellar seemed to shrink, wrapping around just the two of them.
His hand came up, not to touch her, but to brush a stray strand of vibrant red hair from her temple, his fingers a whisper against her skin. “Neither do I,” he said, his voice dropping even lower, laced with a promise that sent a tiny, delicious shiver straight down her spine. The obstacle of their shared life, of Leo, of his constant travel, of her own quiet world with her son, all of it faded into the background. Here, now, there was only this magnetic pull, this unspoken agreement written in the dark space between their bodies, waiting to be fulfilled.
Chapter 2
The memory of that cellar, of Cole’s hand brushing her hair, was a ghost Maya kept in a gilded box. She took it out sometimes, in the quiet after Leo was asleep, the scent of engine oil and baby shampoo clinging to her skin. She’d replay the feel of his dominance, the way he’d backed her against the polished bar later, his mouth hot and demanding on hers. She enjoyed the fun of it, the secret electricity. And she knew, with the same certainty she felt when torqueing a head bolt to spec, that was all it was. A perfect, temporary machine.
At thirty-thousand feet, Cole stared at the darkening sky, his first-class seat feeling like a cage. The financial reports for the new Charlotte clients lay forgotten on his tablet. All he could see was the challenge in Maya’s green eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw as she argued with him over camshaft specs, and the way that stubbornness melted into breathless surrender in his arms. The fun wasn’t enough anymore. He wanted more. The calculus was simple, brutal: to have it, he’d need to move back to North Carolina for good. The thought was a seismic shift, a commitment that tightened his chest.
His phone buzzed in his hand, a forbidden act. Their rules were clear: no contact between rendezvous. It kept things clean, uncomplicated.
He typed anyway.
**Cole:** Checking in.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
**Maya:** You’re breaking the rules, McCullen.
A smile tugged at his mouth. He could hear her voice, the playful scold.
**Cole:** Rules are for racetracks. Did Leo pick up Leo for guys night? It’s Friday.
The pause was longer this time. He pictured her in her cluttered, cozy living room, surrounded by mismatched furniture and toy cars, weighing her answer.
**Maya:** Yes. He just left.
His pulse kicked up a notch. The path was clear.
**Cole:** So. Your place or mine? I land in 20.
The response took a full minute. When it came, it was a single, potent word that sent a jolt of pure heat straight through him.
**Maya:** Yours. Text the address.
He did, his fingers moving swiftly. The game had changed. He’d broken the first rule. Now, he intended to break every single one that stood between him and making her his, completely. The jet began its descent, the lights of the city sprawling below like a circuit board waiting to be wired. Tonight, he wouldn’t just visit. He would start claiming what was his.
Chapter 3
Maya stared into her open duffel bag as if it might swallow her whole. *I can’t believe I’m doing this.* The thought was a frantic, exhilarating pulse in her veins. Packing for Cole’s felt different, a seismic shift from their usual, fleeting encounters. She tossed in a change of clothes, her movements sharp with nervous energy. Her fingers brushed against the lace of a black bra, and she hesitated, a flush creeping up her neck. This wasn’t just a quick escape to a hotel room. This was his space, his territory. She chose the bra anyway, her lips curving into a private, defiant smile. She was walking into his world, but she’d do it on her own terms.
In the quiet of her bathroom, she applied a swipe of mascara, her green eyes wide in the mirror. “You’re insane,” she whispered to her reflection. But the woman looking back, the one with the stubborn set to her jaw and the faint oil smudge she’d missed on her temple, looked more alive than she had in weeks. The hum of anticipation was a live wire under her skin, a delicious, terrifying current that had everything to do with the way Cole had broken their first rule. He’d reached out. He’d claimed a piece of the in-between.
Across town, Cole’s driver navigated the evening traffic with smooth efficiency, but Cole’s patience was a fraying thread. Every red light was a personal affront. He drummed his fingers against his thigh, the memory of her text—*Yours*—playing on a loop. His penthouse, usually a sterile monument to success, felt suddenly empty, waiting. He craved the chaos she brought, the way her sharp intellect and soft sighs would fill the silent spaces. He pictured her in his shower, in his kitchen, in his bed—not as a guest, but as a possession. His. The need was a physical ache, a tightening in his gut that had nothing to do with the flight and everything to do with the mechanic who was probably rolling her eyes at her own heartbeat right now.
Their cars, his black sedan and her vintage Jeep, pulled into the underground garage of his building at the same precise moment, headlights crossing in the concrete gloom. Maya killed the engine, her breath catching. She saw him step out, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder, his tie gone. Their eyes met through the windshields.
He was at her door before she could gather her bag, opening it for her. The cool garage air rushed in, carrying his scent.
“Cutting it close, Trusting,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated right through her.
“Traffic, McCullen,” she retorted, taking the hand he offered. His fingers closed around hers, warm and sure, pulling her to her feet into the intimate space between their vehicles. “You’re one to talk.”
He didn’t release her hand. His blue gaze swept over her, from her boots to the defiant glint in her eyes, the heat in it stripping away the pretense. “You packed a bag.”
“Observant.”
“Means you’re planning to stay.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement that coiled around her, possessive and thrilling.
“Maybe.” She tilted her chin up, a challenge. “Or maybe I just like being prepared.”
A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his beard a delicious scratch against her skin. “Good,” he murmured, the word a dark promise. “Because I don’t plan on letting you use any of it until tomorrow.” He took her bag from her shoulder, his other hand finding the small of her back, steering her toward the private elevator. The doors slid open, a gleaming chamber waiting to swallow them whole. The game had dissolved. All that was left was the hunger, and the long, slow night ahead.
Chapter 4
The private elevator ascended in a smooth, silent rush. Cole’s hand remained on the small of Maya’s back, a brand of possession. She leaned her head against his shoulder, the crisp cotton of his shirt cool against her cheek, her heart hammering a wild, frantic rhythm against his ribs.
When the doors opened directly into his penthouse, the view stole her breath. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the glittering cityscape, a universe of lights stretching into the darkness. The space was stark, modern, a museum of success that felt a million miles from her oil-stained garage.
“It’s… a lot,” she breathed, stepping inside.
He dropped her bag onto a sleek, low sofa, his eyes never leaving her. “It’s a view. Nothing more.” He approached her, his movements deliberate. “Until you’re in it.”
Her pulse skipped. He stopped inches away, his scent enveloping her. “Cole…”
He cupped her jaw, his thumb brushing her bottom lip. “Rules are for other people, Maya.”
The sound of her first name in his low rasp sent a shiver through her. She laughed, a soft, nervous sound. “You know I can’t stay. Leo usually drops Leo early on Saturday unless he takes him to breakfast, and he didn’t mention it. Plus, it’s a rule.”
“Just once,” he murmured, his lips finding hers in a kiss that was both a promise and an answer. It was deep, claiming, and when he broke it, he didn’t go far. His mouth traveled down the column of her throat, his beard scraping the sensitive skin. “Break one rule with me.”
A moan escaped her as his teeth grazed her pulse point. His hands slid under the hem of her shirt, his warm palms flat against the muscles of her lower back. “We’ve already broken several tonight.”
“Then one more won’t matter,” he said against her skin, his voice thick. His fingers found the button of her jeans, popping it open with a deft twist. The sound of the zipper was obscenely loud in the quiet room. “Stay. I’ll set an alarm. You’ll be home before he is.”
His hand slipped inside her jeans, past the lace of her panties, his touch a searing brand on her hip. “Cole…”
“Say it,” he commanded, his mouth returning to hers, kissing her deeply. His fingers traced lower, a maddening, teasing path along the edge of her pubic bone. “Tell me you’ll stay.”
She was melting, every argument dissolving under the heat of his hands and his will. She arched into his touch, a silent plea. “I… I need to text him. Make an excuse.”
A triumphant, dark smile curved his lips. “Do it.” He withdrew his hand slowly, leaving her aching. “Then come find me.”
He turned and walked toward the bedroom, leaving her standing in the vast, glowing space, her body humming, her jeans undone. She fumbled for her phone, her fingers trembling as she typed a quick, vague text to her brother about helping a friend with a late-night breakdown. She hit send, the final rule snapping. Tossing the phone onto her bag, she followed the path he’d taken, drawn by a hunger that eclipsed every fear.
He was waiting by the enormous bed, his shirt gone, the intricate tattoos across his chest and arms a map of power and history in the low light. His blue eyes glinted.
“All sorted?” he asked, his voice a low thrum.
“All sorted,” she breathed, stepping into the room, into the orbit of his raw, undisguised desire.