ELLIE
The crisis, for tonight, is over.
Caleb leans against the edge of the desk, watching me. Not with the assessing, guarded look he used to wear, but with something open.
“You handled yourself well today.”
“I had a good partner.”
A slow smile touches his mouth. “We make a decent team.”
“We do.” I cross the room, stopping just within arm’s reach. There’s no urgency pulling me forward, no fear pushing me away. Just the simple, solid fact that I want to be closer. “What now?”
“Now,” he says, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room, “we have time.”
He reaches for my hand. His fingers are warm, calloused, and they close around mine without hesitation.
He kisses me, tasting like coffee and cinnamon and something uniquely, fundamentallyCaleb.
His hands come to my hips, not to pull me closer, but to hold me steady. I shiver.
“Cold?”
“The opposite.”
He helps me pull the sweater over my head, his movements unhurried.
“You’re beautiful, Ellie.”
He says it like it’s a simple truth, not a revelation or a plea. I believe him.
He lifts me onto the desk. Being lifted… something I’ve grown used to and something I never considered would be possible. I’m not some slight damsel that can be swept off her feet and carried to the boudoir by just any man. But Caleb does it without the slightest whisper of effort.
Lifting me takes a wolf. And I’m okay with that.
His body presses in close as he steps between my thighs, the familiar scent of his cologne—something woodsy, the one he always wears for evenings like this—mixing with the warm, musky heat of his skin.
His hands glide up my legs with slow intention, calloused fingers tracing the familiar valleys and rises of my hips like he’s charting sacred ground, savoring every inch, before settling possessively on my waist. His thumbs brush gentle circles against the soft skin just above the waistband of my jeans.
When he kisses me this time, it’s deep and unhurried, his mouth moving over mine with the kind of patience that makes my knees weak. There’s no demand, just the silent vow of lips and tongue and the faintest scrape of stubble against my chin as he coaxes me open like a secret whispered in the dark.
My fingers fumble only slightly as I reach for his belt, the quiet rasp of the zipper yielding under my touch, the leather warm from his skin. He’s already hard, thick and heavy in my palm, and I stroke him slowly, watching the way his lashes flicker closed, the sharp inhale that hitches his chest, the way his fingers tighten reflexively on my waist like I’m the only thing keeping him steady.
He enters me with deliberate grace, a smooth, perfect slide that wrings a soft, ragged noise from both of us, our exhales tangling between us. There’s no urgency here, nothing rushed—just the slow, rolling push and pull of his hips against mine, a rhythm as deep and profound as the sea, as natural as a heartbeat.
Every drag of him inside me lights up my nerves, pleasure curling low in my core, spreading to my fingertips like liquid fire. The bed creaks faintly beneath us, the only sound apart from our mingled breaths, the rustle of fabric pushed aside, the slick, intimate sounds of skin against skin.
I arch into him with a helpless moan as his fingers trail lower, tracing the swell of my belly—a place I’ve spent years hiding beneath sweaters and strategic draping—before finding my clit, already swollen and aching. His touch is deliberate, unbearably precise, and my hips jerk against him of their own accord, chasing the slow-building pleasure with a gathering desperation.
But it’s not the sharp edge of need that unravels me—it’s the golden, molten wave that crests between us, slow and languid and endless, pulling a groan from the depths of his chest, tearing a shattered cry from my throat as I come apart beneath him.
He follows me over with a shudder, his body locking around mine, his breath hot and uneven against the damp skin of my throat. We stay like that for long moments, tangled and ruined, his forehead pressed to mine, his fingers still tracing aimless, reverent patterns on my hip like he can’t bear to stop touching me.
He presses a kiss to my shoulder and helps me sit up. He carries me to the worn leather couch against the wall, settling with me in his lap.
Out of nowhere, I’m self-conscious. Carrying me is one thing. Setting me in his lap is another. I begin to fidget immediately, as if to stand.
“Woah, woah, woah…” he grabs me and pulls me back down. “Where are you going?”