“You’re beautiful, Sloane.”
I blinked up at him, throat tight. “Callan…”
He shook his head once. “Let me.”
He kissed my throat, the swell of my breasts, worshipfully. His mouth closed over my nipple—a soft, gentle swirl of his tongue—and I arched with a gasp. No pinching, no biting, only a slow, steady attention until I trembled beneath him.
His hand slid between us, fingers parting my folds, still slick from before, sensitive, and when he pushed one finger inside me, I whimpered. He added a second, stroking that spot with pressure so light I almost didn’t recognize the climb.
“Look at me,” he breathed.
I did, and his eyes stayed locked on mine—open, unguarded, vulnerable as I’d never seen him before, not once in six years.
He withdrew his fingers and lined himself up.
When he pushed inside, it wasn’t a thrust but more a glide until he was seated fully, hips flush to mine, our breath intertwined.
He stayed still for a long moment, allowing me to feel every part of him, the way he throbbed inside me as if his heartbeat had relocated there, and then he started to move.
Slow rolls of his hips. Every stroke dragging against all the sensitive places inside me without ever rushing, kissing methrough it, swallowing my soft moans as if they belonged only to him.
One hand cradled the back of my head, as the other slipped between our bodies, thumb circling my clit in the same unhurried rhythm as his thrusts.
I didn’t recognize the sounds coming from me at first—small, broken whimpers. His name on every exhale. Tears gathered at the corners of my eyes again, how completely unlike anything we’d done before.
“Callan—” My voice cracked. “I don’t… I don’t understand…”
He kissed the tear that slipped free.
“You don’t have to.”
He rocked deeper, grinding against me in a way that made stars burst behind my eyelids.
“Come with me,” he whispered against my lips. “Let me have this.”
I shattered quietly.
A soft, trembling release that rolled through me in long, liquid waves as I clung to his shoulders and breathed his name like it meant everything.
He followed right after, burying himself as deep as he could go, pulsing inside me, warm and endless. He didn’t pull out, just lay there surrounding me, protecting me, breathing hard, and for long minutes, neither of us moved.
His hand stroked my hair, soft, endless touches that said more than words could.
When he finally eased out, he gathered me against his chest and turned us so I tucked under his arm, leg thrown over his hip, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.
I pressed my face into the crook of his neck—confusedand wrecked and strangely, impossibly whole.
“Why like that?” I whispered.
He stayed quiet for so long that I thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then his lips brushed my temple.
“Because I’ve spent years pretending I didn’t want to make love to you,” he said, voice rough with something raw and unfinished. “I’m done pretending.”
He pulled the blanket over us, tucking it around my shoulders with a care that made my chest hurt.
“Sleep, Sloane,” he murmured.