“Look at me,” I whispered.
Her eyes fluttered open; those glassy, beautiful, exhausted eyes full of desire burned.
I reached between us, guiding myself to her slowly.
When I pressed inside, she inhaled sharply, then let it go in a long, trembling sigh I caught against my lips.
I stilled, allowing her to adjust. We both exist inside the moment—the connection, the impossible luck of still being alive enough to have this.
She rolled her hips.
A groan pulled from low in my throat, rough and involuntary.
“Easy, love,” I murmured.
She shook her head, small and stubborn, even now.
“Don’t be easy. Be here.”
So I moved.
Slow at first, long rolls that matched the rhythm of the swell beneath us, the ocean setting a pace that neither of us fought. Each thrust drew a soft sound from her throat—private, meant only for the space between us. Her fingers traced down my back, her nails pressing faintly enough to remind me she needed me closer.
I kissed her through it, open-mouthed, fervent kisses, swallowing every gasp she gave me and giving her mine. The water lapped gently around us, cool against heated skin.
I slid one hand between our bodies, fingers finding the sensitive place where we joined, and circled gently, steadily. Her head dropped back against the ladder rung, lips parting.
“Callan—oh God—”
I kissed the line of her throat where I could feel her pulse.
“I’ve got you.”
Her thighs tightened around me. Her breath came in short, desperate bursts, each one higher than the last. I kept the rhythm steady with my hand, my hips, giving her somethingconstant to hold on to while everything else came apart.
When she came, it arrived quietly—a sharp, broken inhale. Her whole body locking around mine, every muscle drawn tight, trembling as it moved through her in waves. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out, just breath, just my name shaped without words.
I held her through every second, kissing her nose, her cheek, the corner of her eye where tears had started again.
When the trembling eased, I moved again—slower now, more deliberate, each stroke deep and grinding, chasing my edge while drawing out the last of hers. She cupped my face in both hands, her thumbs brushed my cheekbones, her eyes held mine, steady and present and so full it hurt to look away.
“Come with me,” she whispered.
“I’m right here.”
A few more strokes—deep, unhurried, the ocean rocking us together—and the tension broke.
I buried my face against her neck as it hit, a low groan torn from somewhere in my chest I didn’t know existed. She held me through it just as tightly as I’d held her, her arms locked around my shoulders, her lips pressed against my ear, breathing with me.
We stayed locked together for a long time afterward, hearts beating against each other. The ocean kept its rhythm beneath us—gentle now, almost protective, like it understood what had just happened.
She lifted her head, her eyes had cleared. The haunted, glassy look from the dock—gone, replaced by a softer, more vulnerable look, something I wanted to keep looking at forever.
“Thank you,” she murmured against my mouth.
“For what?”
“For this, for still being here.” A pause. “For calling me love.”