I whimpered, nodded, too overwhelmed to form words. My hands were still tangled in his hair, gripping as if I might lose him if I loosened my fingers even slightly.
He kissed me again—slower this time, softer—tongue tracing my lower lip before drawing back completely. His forehead came to rest against mine. His breathing was ragged, chest rising and falling hard.
“I wish we could take this further,” he whispered. His thumb brushed my cheek—gentle, steadying.
“You’re hard,” I said, barely above a whisper.
He let out a strained laugh. “I’ll survive.”
His fingers tipped my chin up until our eyes met again.
“Gives me something to look forward to.”
His voice dropped—darker, rougher—and his eyes heldmine with an intensity that pinned me in place.
“I keep picturing it, Sloane.”
My breath stopped.
“You on your knees in front of me. My cock sliding into that perfect mouth of yours. Slow at first—letting you taste every inch—then faster, deeper.”
His thumb traced my lower lip as he spoke, and I parted for him instinctively, the pad of his finger dragging across wet skin.
“Looking right into your eyes the whole time,” he murmured, “while I fuck your throat until we’re both shaking, until I come so hard I see stars.”
He paused. His gaze dropped to my mouth.
“And you swallow every drop as if it belongs to you.”
The image hit me vividly: I could almost feel the stretch of my lips around him, the weight on my tongue. His hands fisting in my hair, guiding me exactly where he wanted, and the sound he’d make—that low, wrecked groan I’d already heard once today—right before he lost control.
My core clenched, empty, aching. Heat flooded through me all over again.
“Callan—” His name left my mouth like a plea.
And what destroyed me wasn’t the wanting. I’d heard dirty talk before. I’d had men whisper things against my skin that should have set me on fire, and instead left me cataloging grocery lists in my head.
This was different.
Because I wanted to do that for him. Not a performance. Not as an obligation. I wanted his hands in my hair and his voice breaking on my name, and I wanted to watch his face when he came apart because of me. I wanted to give himsomething no one else had. I wanted to be the reason he lost control.
I had never wanted to be that for anyone.
He must have seen it—because his expression changed.
“Soon, my love,” he said against my temple. Voice low. Certain. A promise, not a question. “When we’re alone. When I can take my time with you. When I can make you come again… and again… until you forget there ever existed a version of your life where you thought you were not enough.”
I pressed my face into his chest. His heartbeat steady against my cheek—strong, unhurried, sure. Nothing was wrong with me or my heart.
It had just been waiting for him.
Thirty Four
Callan
By late afternoon, the sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon, turning the ocean a deep, shimmering blue. The Mariner rolled gently beneath our feet as Jeff handed out the food: tuna and crackers, a bag of chips, and a granola bar.
And instant coffee that tasted slightly of dirt.