Chapter 22
Gabrielle
Idon’t know how we made it back from Dallas without a speeding ticket.
Or crashing.
Cal’s hand stayed planted on my thigh the entire ride—except when it didn’t. Except when it wandered higher, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of my dress with that slow, deliberate confidence that made breathing feel optional. And I let him. Every time.
By the time he pulled into the garage, my pulse was a drumbeat, and my patience had melted into the floorboard.
We didn’t even make it fully inside before his mouth was on mine.
Clothes fell away like afterthoughts—my heels kicked off at the door, his jacket tossed across a chair, the zipper of my dress halfway down my back as we stumbled blindly toward his bedroom. Hands everywhere. Mouths hungry and wordless.
By the time we hit the bed, I didn’t want soft. Or slow. I wanted him frantic. Desperate. I wanted to feel every ounce of what he’d been holding back.
And God, he gave it to me.
He kissed me like he was starving—like he’d waited all night to strip the composure from my body and see what I looked like coming apart.
I gasped as he pinned me to the mattress—one hand braced beside my head, the other sliding sinfully up my thigh. “Now. Please—”
He caught my mouth again, swallowing the plea with a growl so deep it lit a fuse down my spine.
“I won’t be gentle this time,” he said against my skin, voice thick with hunger. “You still want this?”
I arched into him. “I want you.” I raked my nails down his back before I gripped his shoulders. “I need you inside me—right now—before I rip you apart.”
Everything after that blurred—heat and motion and pressure, his name on my lips in a thousand broken pieces.
I barely registered the drawer sliding open, his quick, deft movements. And then he was there. The hard, solid weight of him filled me in one fierce thrust that stole my breath and lit every nerve on fire.
He moved like a man possessed, like this was the only thing keeping him sane. He pounded his hips into mine in a relentless rhythm, each thrust stoking the fire inside of me until I was sure I’d combust.
He groaned—low and deep—as my nails dug into his back. “Christ, Gabrielle—”
I pressed my forehead to his shoulder, my world narrowing to the slick heat of our bodies crashing together and the wild pulse pounding loud enough to drown out everything else. The air turned electric, thick with the heady thrill of every restraint falling away.
I bit down on his neck, arching into him as he shifted—God, that angle—and drove even deeper.
He slid a hand to my hip, fingers digging in before he flipped us—one swift motion that left me gasping on top of him.
“Show me,” he said, voice ragged and demanding but threaded with something raw that split my heart wide open. “Show me how reckless you can be with me.”
I rose to my knees, watching his eyes darken as he let his head fall back against the pillow.
He bucked into me, grip fierce, guiding me deeper, faster.
Every inch of him inside me was glorious friction, building a storm in my blood.
I gasped, my breath ragged and broken, as the world shattered and reassembled in brilliant, fractured pieces.
I dug my nails into his chest, clawing at him as I rode out wave after wave of dizzying heat. He clamped my hips in his hands, almost bruising, pulling me down harder until there was only this—heat, motion, and the raw, rapturous ache of finally letting go.
He flipped me beneath him again, groaning low and deep as he thrust hard into me—a desperate rhythm that matched the frantic pounding of my heart.
“Cal,” I breathed, my voice catching on a broken gasp.
“God, Gabrielle.” His thrusts turned sharp and urgent as he drove us toward the edge.
I raked my hands down his back, feeling the flex of muscle under his skin. I was close again—so close—and his name tore from my lips as I shattered around him.
He followed with a final, brutal thrust that sent us both spiraling into white-hot oblivion.
We collapsed together—chests heaving, breath mingling in a hot, humid blur. The air around us was thick and charged, our bodies slick with effort and the heady release of every restraint. My heart pounded, ricocheting against my ribs like it couldn’t be contained.
Our limbs were tangled—no idea where he ended and I began. And I never wanted to know. Everything burned—skin, lungs, every place he’d left me tender and raw. I felt entirely alive. Entirely undone.
He pulled me close, grip fierce like he’d never let me go, eyes shut tight as though stunned by the enormity of what we’d done. What we’d become.
“God,” he said hoarsely. “You’re magnificent.” He kissed me—forehead, cheekbones, lips—each one steeped in hungry gratitude before he buried his face in the curve of my neck.
He softened his grip just enough to shift and find my mouth again. The kiss was gentle this time—slow, lingering—as though he had all the time in the world. As though we did.
“Bloody hell,” he murmured between kisses. “You’re going to be the end of me.”
I laughed—breathy and weak—and slumped against him.
“But what a way to go.” He nuzzled into my neck, leaving a trail of kisses that sent ripples through my trembling body.
I threaded my fingers through his hair, words lost to the wild pulse still thrumming in my blood. This was what I’d needed, what I hadn’t realized I’d been missing: a perfect storm of abandon and intimacy that left no room for fear or doubt.
I woke to the scent of him on the pillow and sun-warmed sheets tangled around my legs. For a long moment, I didn’t move. My body ached in the best way—sated, heavy, humming with quiet aftershocks. The room was soft around the edges, sunlight slipping through the curtains in muted gold ribbons.
But the bed beside me was empty.
My heart kicked once—stupid, startled—before I heard it: the soft strum of an acoustic guitar drifting in from the living room. A voice followed, low and gravel-edged, just cresting over the chords.
I smiled.
I slid out of bed and crossed to where his shirt was draped over a chair. The same light blue button-down from yesterday. I shrugged into it, savoring the familiar weight, the faint scent of him woven through the cotton.
The hallway air was cool against my bare legs, and the music grew clearer with every step.
When I reached the end, I stopped.
Cal sat on the edge of the ottoman, guitar in his lap, head bent low. The morning light caught in the tousled mess of his hair, painting it gold. He wore a simple T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, and the sight of him like that—barefoot, unguarded, lost in song—hit me somewhere deep.
He didn’t see me right away.
He was singing something I vaguely recognized, voice pitched just under the melody. I leaned against the doorway, watching him for one long, quiet moment—swept under all over again.
He glanced up, registering me, and his fingers stilled on the strings. “I believe you’ve caught me.” His voice was laced with playful resignation.
“Don’t stop on my account,” I said, letting my eyes linger on his hands.
“Ah, but then who’ll make you coffee?” He set the guitar on its stand with exaggerated care.
“I can make coffee,” I said, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward him.
He stood and stretched, eyes glinting with mischief. “Single-serve pods don’t count.” He pulled me close, pressing a kiss to my forehead and stroking my hair.
We drifted into the kitchen, where morning light spilled like honey over the countertops. His steps were loose and easy, an odd elegance in every movement.
“When did you learn to play the guitar?” I asked as he flipped on the electric kettle and reached for the French press.
He grinned. “Picked it up at Eton. One of the first steps on my road to delinquency.”
“Eton?”
“Sorry—boarding school.”
“Wait. Like, actually?”
Cal raised an eyebrow as he pulled a tin of coffee from the cabinet.
“I thought that was just a Harry Potter thing,” I said, deadpan.
He rolled his eyes and laughed—actually laughed—and the sound warmed the room faster than the kettle. “Oh, it’s real. Less magic, more Latin. Fewer house-elves, more smug prefects.”
“Wow. Next you’ll tell me there were house crests and Latin mottos,” I added, half-teasing.
He didn’t even glance up. “Floreat Etona.”
I blinked. “Wait—that’s real too?”
He gave me a look that was equal parts smug and amused. “Let Eton flourish,” he translated, voice all posh mockery, accent crisp and clipped. “Did I win your heart with Latin?”
I snorted. “I was joking.”
He leaned in, voice dropping. “I wasn’t.”
Warmth spread across my chest. I leaned against the counter. “So what was it like?”
He measured coffee into the French press, thoughtful. “Strict,” he said at last. “Regimented. Unforgiving. Bloody starched collars. Every minute scheduled. Every standard enforced.”
I watched him, listening for what he wasn’t saying.
“But oddly enough,” he continued, “it was the first place I ever felt…free.”
“Free?” I blinked. “At boarding school?”
He nodded, fitting the lid onto the coffee canister. “I was thirteen, away from home, finally out from under constant watch by staff and family. There were rules—God, so many—but for once, I got to choose which ones I’d break.” He smiled as the kettle clicked off. “I took to it rather quickly.”
“That, I believe.”
He poured the water over the grounds in one smooth motion and slid the press aside to steep.
Then he reached into the cupboard for two mugs, set them on the counter, and finally looked at me again.
“It’s also where I picked up guitar. And where I learned that physics came easier to me than most things. Except, apparently, diplomacy.”
“You? Diplomatic?” I teased.
He winced with mock sincerity. “Shocking, I know.”
“And the guitar?” I asked. “That came naturally?”
“Eventually. There was a boy a few years older who played blues riffs in the stairwell between prep and lights-out. I was meant to be revising French verb conjugations, but…” He shrugged. “Hendrix won.”
I grinned. “Total rebel.”
Cal’s gaze flicked toward me, fond and a little faraway. “It was that, or smoke behind the chapel. I chose the option that wouldn’t give me cancer.”
He pressed the plunger, poured two mugs of dark, fragrant coffee, and passed one to me—black, just how I liked it.
“Thanks.”
He leaned back against the counter, mug in hand, posture easy but thoughtful.
“And physics?” I asked. “You said it came easy, but why stick with it?”
He looked down at the swirl of dark coffee, then out the window where sunlight kissed the bare treetops. “I wanted to understand how the universe worked. Still do. Some part of me always believed that if I could just…decode the rules underneath it all, maybe I’d find my place in it.”
Something in my chest pulled tight. I hadn’t expected that kind of honesty before breakfast, but I drank it in like warmth. “And did you?”
He looked at me, long and deliberate. “Not until recently.”
My breath caught. I had no words for that, so I didn’t say anything. Instead, I stepped in close and kissed his cheek. “I’m glad you picked music over cigarettes.”
His smile was slow and real and a little bit shy. “So am I.”