Chapter Six #3
His jaw ticks. He looks like he hates how right I am. Then he reaches down, unbuttons his jeans, and shoves them just low enough. He’s thick and flushed, and my breath stutters at the sight of him. He watches my face, gauging if I’d flinch.
I don't. I reach for him, wrapping my hand around his length and stroking slowly. Wes’s eyes squeeze shut, his head dipping to my shoulder as he lets out a curse that sounds like a prayer.
"You okay?" I whisper.
His laugh is a broken thing. "No."
I stroke him again, steady and firm. Wes shifts his hips, pressing into my hand. His breath is hot against my neck. "Fuck... Jules."
Hearing my name like that makes my heart hammer. I tighten my grip. This is real. He's real. Wes’s hand slides down and wraps around my cock again, stroking in sync with me. I gasp, my hips jerking.
He lifts his head, eyes dark. I reach up and grab his shoulders pulling him down. I don't let him hide behind the giving anymore. I hold my ground until he’s over me, but I see that quiet retreat in his eyes again.
I catch his jaw gently. "Hey. Don't shut down now."
His throat works. He finally looks at me, his eyes intense and raw. "I don't know how to do this without making it into something," he admits.
"Maybe it is something," I say softly. He stiffens. I hurry on: "Not a label. Not a promise. Just... something that could be real."
His jaw clenches. His hand wraps around himself, stroking a few times as if to stay grounded. Then he whispers, almost against his will, "I want to fuck you."
I nod, already reaching for the nightstand drawer. Wes watches me, looking almost shocked that I am prepared. I shrug, breathless. "Firefighter. We plan for emergencies."
That gets the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
It isn't a smile, but it’s a start. Wes takes the condom from my hand, his fingers steady now.
He rolls it on with a focus that’s almost reverent.
Then he slicks his fingers with the lube I handed him, and looks at me, his voice rough. "Tell me if it hurts."
He spreads my legs, moving between them, and presses a kiss to my inner thigh again.
He eases a finger inside, gentle and slow, as if he’s trying to make it good rather than just taking what he wants.
My breath catches, and I let my body relax into him.
He works me open until I’m shaking, my body arching for more.
Wes leans down, his mouth on my chest, biting lightly. I gasp as his fingers hit my prostate, and I nearly lose my mind. Then he pulls out, lines up, and pauses. He hovers there, his eyes locked on mine.
"Still want it?"
"Yeah… fuck… yes, Wes."
He eases in. The stretch is intense, filling me completely, but it isn't painful, just as he said, a lot. I grip his arms, gasping. He stops, his forehead dropping to mine. "Okay?"
"Yeah. Move."
Wes exhales and starts to thrust. It’s slow at first, giving me time to adjust, but then he finds a rhythm—steady, deep, and deliberate. It feels like he’s choosing every stroke, like he’s proving to both of us that this wasn't a mistake.
My nails dig into his back. "Fuck," he breathes.
I pull him down for a messy, hungry kiss. He thrusts harder, his hips snapping, the bed rocking beneath us. He keeps his mouth on mine as if he needs the contact just as much as the sex.
"Wes..." I gasp.
"You feel so good," he growls, the words low and filthy.
He pulls back to look at me, his hand sliding down to find my cock, stroking me in time with his movements. I choke on a sound.
"Come for me," he murmurs, his voice commanding.
I shiver. "Jesus."
"Come for me, Jules."
The possessiveness in his voice is pure Wes. I’m already at the edge. I grip his shoulders and nod. "I'm close."
His thrusts get deeper and harder. He leans down, his mouth at my ear. "Good. I want to feel it."
My hips buck as I hit the peak. I come hard, a broken sound tearing out of me as I pulse in his hand. Wes groans, a raw sound dragged from his lungs. His thrusts turn desperate, his hand tightening on my hip as his breathing goes ragged. I feel him lose that iron control.
"Fuck, Jules," he mutters, sounding like a man possessed. Then he comes, deep inside me, his body tensing and shaking as he finally lets go.
He drops his forehead to my shoulder, both of us breathing like we’ve run a marathon. For a long minute, we just stay there—connected, warm, and real. I slide my hand up his spine, a gentle touch. "Hey."
He doesn't move. He doesn't pull away. He just breathes against my neck. Finally, he lifts his head. His eyes are dark and raw, but they are steady. He kisses me—not a hungry kiss, just a quiet, lingering one.
He pulls out carefully, deals with the condom, and then does something I don't expect: he comes back to bed. He doesn't hover at the edge or look for his clothes. He settles beside me and pulls me into him, his arm around my waist and his hand resting low on my back.
I go quiet. Don't ruin this, I tell myself. Don't make him talk. Don't demand more. So I don’t. I just turn my head and press a kiss to his shoulder.
Wes’s grip tightens slightly. "Are you okay?" he whispers.
"Yeah."
He pauses. "You mad at me?"
I blink. "Why would I be?"
His jaw ticks. "Because I’m... not good at this."
My throat goes tight. I slide my hand over his ribs, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest. "I'm not mad, Wes."
He exhales, the sound full of relief. We lie there in the dim light, bodies tangled and the air still heavy with the scent of us.
"Are you gonna run?" I murmur after a while.
Wes goes still. Then his arm tightens around me. "Not tonight," he says, his voice rough.
I smile into his chest. "Good."
His hand rubs my lower back, a grounding, solid motion. Eventually, his breathing shifts—slower, heavier. He’s fallen asleep. Wes Calder is asleep in my bed with me in his arms like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
I let myself think one dangerous, quiet thing before sleep pulls me under. The third time isn't a mistake. It's a choice. And tonight, he chose me.