Chapter 11
Jasmine
The first thing I notice inside is that he’s turned most of the bright lights off. Not dimmed but off. There’s one lamp on in the corner, low and warm, and the refrigerator that hummed all through dinner the first night I came is unplugged, the cord coiled neatly on the counter.
He must have done all this before he knew for sure I’d come. He went around the room and switched off the parts that scream at me, just in case I showed up.
“You unplugged your fridge,” I say. “That can’t be good for the stuff inside.”
“It buzzes. You told me the buzzing’s the worst one.”
“That was weeks ago.”
“I remember the stuff that matters.” He’s leaning on the counter, not crowding me, hands where I can see them. “You can still leave, you know. A daylight decision means you get to undecide. I’ll live.”
“I bet.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means I notice stuff too. There are girls on this campus who would slit my throat to take my place.”
“That’s a bit dramatic, Dixon.”
“I’m just saying.”
“All I was saying is that you are not bound by any decision you made at the crack of dawn. You can leave, or you can stay.”
“I’m not leaving. I’m just worried about your food.”
“There’s not much in there. I buy a few ingredients, then I cook. I’m not a stay-at-home mom of five who shops for the month.”
“Funny.”
“You have no idea.” He turns off the oven, which I think was preheating, then walks over to the kitchen sink, his back to me. “You want to stand or sit?”
“Give me a minute,” I tell him. “You’re not going to rush me,” I say.
“Nope, I won’t.”
“Even though you want to.”
“Especially because I want to.” His voice drops.
And that, the not rushing me, is another one of the most attractive things about Caleb Adams. There’s a list for that too. But that one’s stored in my head for safekeeping.
I cross to him. That much I can do on my own. But it’s the last few inches I can’t seem to do, which he reads, the way he reads everything, and he closes them himself.
“I’m going to put my hands on your face,” he says, staring down at me. And then he does, warm along my jaw, tipping my chin so I’m looking at his mouth, which is where I can look. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
He kisses me, and because he told me it was coming, I’m one hundred percent there for it. All of me. No piece of me is already sprinting for an exit.
That is not a small thing.
That’s everything.
“Okay?” he says against my mouth.
“Keep talking.”
“I didn’t figure you for wanting a play-by-play,” he smirks.
“I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything, Adams. Don’t stop.”
Something in him goes serious and soft at once. So he tells me everything before he does it, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever experienced.
“I’m going to take this off.” His hands find the hem of my hoodie, and he lifts it carefully. “How you wear this in this damn Nevada heat is beyond me.”
The air on my skin is a lot, and I say so, so he waits until it isn’t. “I’m going to touch your back now.” Broad hands flat against my spine. That’s good. I definitely like that.
“Still okay?” he says, mouth at my shoulder.
“Yes.”
“Tell me the second that changes. Don’t be polite about it.”
“I’m never polite.”
“I know.” I feel him smile against my skin. “Favorite thing about you.”
When his thumb skims the side of my ribs, I flinch, the bad kind, and “wait” comes out sharp, and he stops. Instantly. His hands are still, but he’s not deflated. There’s no sigh or sign of him becoming annoyed like Jay used to.
“Not there,” I say, bracing for the recalculation.
“Noted.” His hands move to my hips, solid, where I can take that kind of sensation. “Thank you for telling me.”
He says it like I told him something useful, and not like it’s an obstacle. Like, stopping him is direction and not friction. The relief goes through me so hard my eyes sting, and I decide I’m done being embarrassed about crying in front of him, because it’s just going to keep happening.
I’ve never been this understood by anyone in my life.
He grabs my hand and walks me to the mattress, telling me before he does it.
“I’m going to walk us over to the mattress. I put on fresh sheets…you know, just in case.”
He lays me down on those clean sheets, telling me ahead of time again.
“I’m going to lay you down and then slowly peel the rest of your clothes off. I want to see you. I’ve been dying to see all of you for weeks, Dixon.”
Caleb peels the rest of my clothes off, telling me every step of the way, and somewhere in there, I stop needing the words for the safety of it and start wanting them for how they sound, low and dirty and only for me.
He pulls his own shirt over his head, and I get my hands on all that warm, scarred skin I’ve been pretending not to study for weeks. His breath goes ragged. I feel powerful in a way I never have before.
“You sure?” he says, braced over me, holding his weight off so I have air. Asking with his whole face.
“I made a list,” I tell him. “And you won.”
His eyes darken, and when they’re this deep and dangerous, I can look right at them. No problem. In fact, I could get lost in them if I’m not careful.
“Say it again,” he says, with almost a growl.
“You won.”
He kisses the corner of my mouth.
Then the side of my neck.
My clavicle.
Then the center of my chest between my breasts.
“You sat down and did math about me. You have no idea how hot that fucking is. Somebody choosing me on purpose. On paper.”
“That’s a strange thing to find romantic.”
“I’m a strange guy. I think we’ve covered that already.”
“Well, strange for a hockey player.”
“How many hockey players do you fucking know?” he asks, and I’m not sure if he’s angry…or being possessive?
“Well, I work them all the time, Adams.”
“No, how many of them do you know like…this?”
Ohhh.
“None, just you.”
“That’s the fucking better answer.”
Then he tells me what he’s going to do next, and his hand slides between us, slow, his eyes on mine the whole time so I can stop him with a look if a look is all I’ve got.
He touches me exactly where he said he would, patient, reading every sound I make and adjusting, until the patience undoes something I have kept locked my entire adult life, and I’m saying his name into the room.
“Caleb.”
“There she is,” he says, like I’m somebody worth finding. “Stay with me, baby. You’re doing so good. Stay right here.”
And I do.
He trails kisses down the center of my stomach, my hips, my thighs, my calves, and even the soles of my feet. There’s no part of me he leaves untouched by his mouth.
When he finally moves over me, when he tells me it’s coming, when there’s the stretch of his dick pushing its way inside of me and the slow careful press of one body learning another, I don’t leave.
I don’t float up to the ceiling and watch a woman go through the motions as I have before. I’m here. Totally present. Because he made it a place safe enough to stay.
He moves slowly.
“You feel so good, baby. Your pussy was made for me. Was waiting for me.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I like the words, but I’m not sure how to respond. I can tell, though, he doesn’t require a verbal response from me. What I’m giving him without words is enough.
He tells me when it changes.
“I’m going to lift this leg up, so you can feel more of me.”
When I need a second, he gives me a second, and it’s not a deal.
“Take your time. We’ve got all day.”
When I pull him closer, he groans like I did him a kindness. And he keeps talking the whole way.
“You feel that? That’s your pussy shuddering for me.”
Between the talking, the circular movement of my hips, and the strokes of him inside of me, the heat in my body builds into something I have no description for. Something climbing up my spine that I can’t stop or control. And for once, I release myself to the chaos building between my legs.
“Caleb, I–”
When my orgasm takes me, it’s nothing like the careful ones I give myself when I’m alone at home in the dark. It’s hard, and loud, and raunchy, and it’s got his name all over it.
“I’m coming, Caleb!”
And he follows with his own release, his face buried in my throat, saying my pussy, in a cracked voice that I’ve never heard him use before.
Afterwards, he doesn’t roll away.
He pulls me into his chest, where I can hear his heart still slamming, and he drags the blanket up over my shoulders. He doesn’t fill the quiet with anything. He lets it stay quiet. I love that he remembered. Quiet is how I come back down.
He traces something slow on my shoulder with one finger. Not a weird pattern, just steady contact, the kind I can stand.
“Did you like that?” he asks with barely a whisper.
“You know I did.”
“Yeah, but sometimes I need the words.”
“I loved it.”
I lie there with my ear over his heartbeat, and I do the math I’ve been dodging for weeks. The real math. The one I’ve been avoiding because I already knew the answer and was too scared to write it down.
I love him.
Like, I love this hockey god, all the way down.
And suddenly I’m scared as hell. What am I going to do about my father? He has the power to blow up this little corner of peace I’ve finally found.
“I can hear you thinking,” he says into my hair, sleepy and satiated. “Your thoughts are as loud as that light you hate.”
“I’m just thinking.”
“Yeah? About what? You want to do it again?” he laughs.
I’m not brave enough for the real answer yet. I get as close as I can.
“I’m just surprised at myself,” I whisper. “I stayed in the moment, with you the whole time.”
His arm tightens around me, and when he talks, his voice has gotten deeper, and it’s got nothing to do with sleep.
“I know,” he says. “I felt it. And it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
That makes me smile.
“Also…yeah, I want to do it again.”