Chapter 20
Lucina
Kissing Callan is an instinct. It’s home. It’s heated and desperate, and it can’t come fast enough. It’s all so natural. As natural as breathing.
Callan’s hands move down my torso, gripping my thighs beneath the hem of my shirt—his shirt—and I lift my legs, circling them around his waist.
With a mumbled curse, he yanks me closer, finding a way to deepen an already frenzied kiss. A complete unraveling. His desire equally matched with my own in a perfect storm.
Callan’s grip on my thighs is unforgiving, fingers digging into bare skin, and I throw an arm around his neck when I nearly fall back onto the table. I find I don’t need it as his other hand slides up my spine, keeping me pressed against him.
He rolls his hips forward, and we both groan. With my choice in ‘pajamas’, the fabric of his pants is the only barrier between us, and the friction of the movement makes my head spin.
“Callan.”
He does it again, hands sliding farther up my legs, pushing the fabric of my shirt up my hips.
“Callan,” I say again, inhaling sharply when he slides the shirt up to my stomach, and cool air hits bare skin. “I don’t—”
“Fuck.”
Too late.
“...have anything on,” I finish quietly.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise to him. I don’t typically sleep in anything but a shirt, but somehow I’ve rendered him speechless.
Callan stares down at me, chest heaving, and the longer he stares, the warmer my cheeks get.
His nostrils flare, his grip loosening, and chills break out over my entire body as he slides his fingers down, lightly trailing the skin of my inner thigh.
“You…” His lips twitch, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet them. His eyes are molten silver when they meet mine. Devastating. “You came in here like this?”
More heat rushes to my cheeks.
Yes, I did come in here like this, but it certainly wasn’t with this…intention. It was purely what I’d chosen to crawl into when I’d lingered by the office door long enough to be embarrassed by my desperation.
Swallowing, I answer the obvious question with a breathless, “Yes.”
Callan says nothing.
“But not because I thought that we would…” Gods, I hope he doesn’t think I came in here expecting this. My plan hadn’t been to seduce him, just calmly explain that despite the composition of my blood, I’m still the same woman he fell in love with. “I just didn’t…”
When I notice the way he’s looking at me, my words seem unimportant. My explanation is unnecessary. In fact, I’m not even sure he’s listening.
Eyes darker than they’ve ever been, Callan slowly pushes the fabric up my stomach. He pauses at my naval, and when I don’t object, he continues, lifting it past my chest until I’m entirely exposed.
But I don’t feel vulnerable. Not in the slightest.
There’s a dangerous glint in Callan’s eyes, but it isn’t scary; it’s exhilarating. It doesn’t make me want to retreat; it makes me want to fall forward. To be entirely his in every way that matters.
So, I don’t say anything else. I give up on my poor attempt to explain myself and silently lift my arms above my head.
An invitation.
One Callan doesn’t waste as he swiftly pulls the fabric up and over my head and tosses it to the floor.
He stills, and it makes me smile—knowing it’s me who has this effect on him.
The ever-revered and fearless Captain, stunned at the sight of me naked.
Planted on top of all his important paperwork.
I lower my arms, palms finding the table behind me, and Callan’s next inhale hitches as I shift my body weight to lean back on my hands.
I wouldn’t consider myself to be modest; I’m pretty confident in my own skin. But the longer Callan stares, the harder it is to sit still.
Silver eyes trail up my legs and stomach, lingering on my breasts and the valley between them. The cool air, mixed with his attention, has tightened my nipples into almost painful points, and I don’t think I can bear it a second longer.
His gaze drifts up to mine, and I shift my hips when he still doesn’t move, shamelessly searching for his hands, his lips, his anything.
Having decoded my silent request, Callan leans forward, a hand braced on either side of me. “Do you want me to touch you, Chaos?” He says it with such confidence, but I can hear the shake in his voice. The words strangled in his throat.
I’m nodding before he can fully finish the sentence.
Callan leans in closer, lips hovering just above mine. “Enough with the nodding.”
I blow out a frustrated breath, a dampness pooling between my legs at just the prospect of being touched.
“Yes,” I force out, my body screaming it louder than I can voice.
Even my magic demands it—rumbling beneath my skin and swelling in my stomach until I’m not sure what’s supernatural and what’s desire.
He settles further between my legs, gaze drifting down my chest. “Are you sure?”
Asshole.
“Positive.” I capture his attention with the lift of my chin, bringing my mouth closer to his. “Do you want to touch me, Captain?”
Callan huffs a laugh, a taunting sound that fans across my lips. “More than I want my next breath, Lucina.”
I’m consumed by his confession, as evidenced by the quick breath I draw in.
Callan smirks, dipping his head to press a kiss to my collarbone. The touch sets me on fire. “Does that scare you?” he asks, trailing his lips across the base of my neck. “Being wanted in that way?”
I shake my head, remembering what he’d said about nodding when his eyes snap up to mine. “No,” I rush out.
“Good.”
Callan shoves his chair back with his foot, and I gasp when one of his hands moves between my legs, his other coming up to support my back. He captures my lips in a searing kiss, groaning when he discovers my body’s reaction to just the thought of him touching me.
The touch drives me wild, and when Callan sinks one long finger inside of me, I’m hardly able to kiss him back.
“I can’t believe you let me talk so long,” he mutters, taking his sweet time coaxing me into a frenzy, alternating between a light touch and a deep, claiming thrust.
I throw an arm around his neck, nails digging into his shoulder, moaning into his mouth when he slides a second finger in with his first.
“Again,” Callan orders, working up a pace that makes my legs tremble. “Louder for me, Lucina.”
I moan again, the sound spilling into the otherwise silent room, and Callan’s teeth sink into my bottom lip. I begin pulling on his shirt, content to just rip the fabric away, but when he curls his fingers, he hits a spot that numbs my limbs.
“Callan,” I gasp, but he doesn’t slow, bicep flexing as he works in and out of me.
I think I might detonate. Completely shatter right here on top of the blueprints and confidential paperwork that don’t seem to matter to him at all right now.
“Come on, Cin,” he whispers against my parted lips.
“More,” I exhale, every inch of me aching for him. Demanding to be closer. To be filled by him and nothing else.
When he doesn’t give in to my request, I drop my hand between us, fumbling for his belt, instantly frustrated when he snatches my hand away.
He kisses me again, dragging his teeth along my bottom lip as he pulls my arm off his neck and guides me back until I’m lying flat against the table.
I whimper when his fingers retreat, leaving me painfully empty. “What are you doing?”
Callan shakes his head at my question, sliding his hands beneath my thighs. “I promise I’m not done with you.” Air fills my lungs in an audible gasp when he yanks me down to the edge of the desk.
I spring up to my elbows, reaching for the hem of his shirt, but he’s pulling it off before I can push at the fabric.
I’m certain that I’ll never get used to the sight of him as he tosses it to the floor.
For a moment, I’m so distracted by the Sol Marks inked over his ribs and the harsh definition of each muscle that I forget where I am.
But my surroundings slam back into me when Callan nudges my legs apart with his thighs and plunges both fingers back inside me. He finds a ruthless rhythm, dragging me right up to that euphoric precipice in a matter of seconds. Seconds.
It’s embarrassing, really, but I can’t find a single drop of shame in the violent surge of heat rushing through my body. My hips buck, a poor attempt to take him deeper, and Callan curses, sliding a hand against my back when I arch off the table.
“Callan,” I grit out, teetering on the edge of release.
“Not yet,” he growls back.
Not yet, is criminally insane.
Static pricks the air, and my own magic rushes out to meet it, the only lantern in the room extinguishing with a hiss. Callan relights it instantly.
I hear the soft clink of his belt, groaning in frustration at how slowly he undoes the buckle.
His wicked fingers continue, applying enough pressure to keep me on the edge of release, but not enough to tip me over the side. My body is burning for it.
Pulling down his zipper, Callan frees himself from his jeans with one hand, a rush of anticipation rippling through me when the head of his erection nudges my inner thigh.
He captures my attention, the black of his pupils stark against the ring of silver around them. “Yes?” he asks.
“Yes.” The please is silent. “Yes,” I say again, convinced he didn’t hear me when he only picks up the pace of his fingers. “Callan.”
He pulls his hand away, lines himself up, and pushes every inch inside me.
All my coiled tension snaps, the sudden pressure shoving me straight over the edge.
Callan curses, his forehead pressed into mine as my body contracts, pleasure sweeping through every muscle. It rolls through my limbs and down to my toes, my magic pulsing with it.
Static pricks my skin, heightening the tip of my climax, and for a moment, I think I’ll never come back down.
“That’s it,” Callan hisses, dragging me back into my body with the hand he digs into my hip. He moves in slow, languid thrusts, wringing out every last wave of pleasure, and the sensation is so overwhelming that I feel the burn of impending tears. “Talk to me, Chaos.”
I reply with the first true statement I can think of, “I can’t feel my legs.”
My brain is mush, reduced to messy desire, and it only gets worse each time he pushes into me, an addictive rush of pleasure racing up my spine. It’s so potent I can taste it on my tongue.
Callan’s laugh is light against my throat, as his hands shift to the back of my thighs, holding them up so I don’t have to.
I wrap my arm around his neck, and Callan shudders when my other hand slides through his hair.
The edge of the desk digs into my skin, but I don’t have the capacity to care.
There’s no place I’d rather be—trapped in his hold, pressure building each time he pulls out and pushes back in, the silver in his eyes molten as he stares back at me like I’m the only thing in the world worth looking at.
Callan lifts my legs higher, shifting my hips, and the new angle steals my breath.
“Another,” he grits out, and I’m about to deny the demand when his hand slides up to palm my breast.
And on his next thrust, the bastard drops his head and drags his teeth across my nipple. I practically jolt off the table, more of that heavy pleasure building, and it only gets worse when I look down.
My blurry gaze falls to the grip he has on my legs, the calloused fingers digging into my thighs, the veins bulging in his arms…
“Another, Chaos.”
His tongue darting out over my nipple.
I wind tighter at his words and at the sight, heat rising beneath my skin, and Callan’s muscles tense in response to it.
The light from the lantern flickers, but I’m too mesmerized to care, my attention drifting to the space between us.
I watch as he moves in and out, enraptured by the flex of his ribbed torso and the way it makes his beautiful tattoo ripple. He fits so perfectly that I wonder if he was made for me. Maybe I was made for him.
We’re fucked up in our own ways, due mostly to reasons that are out of our control. Out of my control. But we found a place to meet in the middle. We found common ground to stand on.
And more than that, we found love—the kind that consumes. That burns and fills and completes.
“Look at you.” I hadn’t realized he, too, was staring between us, captivated just as I am. Callan shakes his head, thrusting so deep there’s a spark of pain at the edge of the pleasure.
“Another,” he growls, and my body concedes the order.
The lantern bursts, my orgasm hitting me so violently that I’m unable to draw in a proper breath. Callan curses, working me through every last wave of it with his chest pressed to mine, feverish skin fused.
My body falls limp in his arms, entirely spent as he thrusts forward again, going as deep as he’s able before pulling out and finishing all over my lower stomach.
It’s only after what feels like a full minute that I’m able to catch my breath, and with my legs still bracketed in his arms, Callan drags in a few ragged inhales of his own. His muscles are taut, his lips swollen, and his pupils still consume most of the silver in his eyes.
I stare back at him, dumbfounded. Convinced I’ve gone stupid.
My gaze falls to the mess he made on my stomach, but before I can move to sit up, Callan stops me with a firm hand against my ribcage.
He bends down, wordlessly picks up his discarded shirt, and gently cleans me up. Fisting the fabric at his side, he drags his stare up my body, stopping when he gets to my eyes. “Okay?”
I huff a laugh. “Yeah.”
“Sore?” His voice is clipped, as if he’s restraining himself from something.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Good.”
Callan bends down, and I yelp when he gathers me to his chest, crossing the room in two long strides. I manage to wrap my legs around his waist in the quickness of the movement, the fresh air of the hallway cool against my heated skin.
A second later, we’re in the bedroom, and all the air rushes out of my lungs when Callan all but throws me onto the mattress.
“Again,” he says simply, kicking the door shut behind him.