Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Angus
I unlock the door and push it open with my hip, trying not to overthink the fact that Callum is right behind me. My apartment is quiet, still, dim from the early-evening light coming through the windows.
It’s not much—just a one-bedroom off the edge of town with a view of the mountains if you squint out the bathroom window and tilt your head. Nothing fancy. But it’s mine.
I step aside to let him in.
Callum walks past me, taking it in. I follow his gaze as it sweeps across the open-plan living area: exposed beams overhead, walls a little too bare, a bookshelf I keep meaning to organize.
The couch is slightly oversized and clearly made for sprawling, and the low table in front of it? I made that myself.
Same with the credenza by the window. And the thick-legged dining table tucked into the corner, still bearing a stain from that one time I tried eating ribs while reading The Martian.
Callum moves slowly, not saying much at first. Just looking. Like he’s letting the place speak for me. He stops in front of the coffee table, running his fingers gently over the edge, and it’s such a small thing—barely a moment. But I feel it like a current in the center of my chest.
“You made this,” he says, not a question.
“Yeah.” I scratch the back of my neck. “The table, the credenza, a few of the chairs. Perk of the job.”
He nods slowly, fingertips gliding along the grain of the wood. “It’s beautiful. All of it. You have good hands.”
My stomach tightens at the way he says it—soft, reverent, and maybe a little loaded.
He turns to look at me then, those brown eyes warm and steady. “It’s very you. This place. Quiet, grounded, strong.”
I let out a breath. It comes out shakier than I expected.
Him meeting Seth properly was one thing, especially as it went super well, but having him here in my space…
. I don’t know, it seems like a big step.
This has become more than a nice guy coming to my rescue to help me out with dog-sitting. “It’s not much.”
“It’s yours,” he says, stepping toward me. “And it feels like you.”
And God, I didn’t know how much I needed to hear that.
Because yeah, it’s just wood and walls and the smell of sawdust that never quite fades—but this space is the only place that’s ever felt fully mine.
I didn’t realize how tense I’d been until he walked in and didn’t look like he was comparing it to something else. He just looked like he was seeing me.
He steps even closer, hand brushing the hem of my shirt. “Can I kiss you?”
I nod once, and that’s all he needs.
The kiss is slow at first, lingering, like he’s trying to memorize the way my mouth tastes in this space. My hands settle on his waist, grounding us, and he leans in farther, lips parting just enough for heat to bloom between us.
It’s different here. No dogs. No borrowed time. No ticking clock. Just him and me, in the quiet heart of something we’re still figuring out—but whatever it is, it’s real. I feel it in every stroke of his hands against my ribs, every slide of his fingers curling into my shirt.
And when he pulls back, breath no longer warm against my lips, he looks around again—like he’s taking mental inventory of every corner, every handmade piece of furniture, every part of me.
“I like it here,” he says softly.
I brush my thumb along his jaw. “Yeah?”
He nods. “Feels like I could belong.”
I don’t say anything right away—just wrap my arms around him and pull him in close. And maybe I’m not ready to say the words yet, not out loud.
But I’m thinking them.
You already do.
“You know what will make me more certain?”
I smile at the tease in his voice and ask, “What?” I’m pretty sure Callum could ask anything of me, and I’d struggle to tell him no.
He trails his fingers down my chest, and I catch on immediately. It’s been over two weeks of kisses, blow jobs, and exploring each other’s bodies. While each time has been incredible, I desperately want him to fuck me.
And now we’re finally away from the dogs, in a space that doesn’t feel weird for him to give me what clearly we both want.
“You want to show me your bedroom?”
My grin is immediate as I tug his hand and pull him the few short steps to my door. And then he’s on me, or I’m on him. All I know is, my cock is begging for release, and my ass is desperate to be filled.
We stumble into the bedroom like we’ve been holding this tension too long—and honestly, we have.
Two weeks of stolen moments. Of mouths and hands and low, breathy groans in the dark.
Of learning each other’s bodies but never this fully.
Never like this, in a place where it’s just us.
No barking, no borrowed space, no soft interruptions.
Now, it’s just skin and heat and the sound of our ragged breaths.
Clothes hit the floor with quiet thuds—shirts first, then jeans. His palms run over my chest, down to my stomach, slow and greedy. I catch his gaze when his fingers trace over the softness there, and for a second, some old insecurity twinges.
“I haven’t had abs since I was like… twenty-four,” I mutter, half laughing, trying to defuse it. It’s not even as though he hasn’t seen me naked before, but this feels different. More.
Callum doesn’t even blink. “Good. I’m not here for abs.”
He splays his hands over my stomach like he likes it, like it’s something worth worshipping. Then his lips follow, kissing a trail downward that steals the breath from my lungs. Gentle, deliberate, burning.
When his mouth moves lower and I moan, hips shifting, he pulls back just slightly, meeting my eyes.
“Lube?”
I’m already reaching—fumbling, actually—with a mix of urgency and nerves.
It’s in the top drawer. Always ready, just in case, but today, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t hoped.
That I hadn’t done a little extra prep in the shower this morning.
That maybe my lunch was light not because I wasn’t hungry, but because my brain had already imagined this exact moment.
I pass it to him, my fingers shaking a little, and he takes it gently, his expression softening.
“Hey,” he says, brushing his lips over mine. “You okay?”
“Better than okay.” I nod, voice rough with want. “I just… want you.”
That’s all it takes. He kisses me again—deeper this time—and when I fall back onto the bed, spreading my legs without hesitation, he’s there, tracing his fingers over my skin, murmuring something I can’t even hear over the rush of blood in my ears.
There’s reverence in the way he touches me. And need. And when I look into his eyes, I don’t see hesitation. I see his desire. His want. He feels this, wants this as much as I do.
Callum doesn’t rush. He runs his hands over me like he’s memorizing topography—pausing at the curve of my hip, the inside of my thigh. His touch isn’t just arousing; it’s reverent, almost curious.
“You always this warm?” he murmurs, lips brushing the center of my chest.
“Only when I want something this bad.”
He smiles—small, private—and kisses lower. I expect him to keep going, to give me what I’m aching for, but he veers to the side instead, sucking gently at the skin above my hipbone just because he can. My breath stutters.
By the time he settles between my legs and slicks his fingers with lube, my whole body’s coiled tight like a bowstring drawn and waiting to snap.
The first touch of his fingers circling my rim makes me inhale sharply.
I whine when he pushes one, then a second deep inside me.
And then he’s watching me, his gaze dark and focused, thumb grazing my thigh while his fingers work me open with slow, careful precision. I’m half gone already, muscles shaking, but I don’t want him to stop. I want every second of it.
“Feels good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I pant. “You’re driving me insane.”
He presses a kiss to my knee, then another to the inside of my ankle. “Good.”
When I open my eyes again, he’s rolling on the condom, and for the first time, it really hits me: This is happening. Not just the sex—but this. Us. Here. Now. In my bed. In my life.
“I need you inside me,” I say, reaching for him.
He lines up with slow confidence, eyes locked on mine, and when he pushes in, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for a week. The stretch burns, but it’s good. It’s right. I grip his forearm, hold on tight, and he keeps his eyes on me the whole time.
“Okay?” he asks, voice rough.
“So fucking okay.”
He starts to move, hips rocking in a rhythm that’s steady but unrelenting. I meet every thrust, chasing it, needing it, my whole body singing with the sensation. He fills me like he was built for it—no space left, no part of me untouched by him.
The sounds he makes—those quiet, breathy moans—send shivers down my spine. “You feel….” He groans, head falling forward. “Jesus, Angus—you feel unreal.”
My only response is a broken sound from the back of my throat because if I try to speak, I’ll say something too big, too true. Like I’ve never trusted anyone like this. Or I think I’m falling for you.
Instead, I wrap my legs around his waist, dig my heels in, and whisper, “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. His hand finds mine, and he laces our fingers together as he fucks me harder, deeper. The mattress creaks under us, and the world narrows to the heat of his body, the rasp of his breath, the tension spiraling in my core.
My orgasm builds fast, curling low in my belly, unstoppable. I squeeze his hand. “I’m close.”
His lips find my cheek, then my jaw, then my mouth. He wraps his strong hand around my cock and gives a few fast tugs. I groan, my vision blurring, my breaths turning choppy. “Let go,” he says against my lips.
So I do.
I fall with a cry, clenching around him, my body racked with it, and he follows with a groan that punches right through me. He buries himself deep and stills, his body trembling with release.
And then he collapses against me, breathless and flushed, his heart thudding against my chest. “I’m crushing you,” he murmurs.
I wrap my arms around him and pull him closer. “Good. Stay there.”
He chuckles against my neck and kisses me once—soft, barely there. And in the quiet that follows, as our breathing slows and sweat cools between us, I realize something that startles me with its certainty.
This wasn’t just sex.
It was a beginning.