Chapter 42 #2
Her hands found his shirt, tugging impatiently. He helped her, yanking the fabric over his head and tossing it aside. Her palms flattened against his torso, exploring the planes of muscle, tracing the healing scars on his ribs with gentle fingers.
“These are almost healed.” Wonder in her voice. “Shifter recovery is incredible.”
“They’ll scar.” He captured her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm. “I don’t mind. They remind me what I’m fighting for.”
“And what’s that?”
He kissed her deeply, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the press of his lips. “You. This. Everything I didn’t know I was allowed to have.”
They fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and urgent touches.
Cal learned her body with the same thorough attention he gave everything—mapping her responses, learning what made her gasp and what made her moan.
He discovered that the hollow behind her ear was sensitive, that she shivered when he traced the curve of her waist, that she made a desperate little sound when he rolled her nipple between his fingers.
He wanted to know all of her. Every secret she kept hidden under that soft exterior. The woman beneath the caretaker, the dreamer beneath the baker, the hunger beneath the patience.
“Cal.” His name came out broken. “Please.”
“Please, what?” He kissed down her stomach, hooking his fingers in the waistband of her shorts. “Tell me exactly what you want. I want to hear you say it.”
Her cheeks flushed deeper, but she didn’t look away. “More. Everything. I need—” She lifted her hips, helping him slide the shorts down her legs. “I need you to touch me. Taste me. Make me stop thinking.”
She was bare beneath the shorts. Completely bare and open and trusting him with her vulnerability, and Cal had to close his eyes for a moment to keep from losing control entirely.
She was wet. Glistening in the moonlight, her arousal evident even before he touched her. The sight of her spread open for him, waiting, wanting—it was almost enough to undo him.
Not the claiming—not yet. But he could give her this.
He positioned himself between her thighs, pressing kisses along the soft skin of her inner leg. She trembled beneath him, her fingers twisting in the sheets. He could smell her arousal now—musky and sweet—and his mouth watered.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
Her head lifted. Hazel eyes met his, dark with desire and trust—maybe, or the beginnings of love.
He held her gaze as he lowered his mouth to her center.
The first taste of her undid him. Salt and sweetness and pure Dahlia. She cried out, her hips bucking, and he pinned her down with one hand splayed across her stomach while he worked her with his tongue.
He started slow, learning her. Long, flat strokes of his tongue from her entrance to her clit, teasing, savoring. She whimpered above him, her thighs trembling against his shoulders. When he circled her clit with the tip of his tongue—light, barely there—she nearly levitated off the bed.
“More,” she begged. “Please, Cal, I need—”
He gave her more. Sucked her clit into his mouth while sliding one finger inside her, and she clenched around him immediately, slick and hot and perfect. He added a second finger, curling them to find the spot that made her back arch clean off the mattress.
“Right there—” Her voice cracked. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare stop—”
He didn’t stop. He fucked her with his fingers while his tongue worked her clit in relentless circles, building her higher and higher.
Her hands flew to his hair, gripping hard enough to sting, holding him exactly where she needed him.
She was vocal in her pleasure—telling him yes and there and oh god, yes until the words dissolved into broken moans.
Cal loved every sound she made. Loved that she wasn’t quiet about what she wanted, wasn’t shy about taking pleasure. He doubled down, sucking harder, fucking her faster with his fingers, and felt her inner walls start to flutter around him.
“I’m gonna—Cal, I’m—”
She broke apart with a cry—not shouted but whispered, reverent. Her body pulsed around his fingers, her thighs clamping against his head, and he worked her through every wave of it until she was boneless and gasping.
Cal gentled his touch as she came down, pressing soft kisses to her inner thighs, her hip bones, the soft curve of her belly. She was still trembling when he crawled up her body, positioning his hips between her thighs.
The hard length of him pressed against her slick heat, and they both groaned at the contact. He rocked against her slowly, coating himself in her arousal, and her hips lifted to meet each thrust.
“That was—” She laughed breathlessly, still dazed. “I can’t feel my legs.”
“We’re not done.” He kissed her, letting her taste herself on his lips. “Not even close.”
She moaned into his mouth, her tongue chasing the flavor. Her hands found his belt, working the buckle with trembling fingers, and Cal’s patience finally snapped.
“Let me.” She pushed him onto his back, and Cal went willingly, watching her through half-lidded eyes as she stripped him of his remaining clothes.
His jeans hit the floor. His boxer briefs followed. And then he was naked beneath her, his cock hard and aching and straining toward her.
Dahlia’s eyes widened slightly as she took him in. “You’re...”
“Is that going to be a problem?”
She wrapped her hand around him, and his hips jerked involuntarily. Her grip was perfect—firm but not too tight—and when she stroked him from root to tip, he saw stars.
“Not a problem.” She smiled—a wicked, knowing expression that looked entirely too good on her sweet face. “A challenge.”
She stroked him again, twisting her wrist at the top, her thumb swiping through the moisture beading there. Cal’s hands fisted in the sheets as she explored him—learning his length, his girth, what made his breath catch, and what made him groan.
A moment later, she pressed a condom into his hand.
Cal rolled it on with hands that weren’t entirely steady, then pulled her down to straddle his hips. The position put her in control—something he suspected she rarely experienced. Everyone looked to Dahlia for answers, for comfort, for care. Here, now, she got to take what she wanted.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he said, hands bracketing her hips but not guiding. “Set the pace. Take what you need.”
She rose onto her knees, positioned him at her entrance—and sank down in one slow, devastating slide.
They both went still.
Cal had been with women before. Not many—he’d been too focused on building his empire to invest in relationships—but enough to know what sex felt like.
This was different. This was overwhelming.
The tight, wet heat of her wrapped around him, squeezing him, the look of raw pleasure on her face as she adjusted to his size.
Ours, the animal insisted. Finally. Ours.
“Okay?” His voice came out strained, his control hanging by a thread.
“More than okay.” She braced her hands on his torso and moved. “You feel...” A roll of her hips made stars burst behind his eyes. “Like you were made to fit inside me.”
Cal let her set the rhythm—slow at first, exploratory, finding the angle that worked best. His hands roamed her body: the curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts, the place where they were joined.
She was exquisite above him—hair tumbling around her shoulders, skin flushed and glowing, expression caught between concentration and bliss.
“You’re beautiful.” The words slipped out, rough and honest. “Watching you like this—watching you take your pleasure—I could do this forever.”
She smiled, rolling her hips in a way that made both of them gasp. “Forever might be ambitious. But I appreciate the sentiment.”
Her pace quickened. She rose until the tip of him remained inside, then sank back down in a devastating slide that made her moan. Each stroke took him deeper, her inner walls gripping him like she never wanted to let go.
When his thumb found her clit, she cried out and her rhythm faltered. She braced harder on his torso, her nails digging in, and the small pain sharpened the pleasure coursing through him.
“Don’t stop,” he murmured, circling her clit with firm, steady pressure. “Keep moving. Let me feel you come on my cock.”
The words made her clench around him. She obeyed, riding him harder now, chasing her pleasure while he worked her with his hand. Her movements grew more urgent, more desperate. Her breasts bounced with each thrust, her head thrown back, her lips parted on gasping breaths.
“Close,” she panted. “I’m so close—”
He sat up without warning, changing the angle, driving deeper.
His arms wrapped around her, one hand splayed across her back while the other continued its relentless pressure between them.
The new position had him grinding against her clit with every thrust, and her nails raked down his back hard enough to leave welts.
“Look at me.” He needed to see her. Needed to watch her fall apart. “Dahlia. Look at me when you come.”
Her eyes opened—hazy, unfocused, beautiful.
“Come for me,” he commanded, thrusting up into her. “Right now. Let go.”
She came undone.
Her body clenched around him in rhythmic waves, milking his cock, and the sensation dragged Cal over the edge with her. His release hit like a thunderclap—blinding, consuming, erasing every thought except her, her, her. He buried himself to the hilt and came with a groan that sounded like her name.
His teeth grazed her shoulder, instinct screaming at him to bite, to mark, to claim. He held back by the thinnest margin. Not yet. Not tonight.
But soon. Soon, he would make her his in every way that mattered.
They collapsed onto the bed, tangled and sweating and breathing hard. Cal rolled them so he wouldn’t crush her, keeping her tucked against his side as the aftershocks faded. Her skin was damp against his, her heart pounding where she pressed against his ribs.
The room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing. Moonlight painted patterns across the rumpled sheets. In the apartment, Marzipan meowed in complaint—probably annoyed that her human had been making noise.
Cal laughed, the sound surprising him. “Your cat has opinions.”
“She has opinions about everything.” Dahlia dropped a kiss on his shoulder. “She’ll get over it.”
Later, after they’d cleaned up and returned to bed, Dahlia traced the healing scars on his ribs.
The room had cooled, but neither of them reached for blankets. Cal’s arm was wrapped around her shoulders, her head pillowed on him, one leg thrown over his. It was the most comfortable he’d been in years—not physically, but deeper than that. In a place he’d stopped letting himself feel.
“That wasn’t stress relief.” Her voice was soft, thoughtful. “Was it?”
“No.” He pulled her closer, tucking her head beneath his chin. The scent of her shampoo mixed with sex and sweat and everything uniquely Dahlia. “That was everything I’ve wanted for weeks.”
“Just weeks?”
He considered the question. Thought about the first moment he’d seen her—flour on her cheek and kind eyes. The feeling of coming home before he even understood what home meant.
“Since the first moment I saw you,” he admitted.
“But I didn’t know how to want things for myself.
Not anymore. I’d spent so long being productive—building, achieving, proving—that I forgot wanting was even an option.
Every hour had to be useful. Every action had to have a purpose.
And wanting someone?” He laughed softly.
“That felt like the least useful thing imaginable.”
She was silent for a long moment. Her fingers continued their gentle exploration of his scars—the old ones from childhood accidents, the new ones from the fight in the forest. Each touch felt like acceptance. Like she was learning the map of his past and choosing to stay anyway.
“My grandmother used to say that the hardest thing in the world was allowing yourself to receive.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “She said I’d spend my whole life giving until I was empty, and then I’d wonder why I felt so hollow.”
“Smart woman.”
“The smartest.” Dahlia lifted her head, meeting his gaze in the silver moonlight. “I don’t feel hollow right now. I feel... full. Like a piece I didn’t know was missing clicked into place.”
Cal’s throat tightened. Here was this woman, soft and fierce and impossibly brave, telling him that he’d filled a space she didn’t know was empty.
He felt the same way. He’d never known how to say it.
“Tomorrow,” she said finally, “after the hearing—whatever happens—I want more of this. More of us.”
“So do I.” He tilted her chin up, meeting her eyes in the silver moonlight. “Whatever happens tomorrow, we face it. And when Magnus is dealt with—when the sleuth is safe and your bakery is secure—I’m going to claim you properly. If you’ll let me.”
Her smile was slow and sweet and promised everything. “I’ll let you.”
Cal kissed her—soft, tender, a seal on a promise they’d both keep. Something deep in him went quiet. Settled.
Mate, it said. Home.
Yes, Cal agreed silently. Home.
They fell asleep tangled in each other, the forty-seven anxiety croissants forgotten in the kitchen. The hearing would come with dawn, bringing uncertainty, danger, and the possibility of everything falling apart.
Magnus would be there with his lawyers and his lies.
The Regional Council would weigh evidence that could destroy Cal’s sleuth or vindicate it.
Dahlia would stand before strangers and testify, putting herself in the crosshairs of a man who’d already proven he was willing to kill to get what he wanted.
But right now, in this moment, Cal had everything he needed.
He had her.
And whatever tomorrow brought, they would face it.