Chapter 13
Thirteen
Callan
Iwitnessed her disintegration.
At first, she tried to stay quiet as her shoulders shook. Her fingers pressed hard against her eyes, as if she could physically force it all back down if she pushed hard enough.
They came anyway, slow at first. Tears, and her breathing kept catching, hitching.
A sound escaped her—small and involuntary—her breath came in jagged, uneven pulls, each one shorter than the last.
I sat there; every instinct I had told me to stay where I was, keep my distance. Let her have her space; that’s what made sense.
But watching her like this—
Small and alone on that couch, folding in on herself like she might disappear—something inside me gave.
I stood before thinking about it.
She didn’t seem to notice, too far inside it already. Her face buried in her hands, her knees drawn up, her whole body curling inward, and then I did the one thing I’d spent years refusing to do.
I touched her.
I slipped one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back, and I lifted her gently, pulling her into me as I sat down on the couch with her in my lap.
She gasped as she grabbed onto my shirt instinctively, fisting the fabric.
“Callan—”
“Shhh,” I murmured.
I settled her against my chest, one arm around her shoulders, the other resting at her waist. Steady. Secure. Not going anywhere.
Her body was rigid at first, as if she didn’t understand what was happening, as if she was waiting for me to pull away or explain or take it back.
I didn’t.
All at once she collapsed into me, her face pressed into the space between my neck and shoulder.
Her fingers curled tighter into my shirt.
Her whole body shuddered against mine, crying—hard, ugly, the kind of grief that comes from somewhere deep and doesn’t care what it looks like to the outside world.
“Cry,” I said quietly. “Grieve. Let it out.”
It came out rougher than I meant it to.
But I meant it all the same.
Her sobs shook through both of us, her tears soaking through my collar, her breath ragged and uneven against my skin. Every few seconds her body would tense, like she was trying to pull herself together, and another wave would hit and she’d break apart again.
I held her tighter; it was torture.
Because she fit. She fit against me in a way that I had no right to notice but couldn’t ignore. Her head tucked beneath my chin, hand flat against my chest, the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her shirt where my arm rested at her waist.
She trusted me. Right now she trusted me, and that was the part that hit the hardest. Not the closeness, but the trust. She had placed herself in my hands, she was letting me see her at her worst because she believed I wouldn’t use it against her.
Me.
The man who had given her every reason to believe the exact opposite. The truth—the thing I had buried for years under criticism and distance and carefully maintained hostility—was simple and terrible but undeniable.
I hadn’t pushed her away because I didn’t care, but because I cared too much.
Every time she walked into a room, I noticed.
Every time she argued with me, stood her ground, refused to back down, I admired it.
Every time she looked at me with frustration, or anger, or quiet hurt, I wondered what it would be like if she looked at me without any of that and simply looked at me as a man.
I’d kept her at arm’s length because the alternative terrified me.
And now she was here.
In my arms, the world outside more than likely gone.
I rested my chin against the top of her head and closed my eyes.
I was already losing the fight to pretend I didn’t want this.
* * *
I sensed the exact moment the grief released its grip on her. Not gone, but simply spent. Her sobs quieted into slow, exhausted breaths that came warm and uneven against my throat.
She didn’t pull away.
Her fingers were still tangled in my shirt, but the desperation had faded. The grip had changed, softer now. One fingertip traced along the edge of a button, slow, absent.
My pulse kicked hard beneath her palm, and I should have said something. Should have set a line. Reminded both of us that this was comfort, nothing else, that she was grieving and exhausted and not thinking clearly, and I had no right to feel what I was feeling right now.
Instead, my hand shifted at her waist, enough that my thumb found the narrow strip of bare skin where her shirt had ridden up.
Warm. Soft. Real.
She sucked in a small breath.
We both froze, almost afraid to move; then she did.
A slight shift of her hips. Tentative, but deliberate. Enough to settle herself more fully against me, so that the soft, warm center of her pressed down against a hardness I could no longer pretend away.
I exhaled through my nose. My jaw locked.
“Sloane.”
My voice came out low. Wrecked. Nothing like the way I usually said her name.
She lifted her head slowly.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, lashes still wet, her face swollen from crying. But they were clear now, focused entirely on me.
She didn’t speak, merely looked at me.
And whatever she saw there—whatever she read in my face that I’d spent so long masking—made her eyes widen.
Her hand slid up from my chest, along the side of my neck. Her fingers were cool against my skin, which seemed like it was burning from the inside out. Her thumb traced the edge of my jaw, her fingers grazing my stubble.
I caught her wrist, holding her still.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” I said.
Her lips parted. Wet, her tongue darted out as if nervous.
“I think I do.”
I searched her face; grief was still there—raw, open. But underneath it was something else, something I recognized because I’d been pushing it down for years.
Need, hot and persistent desire.
I let go of her wrist.
Her hand continued up into my hair. Her fingers curled and tugged lightly.
A groan pulled out of me, low and involuntary, from somewhere deep in my chest.
That sound broke something in her; she leaned forward and kissed me.
Her teeth sank into my bottom lip—sharp enough to draw blood—and something feral loosened in my chest. A growl, low and guttural, poured straight into her mouth.
I fisted her hair and pulled back. Hard. Her throat arched, exposed, vulnerable, and I crushed my mouth to hers—deeper, meaner, taking everything she offered and demanding more. Salt and grief and raw, desperate need bled between our tongues.
My fingers raked down her back, dragging her body flush against mine with bruising force. Every inch of her pressed to every inch of me, and it still wasn’t close enough.
She bit me again. Harder.
I kissed her back like I’d been dying for it.
Deep. Thorough, my tongue sliding against hers in slow, deliberate strokes that made her whimper into my mouth.
She shifted, swinging one leg over to straddle my lap, thighs clamping tight around my hips as she settled down onto me.
My tongue slid against hers, each warm, wet drag pulling a broken whimper from her throat straight into my mouth.
I gripped her hip hard enough to bruise, fingers digging in, pulling her down and grinding her clothing-covered cunt along the full, throbbing length of my cock—every rigid inch—so she knew exactly how badly I wanted to ruin her.
She rocked once—desperate, needy—and I growled against her lips, teeth catching the swollen flesh as the heat between us turned feral.
I broke the kiss, breathing hard, my forehead resting against hers.
“Tell me to stop.”
She shook her head, her eyes glassy with arousal, dark; her lips swollen.
“Don’t.”
I searched her face one last time for doubt, for hesitation, any sign that this was grief talking and not her.
All I found was her, looking back at me. Waiting. Wanting.
I flipped us.
Her back hit the couch; she let out a soft gasp, her hair spreading across the cushion. I came down over her, bracing on one forearm beside her head, my other hand sliding beneath her shirt and spreading flat across the warm, bare skin of her stomach.
Her breath caught as I held her gaze; my hand moved higher, slow and deliberate, giving her time to stop me.
My thumb grazed the underside of her breast, then higher—over the stiff peak of her nipple through thin fabric.
I pressed hard, circled with deliberate pressure, pinching and rolling the swollen bud until it throbbed under my touch.
Her breath hitched sharply, hips jerking involuntarily against my cock.
She arched into my hand with a broken, needy moan that shot straight through me, my cock twitching hard against her cunt.
I pressed my open mouth to the side of her throat—hot, wet, sucking hard enough to leave marks as my teeth scraped over her racing pulse.
I shoved her shirt up. Pale skin. Black lace.
I pulled the cups of her bra down; her large breasts spilled free.
The contrast of skin and lace alone nearly undid me.
I dragged my lips and tongue down her neck and slid down her chest, mouth open, greedy.
Tasting salt and heat as I focused on her stiff nipple, closed my mouth over her, and sucked hard—wet, greedy, pulling the stiff peak deep between my lips while my tongue lashed it relentlessly. I continued until she cried out, sharp and broken, the swollen bud throbbing against my tongue.
I moved my attention to the other, giving it the same brutal treatment—sucking deep and rough, teeth grazing the sensitive peak before I bit down just enough to make her gasp, then soothed it with slow circles of my tongue.
Her nipples were tight, glistening, hypersensitive, and begging—every hard pull of my mouth sending jolts straight to her cunt while she writhed and bucked beneath me, hips lifting off the couch in frantic little thrusts she couldn’t control.
My hand slid down her stomach, fingers hooking under the waistband of her leggings before pushing lower—cupping her soaked cunt through thin fabric. Drenched, slick heat pulsing against my palm like her pussy was begging to be filled.
My cock throbbed against my zipper, leaking, and I clenched my jaw, eyes closing for a second—fighting the urge to rip everything off and bury myself balls-deep inside her.
I pressed the heel of my hand hard against her swollen clit, grinding down in slow, filthy circles, rubbing her through the soaked material until she coated my fingers. While I worked her cunt, I kissed my way back up—tongue sliding over slick, abused nipples—until I claimed her mouth again.
She kissed me back as if she’d die without it, desperate. Tongues fucking each other as she rocked her pussy harder against my grinding palm, whimpering into my mouth with every rough stroke over her throbbing clit.
I slipped my hand into the band of her panties. My fingers slid through slick, swollen folds—hot and drenched and so fucking ready that my vision blurred for a second.
I found her entrance and pushed one finger inside, slow, feeling her clench around me immediately, tight and pulsing, her body pulling me in.
“Callan—” Her voice broke.
I added a second finger, sliding them deep into her soaked cunt, curled them forward hard—finding that swollen, soft spot and pressing mercilessly.
Her hips bucked violently off the couch as a raw, guttural moan tore from her throat, loud and shameless, echoing through the room while her pussy clenched greedily around my fingers.
I fucked her with my hand in steady, deep strokes, pulling almost out before slamming back in, curling and rubbing that sensitive spot on every thrust until she coated my palm and dripped down my wrist. My thumb stayed relentless on her swollen clit, working it in tight, fast circles, feeling the throb and swell under the pressure as her inner walls fluttered and squeezed.
“Look at me,” I growled against her ear, voice rough with lust.
Her eyes fluttered open—wide, glassy, pupils glazed with arousal, tears still clinging to her lashes as she stared at me, lips parted on broken moans while her dripping cunt fucked itself desperately on my fingers.
“You’re going to come for me,” I said quietly, “right here, on my fingers, and I’m going to watch every fucking second of it.”
She whimpered, her walls clenched hard around my fingers.
I sped up, slightly harder, deeper.
Her thighs like a vise around my hand, trapping my fingers deep inside her spasming cunt. Her back arched violently off the couch—tits thrust up, wet nipples glistening—mouth falling open in silent, desperate shock. Every muscle rigid.
Then it broke.
A raw scream ripped out of her as she came hard.
Pussy convulsing around my fingers, milking them in rhythmic, greedy pulses while hot cum flooded my palm.
Her walls squeezed in endless waves, soaking everything, nails raking bloody lines down my arms. Her whole body shook—hips jerking, cunt gushing—riding the brutal orgasm like she was being fucked apart.
Broken moans spilling from her throat as if she’d never stop.
I worked her through it—slowing my fingers to lazy, deep strokes, gentling the pressure on her swollen clit so she could ride the long, rolling aftershocks.
Her cunt kept squeezing around me in sweet, lingering pulses until the tension finally melted from her body.
She collapsed boneless beneath me. Chest heaving, her skin flushed dark.
Eyes glassy and half-lidded with satisfaction.
I eased my fingers out of her pussy slowly. Deliberately. Allowing her to feel every inch release from her still-quivering walls.
I brought them to my mouth, and held her heavy-lidded gaze as I sucked them clean—slow, filthy laps of my tongue, savoring the thick sweet-salt taste of her cum. The raw feminine flavor that was purely hers. Her eyes darkened with fresh hunger as she watched, lips parted.
I leaned down and kissed her. Soft and slow at first, deeper, sliding my tongue into her mouth so she could taste herself on me, rich and obscene. Her breath hitched, and her body melted even further into mine.
“You’re safe,” I whispered against her lips. “I’ve got you.”
She shuddered once, her arms came around me, wrapping tight around me, and she pressed her face into my chest and held on like I was the last solid thing in the world.
I pulled her close. Tucked her against me. Pressed my lips to the top of her head.