Chapter 22 #2
His breath faint at first—warm, unhurried—making my hips jerk as his hands slid under my thighs, lifting them slightly, opening me to him with patience that made my throat burn.
The first touch of his tongue came feather-light, a slow stroke from my entrance to my clit that pulled a soft gasp out of me before I could catch it, too soon after the shower.
But the heat burned low and fast anyway, my body responding despite the tenderness still lingering from before.
He hummed against me—a low, approving sound that vibrated through my core—and did it again, slower this time, savoring.
His tongue circled my clit with exquisite patience, just building the pressure in gentle, insistent laps that made my fingers twist in the sheets beneath me.
Tears pricked at my eyes unexpectedly—from the sweetness of it.
This wasn’t the rough dominance I craved normally.
This had him worshiping me in every stroke, pouring something careful and deliberate into every movement of his mouth.
He sucked my clit softly, rolling it with his tongue, and my back arched off the bed with a quiet moan.
He slipped a finger inside me—slowly, sliding it gently against that spot—while his mouth worked in perfect sync. The dual sensation spread through me like sweet fire, building in places I didn’t have names for, as I reached down instinctively, threading my fingers into his hair, holding on.
He glanced up again, eyes locking on mine through the haze, the connection spreading through me—raw, exposed. He watched me start to unravel, and the look on his face said he’d never seen anything better.
A second finger joined the first, thrusting lazily, deeply, while his tongue flicked faster, building intensity without losing tenderness, and my thighs trembled around his shoulders. My breath came in short, needy gasps.
The sweetness turned fiercer as my hips rocked against his mouth, the pressure building. He didn’t speed up—just somehow deepened everything: the suction, the pressure of his fingers, the steady gaze that pinned me in place and wouldn’t let me hide.
A sob escaped me.
“Callan… please…”
He pulled back just enough to whisper against my slick skin. “I’ve got you, baby. Let go for me.”
Then his mouth returned, sucking harder, tongue stroking my clit with that perfect, devastating rhythm.
The orgasm rolled through me like a slow, powerful tide—intense and shattering but wrapped in warmth. My body clenched around his fingers, waves of pleasure cresting and falling in endless pulses. Tears slipped down my cheeks as I cried out his name, trembling, fingers tightening in his hair.
He didn’t stop until the last tremor faded. His touches turned even softer, soothing strokes easing me down with the same care he’d used to take me apart. Then he kissed his way back up my body, gathering me into his arms, his lips brushing the tears from my face.
“You’re perfect,” he murmured into my hair.
Then he came over me, bracing his weight on his forearms so he didn’t crush me. His body covered mine: warm, solid, safe in a way that had nothing to do with walls or locked doors.
He kissed me again, deeper but still unhurried, his tongue slid against mine in lazy strokes that made heat pool low in my belly. His hand drifted down my side, tracing the curve of my body, the dip of my waist, learning me by touch alone.
When he pulled back to look at me, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“You’re beautiful, Sloane.”
I blinked up at him, throat tight. “Callan…”
He shook his head once. “Let me.”
He kissed my throat, the swell of my breasts, worshipfully. His mouth closed over my nipple—a soft, gentle swirl of his tongue—and I arched with a gasp. No pinching, no biting, only a slow, steady attention until I trembled beneath him.
His hand slid between us, fingers parting my folds, still slick from before, sensitive, and when he pushed one finger inside me, I whimpered. He added a second, stroking that spot with pressure so light I almost didn’t recognize the climb.
“Look at me,” he breathed.
I did, and his eyes stayed locked on mine—open, unguarded, vulnerable as I’d never seen him before, not once in six years.
He withdrew his fingers and lined himself up.
When he pushed inside, it wasn’t a thrust but more a glide until he was seated fully, hips flush to mine, our breath intertwined.
He stayed still for a long moment, allowing me to feel every part of him, the way he throbbed inside me as if his heartbeat had relocated there, and then he started to move.
Slow rolls of his hips. Every stroke dragging against all the sensitive places inside me without ever rushing, kissing me through it, swallowing my soft moans as if they belonged only to him.
One hand cradled the back of my head, as the other slipped between our bodies, thumb circling my clit in the same unhurried rhythm as his thrusts.
I didn’t recognize the sounds coming from me at first—small, broken whimpers. His name on every exhale. Tears gathered at the corners of my eyes again, how completely unlike anything we’d done before.
“Callan—” My voice cracked. “I don’t… I don’t understand…”
He kissed the tear that slipped free.
“You don’t have to.”
He rocked deeper, grinding against me in a way that made stars burst behind my eyelids.
“Come with me,” he whispered against my lips. “Let me have this.”
I shattered quietly.
A soft, trembling release that rolled through me in long, liquid waves as I clung to his shoulders and breathed his name like it meant everything.
He followed right after, burying himself as deep as he could go, pulsing inside me, warm and endless. He didn’t pull out, just lay there surrounding me, protecting me, breathing hard, and for long minutes, neither of us moved.
His hand stroked my hair, soft, endless touches that said more than words could.
When he finally eased out, he gathered me against his chest and turned us so I tucked under his arm, leg thrown over his hip, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.
I pressed my face into the crook of his neck—confused and wrecked and strangely, impossibly whole.
“Why like that?” I whispered.
He stayed quiet for so long that I thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then his lips brushed my temple.
“Because I’ve spent years pretending I didn’t want to make love to you,” he said, voice rough with something raw and unfinished. “I’m done pretending.”
He pulled the blanket over us, tucking it around my shoulders with a care that made my chest hurt.
“Sleep, Sloane,” he murmured.
“I’ve got you.”
I believed that meant more than just keeping me safe.