Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
Ilet out a startled sound that turns into a laugh halfway through, my hands instinctively bracing against his chest as water drips from my hair onto his shirt, onto the floor, onto everything.
“Caleb—”
“Sorry,” he says immediately, but he doesn’t let go. Not even a little.
“You’re getting soaked,” I tell him, because that feels like a safe complaint. A manageable one. Something I can say without acknowledging the way my pulse just jumped into my throat.
“So are you.”
“That’s not the same thing and you know it.”
“I know it’s not the same thing, and that’s not what I meant.” He huffs out a quiet laugh, breath warm against my temple, but he still doesn’t step back. If anything, his hands settle more firmly at my waist, like he’s anchoring himself there.
Or anchoring me.
“You were going to glare at me,” he says. “I got distracted.”
I lean back just enough to look at him, my hands sliding from his chest to his shoulders. “You got distracted,” I repeat, not trusting myself to say anything else.
“Yeah.”
“By what, exactly?”
There’s a pause, and a long look that sears across my skin.
I’m half-surprised it doesn’t turn the water to steam where it hits.
His gaze comes back to my face — but something’s shifted in it.
Gone is the easy teasing, the lightness.
What’s left is quieter, heavier, and raw in a way that makes my stomach flip.
“Ivy,” he says, like that answers everything. “
It shouldn’t, but it absolutely does.
“Can I…”
“Please,” I beg, because if he doesn’t touch me, I’m going to explode.
“Are you sure? You feel okay?”
My jaw sets, and I feel a muscle in my temple twitch. “If you don’t finish what you’ve just started—”
His mouth meets the corners of mine, small, luxurious kisses that trail down my neck, my collarbone, until his lips meet the stiff peaks of my breasts.
“Oh,” I say, because apparently my vocabulary has left the building.
“Yeah,” he says again, softer now, then turns his attention to the other breast.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I need more.
The room is warm from the bath, the air heavy with steam, and I’m acutely aware of everything all at once — the damp chill on my skin, the heat of his hands, the way my heart is beating a little too fast for this to be anything but as good as it is.
“You’re still not giving me the towel,” I point out, because I need something to push against.
He glances toward the towel that’s dropped to the floor and back at me.
“Nope.”
I narrow my eyes. “Rude.”
“You could get it.”
“I could,” I agree. “But you’re standing between me and it.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
I huff out a quiet laugh, but it comes out softer than I mean it to. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Not enough,” he admits.
Silence draws out between us.
My hands are still on his shoulders. His are still at my waist. Close enough that I can feel the steady rise and fall of his breath, the way it stutters just slightly when I shift.
“Still testing?” I ask, tilting my head just a little.
His mouth curves, but it’s slower this time. Less teasing, more… something else.
“I’m starting to think we’ve gathered enough data,” he says.
“Oh?” I say lightly. “That’s unfortunate. I thought we were committed to a thorough process.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Me too.”
His thumb brushes along my nipple, just barely there, and the lightness evaporates immediately as I moan.
“So fucking perfect, Ivy. Everything about you.”
“Except my morning breath.”
“Except that,” he agrees, and then his tongue is on my nipple, teasing it, teeth scraping over the sensitive bud. “I think I can deal with that problem, though.”
“Caleb.” It’s quieter, needier. A plea
“I know, Ivy, ” he says again. “I have you.”
He doesn’t move away.
Instead, he lifts one hand, slow enough that I can track every inch of it, every second of it, until his fingers find their way into my damp hair, pushing it gently back from my face.
The touch is careful. Measured, like perfect music, like he’s giving me time, like he’s waiting for me to stop him.
I don’t.
I just stand there, heart racing, watching him like I’m standing on the edge of something and fully aware I’m about to step off.
“Still okay?” he asks.
There’s nothing casual about the question.
I swallow, then nod, then I reach between us, taking his hand off my breast and moving it lower, between my legs.
“Please,” I say, and this time my voice holds.
“Okay,” he says.
He kisses me, really kisses me, and means it. Not like before. Slow, and certain, and with a desire that tattoos itself across my skin. His fingers slide into my wetness, and I gasp into his mouth and feel him smile.
His hand tightens slightly in my hair as his mouth finds mine, and I melt into it without thinking, my fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulders, pulling him closer even though there’s no space left to close.
“So perfect and wet,” he murmurs, and then there’s teeth in the kiss, and my nails are scrabbling against his neck, his back. “I’ve had dreams about this Ivy. For years. About us.”
“Please,” I say again, and it’s half a sob. “You feel so good. I need more.”
“I’ve missed you,” he says quietly.
The words settle somewhere deep in my chest, heavier than they should be, and I reach for him without thinking, my fingers sliding into his hair this time, holding him there.
“I know,” I say softly. “I missed you too. So much, Caleb.”
Because whatever this is, it never really stopped.
He leans into my touch for a second, just a second, before pulling back enough to look at me again.
Really look.
There’s something searching in it. Something steady.
The space between us disappears again, slower this time, deeper, the moment stretching instead of snapping.
My hands slide down his shoulders, across his back, grounding myself in something solid as everything else shifts and softens and sharpens all at once.
I tug at his shirt, and he pulls it off, and it lands with a wet thwack inside the tub.
I trace the perfect curves of his stomach, his abs, and he shudders at my touch.
“Still just for science?” I whisper, because apparently I can’t stop myself from being an idiot.
He huffs out a quiet laugh against my mouth, warm and a little unsteady. “I think we’re well past that.”
“Good,” I say, breathless.
Because this doesn’t feel like practice. It feels like coming home.
And when he pulls me closer, skin to skin, my breasts against his chest, I go without hesitation, without doubt. Letting myself sink into the warmth of him, into the steady certainty of his hands. Into the slow, unhurried way he takes his time like there’s nowhere else we need to be.
And when he pulls me back against him, pressing a soft kiss to my shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world, I let myself lean into it.
His arms go around me, and I fumble with the button of his pants as he huffs a laugh into my hair and lifts me against him, carrying me into the bedroom.
I land on the soft covers of his bed as he turns and closes the bedroom door, locking Gunner out.
I can’t look away from him, don’t want to, as he unbuttons his pants. I drink in every perfect, muscled inch of him, reveling in how perfect and strange this moment is all at once.
“Ivy,” he says, his adam’s apple bobbing as he stares at me. “I want this to be—”
“I need you right now,” I say through gritted teeth. “We can do slow and perfect next time, but I need you now. No more teasing or experiments. I want you.”
“Good,” he says, stalking towards me. “I don’t think I can be patient or slow right now.”
And he’s not.
We’re two forces of nature colliding, he’s not gentle and neither am I. It’s wild and fast and it feels like nothing in this world has ever felt.
And when were spent, lying next to each other, limbs tangled up and sweaty, I know nothing else will ever feel like it again.
Unless it’s with him.
He lifts my hand, pressing a kiss to the knuckles. “You think we could go slower now?”
I shrug a shoulder, out of breath. “Maybe. Worth a try.”
“Not for science,” he says.
“For us,” I tell him, and I roll onto his chest and kiss him until time stops meaning anything at all.