18. Cala
The knock on the door is so soft it’s almost not there—but since the house is completely silent and I’m reading, I hear it right away.
When I open it, Oliver’s standing there with his hands on his hips, posture slouched, eyes on the floor.
“Hey…” I whisper.
“I don’t even know why I’m here,” he says, avoiding eye contact.
“Do you want to come in?”
I keep my voice low; the last thing I want is anyone hearing him knocking on my door this late.
He nods and steps inside, looking around like he’s seeing the room for the first time.
“I never come in here,” he admits.
I can tell.
“It has a door,” I say, pointing at it—the only thing my brain manages to come up with.
He blinks, confused.
“My father’s house didn’t have doors,” I add. “This is… a big improvement.”
Oliver leans against the small desk, crossing his arms. His eyes find me with a kind of quiet pity that makes my skin crawl. I don’t want him to look at me like that.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he says softly. “Someone should.”
“Why doesn’t your family visit?” I ask, my voice gentle but persistent.
Oliver shrugs, his shoulders rising and falling as if the simple motion weighs him down. He doesn’t offer an answer, and the silence stretches between us.
“Have you ever invited them?” I press, hoping to understand the distance that seems to hang in the air.
“They know they’re welcome here,” he replies, a hint of defensiveness in his tone.
I meet his gaze, refusing to let the conversation slip away. “That’s not what I asked.”
His gaze cuts through me, sharp and uneasy, before he shakes his head slowly.
I smile, sitting down on the bed across from him.
“You could start by calling your brothers.”
“They’d think it’s boring. I don’t want them here out of obligation.”
“A kid could never get bored on a ranch,” I counter. “You’ve got a lake full of boats—they’d love it. I can help you plan everything, even though I still have no idea how to ride a horse.”
“I could teach you, if you’d like.”
Something flickers in his eyes—warmth, maybe even hope.
“I’d love that,” I say.
My heart aches for this man—wealthy, powerful, leading one of the biggest companies in Texas, and beautiful in a way that almost feels unfair.
Yet, all his success and outward perfection offer no protection from the turmoil he carries within.
Despite everything that sets him apart, none of it shields him from what’s eating him alive on the inside.
Oliver Walker is fighting demons—too many for any man to carry alone. It’s impossible to ignore the silent battle raging beneath his composed exterior; I can see every single struggle flickering behind those ocean-green eyes.
The truth is, the remnants of our past rarely disappear completely.
Instead, they linger, shifting and adapting, finding new ways to embed themselves in our lives.
The memories, regrets, and unresolved feelings morph over time, becoming part of the present in ways we may not always recognize.
They never truly leave us; rather, they take on different forms, influencing our actions and emotions long after the original events have faded.
I remember my grandma’s words: every soul is fighting a battle you can’t see.
Her advice echoes in my mind—she always said that if you come across someone who is still trying, no matter how small their effort, you owe them kindness.
It’s a gentle reminder that the struggles people face are often hidden beneath the surface, and sometimes, simply recognizing their effort is the most compassionate thing you can do.
That’s what Oliver’s doing now, trying.
His gaze stays locked on mine, and I wonder if he knows I’m studying him, trying to piece him together like a constellation.
I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I bury them between my thighs.
“I don’t want to,” he says finally, eyes dropping to the floor, “but we should talk about what happened today, I don’t want you to think that—”
“I’m not thinking anything,” I cut in softly. “I’m not exactly the best person to judge anyone, so you don’t owe me an explanation.”
“That’s the strange part,” he murmurs, scratching his jaw. “I think I want to explain, but I can’t find the words.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him. “Take your time.”
Oliver tries to smile, and I try to meet him halfway, but something shifts in his expression—a flicker of emotion, heavy and restless.
“I’m sorry I was an ass today,” he says, shaking his head like he’s scolding himself. “I’ve got things going on, personal things, and sometimes I take it out on people who don’t deserve it.”
I stand from the bed and walk toward him.
I’m barefoot, still in my pajamas. Oliver’s wearing a gray T-shirt and dark sweatpants, casual but impossibly magnetic.
When I reach him, I take his hands in mine.
“You can always talk to me, Oliver,” I whisper.
He studies our joined hands for a long time. I suddenly feel self-conscious about the roughness of my palms, the new calluses from the ranch work, the chipped nails painted in fading shades of pink and burgundy.
Then he looks up, eyes dark, conflicted.
“I want something from you, Cala,” he murmurs. “And I hate myself for wanting it this much.”
“Tell me,” I whisper back, my voice trembling between longing and fear.
He leans closer, his breath grazing my cheek. His next words are so soft I almost think I imagined them.
“Touch me,” he breathes. “I need your hands on me. I need to know how far I can go.”
My heart twists at the sight of him like this—tormented, avoiding my eyes, begging for a touch like a stray dog starved for affection.
“Where do you want my hands?” I ask softly.
Oliver shakes his head again, fighting something deep inside himself. His eyes stay fixed on our joined hands, his breathing rough and uneven.
“Everywhere,” he finally says.
Then his gaze lifts to mine, and before I can breathe, his mouth crashes into me.
I meet him with the same urgency, my hands sliding up to his neck, his finding my waist. He guides my touch over his shoulders, and under my fingertips I feel the strength coiled there—solid muscle, tension, heat.
A low sound rumbles from his chest, raw and human. It isn’t lust, not really—it’s need, stripped bare. The kind that comes from years of holding yourself together for too long.
So cautiously, I slide my hands under the hem of his T-shirt, brushing against his stomach.
He flinches as if I had thrown ice water on him.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes, keep going,” he urges through clenched teeth.
His stomach is hard and hairy, not much, but enough for me to like the rough, manly surface under my hands.
“Take it off,” I order, referring to his T-shirt.
He responds immediately, pulling it over his head and letting it fall to the floor of my bedroom.
Abs, defined pecs, and the V in his pelvis—I caress it all.
His eyes carefully follow the movement of my hands, but I watch him and gauge my progress based on his reaction.
The worst part is near his member; that’s where he tenses up the most, but when I touch his abs, that’s when he relaxes the most.
Oliver rests his forehead on mine and, with his eyes closed, searches for my mouth. My senses focus solely on his lips and how they feel on mine, demanding, strong, thirsty...
His hands blindly search for my pajamas, trying to rip them off my body, and he succeeds, leaving my bra exposed.
Any man would immediately focus on my breasts, but not Oliver. His eyes are fixed on the large tattoo on my left arm.
One that I kept hidden all this time.
A constellation — tiny stars scattered from my shoulder down to my elbow, with a crescent moon resting peacefully at its center.
His fingertips trace it with quiet fascination, following each star like he’s memorizing a map.
“My night sky,” he murmurs, almost to himself. There’s confusion in his eyes, but not the harsh kind I’ve seen before. It’s softer, like wonder.
“I got it years ago,” I whisper, not sure why I’m explaining something he hasn’t asked. “When my grandma passed away, I wanted… a way to keep her close.”
Oliver’s fingers linger over the moon, his touch so gentle it barely feels real. Then he leans in, pressing his lips to my skin—slowly, reverently—up my neck, to the curve of my jaw.
“Bed,” he murmurs against my lips. His steps guide me backward until the mattress catches my knees and I fall softly onto it.
Oliver follows, bracing himself above me, his body hovering close enough for our skin to brush, to breathe the same air.
“Your skin…” he whispers, his nose grazing the hollow between my collarbones, “it fascinates me.”
I can’t help the smile that spreads on my lips. There’s something breathtaking about hearing that kind of awe in his voice—raw, unguarded. I’ve never had a man touch me like this, not out of hunger, but reverence.
For a long while, words disappear. All that’s left are slow, tender movements, his breath against my neck, my hands tracing the lines of his shoulders, the sound of our hearts trying to find the same rhythm.
The heat between my legs is unbearable, I feel soaked, and my body leans into his touch.
“I want to eat you out,” he whispers, moving down my stomach, “until you scream my name.”
I smile and bury my fingertips in his hair, which is soft to the touch.
“Do you want my father to hear us?”
“At this point, that’s the least of my concerns,” he says between my legs, “and besides, we can agree that mentioning your father when I’m about to feast between your legs isn’t the best idea, right?”
I laugh out loud at the same moment that he buries his mouth in me, and suddenly I find myself gasping for breath.
Oliver kisses me down there with the same passion he kisses my lips. The same dynamic, the same speed and fervor.
His hands grip my waist, pinning me to the bed while I caress his shoulders and neck.
The ball of energy I feel at the base of my stomach grows stronger and stronger until it finally explodes, my orgasm reaching its peak as I scream Oliver’s name.
He increases his speed and thrusts his tongue deeper as my orgasm spreads throughout my body like a nuclear shockwave.
“I told you you’d end up saying my name,” he murmurs, voice low and smug.
Oliver stretches out beside me, still catching his breath, and takes my left hand, resting it over his stomach. His skin is warm, solid—a quiet contrast to the chaos still humming inside me.
“What was your life like before you came here?” he asks.
I think for a moment before answering, because now that I’m here, everything about my old life feels… small.
Ordinary.
“I worked for the local newspaper in Waco,” I say. “Interviewed shop owners, covered community events. At night I was working on my post-grad in digital journalism.”
Oliver’s voice is soft, thoughtful. “Do you miss it?”
I pause, considering the question, then shake my head gently.
“Honestly? Not really. Life back then feels dull compared to this place—your animals, your land… this quiet.” A faint smile touches my lips as I glance at him.
“I don’t know how you leave for the city every week.
Feels like my city-girl days are long gone. ”
Oliver chuckles softly, a breath more than a laugh.
“I try not to think about it. I do my job, deal with my employees and get back here as fast as I can.”
“I get that,” I whisper. “I don’t think I’ve ever woken up actually excited to start a day before this.”
He hooks our fingers together, and for a while, the silence between us feels warm instead of awkward. My body is still aware of his nearness, his quiet steadiness—but somewhere deep inside, a small voice whispers a warning.
We’re crossing into something dangerous now, something real.