Chapter 7 #2
I help him with the last few, and he pushes my shirt off my shoulders with something like reverence. Then he just... looks at me. Not the hungry, consuming look I've gotten from men before. Something softer. Like he's memorizing me.
"You're beautiful," he says, and it sounds like a revelation instead of a line.
"You're overdressed."
"Noted."
His shirt comes off, and I get a much better view than I did at the lake. No cold water, no squelching boots—just warm skin and muscle and the way he shivers when I run my hands down his chest. His dog tags hang between us, catching the dim light from the hallway.
"You're staring," he observes.
"I'm appreciating."
"Take your time."
I do. I trace the lines of him—the scar on his forearm, the freckle on his shoulder, the way his breath catches when my fingers find sensitive spots. He's patient, letting me explore, his hands gentle on my hips.
Then I reach for his belt, and patience apparently has limits.
We tumble onto the bed in a graceless tangle of limbs. My jeans get stuck on my ankle, and we have to stop so I can kick them off while Dean tries very hard not to laugh.
"Not a word," I warn him.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"You're laughing."
"I'm admiring your technique."
I throw a pillow at him. He catches it, tosses it aside, and pulls me on top of him.
"Hi," he says, grinning up at me.
"Hi yourself."
The humor fades as we look at each other. This is the moment—the one where we could still stop, still pretend this is just attraction and nothing more. His hands are warm on my thighs, his chest rising and falling beneath me, and the want in his eyes mirrors everything I'm feeling.
"Still sure?" he asks softly.
"Still sure."
He sits up, one arm wrapping around my waist, and kisses me again. Slower this time. Deeper. His free hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head so he can kiss down my neck, my collarbone, the spot that makes me gasp.
"Found it," he murmurs against my skin.
"Shut up."
"Make me."
I do.
What follows is a conversation without words.
His hands learn the geography of my body—what makes me arch into him, what makes me dig my nails into his shoulders, what makes me say his name like it's the only word I know.
I learn him too—the groan when I bite his earlobe, the shudder when I rock against him, the way he whispers my name like a prayer.
His dog tags get tangled in my hair that’s hanging down between us at one point, and we have to stop while he carefully untangles them, both of us laughing.
"Sorry," he says. "Occupational hazard."
"You could take them off."
"I could." He doesn't. Something about that feels significant, though I can't say why.
When we finally come together, I'm on top of him, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks I'll feel tomorrow. He fills me completely, and we both go still for a breath—just feeling, adjusting, learning this new geography.
"Okay?" His voice is rough, strained.
I rock my hips in answer, and his head falls back against the pillow with a groan that goes straight through me. He flips me back over onto my back.
We find a rhythm that's messy and urgent—too much wanting, too long waiting. I place my hands on his chest, feeling his heart pound under my palms, and he meets every movement with one of his own. The dog tags swing between us, cool metal against heated skin.
"God, Callie—" His fingers dig into the sheets, guiding himself into me, and the angle shifts just enough that I gasp.
"There," I breathe. "Right there."
He keeps that angle, that rhythm, watching my face like he's memorizing every reaction. One hand slides up my neck, tangles in my hair, eases down until our foreheads press together. Our breath mingles, eyes open, and there's nowhere to hide.
"You're so beautiful like this," he murmurs. "Look at you."
The words hit differently than any compliment I've gotten before. There's wonder in them. Reverence.
I kiss him—messy and desperate—and move faster. He matches me, thrust for thrust, until the tension coiling in my belly becomes unbearable.
"Dean—I'm—"
"I know. I've got you." His thumb finds the spot that makes me shatter, and everything goes white-hot and perfect.
"Callie," he breathes against my mouth, and my name has never sounded like that before—like prayer, like promise, like home.
He follows me over a moment later, hands fisting in my hair, my name a broken sound in his throat.
The first time is fast and desperate and leaves us both breathless, laughing at the ceiling while our hearts slow down.
"Well," Dean says.
"Well," I agree.
"That was—"
"Yeah."
"We should—"
"Definitely."
The second time is slower.
He starts at my collarbone, kissing his way down with a patience that makes me want to scream. His hands map every curve, every dip, memorizing the shape of me. When he reaches my breast, he takes his time—mouth and tongue and the edge of his teeth until I'm arching into him.
"You have freckles here," he murmurs against my ribs. "Never would have guessed."
"Fascinating discovery."
"I'm thorough." He proves it, kissing each one like it matters.
His mouth moves lower, and I thread my fingers through his hair, feeling the shift in his breathing as he settles between my thighs. When his tongue finds where I'm still sensitive from before, I nearly come off the bed.
"Too much?" he asks, looking up at me with those blue-gray eyes.
"Don't you dare stop."
He doesn't. He takes me apart slowly, methodically, learning exactly what makes me gasp and shake. When I'm close—so close I can barely breathe—he pulls back.
"Dean—"
"Not yet." He kisses the inside of my thigh. "I want to hear you say my name again when you come."
The promise in his voice makes my toes curl.
He builds me back up, slower this time, paying attention to every sound I make. When he adds his fingers, curling them just right while his mouth works, I shatter with his name on my lips.
I'm still catching my breath when I push him onto his back.
"My turn."
His eyes go dark. "You don't have to—"
"I want to." I straddle his thighs, running my hands over his chest, his abs, following the trail of muscle down. "Tell me what you like."
"Callie—" Whatever he was going to say dies when I wrap my hand around him.
I learn him the way he learned me—what makes his breath catch, what makes his hips lift, what makes him grip the sheets. When I take him in my mouth, he groans like I'm killing him.
"Fuck—yes, just like that." His hand finds my hair, not pushing, just holding on. "God, your mouth—"
I hum around him and he curses, head falling back.
"Look at me," I tell him, and when his eyes meet mine, I take him deeper.
"Callie, I'm—if you don't stop, I'm going to—"
I don't stop. I want this—want to feel him lose control, want to be the one making him fall apart. When he comes with a broken sound, my name tangled in curses and prayers, it feels like winning.
He pulls me up, kissing me like I'm oxygen, and rolls us so I'm beneath him.
"Again?" I ask, breathless.
"Again." He's already hard against my thigh. "Unless you're—"
I pull him down into a kiss that's all tongue and teeth and urgency. "Don't make me wait."
This time when he enters me, it's slow and deep, and we both make sounds that have no words. He sets a rhythm that's deliberately unhurried, pulling almost all the way out before pressing back in, hitting something inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyes.
"Tell me what you need," he murmurs against my neck.
"Faster."
"Like this?" He speeds up slightly, changing the angle.
"Yes—god, yes—"
"Louder. I want to hear you."
So I give him what he wants—every gasp, every moan, every word that falls apart into incoherence as he drives me higher. His control is fraying now, his movements less measured, and I dig my nails into his back, urging him on.
"Come for me," he growls against my ear. "Let me feel it."
The command in his voice sends me over, and I cry out his name as I come apart beneath him. He follows immediately, burying his face in my neck, my name the only word he knows.
I'm sprawled across his chest afterward, listening to his heart slow. His fingers trace circles on my shoulder—lazy, mindless, like he's not even thinking about it. Like this is already familiar.
The room is dark except for the moonlight through my curtains, and the only sound is our breathing and the distant hum of the refrigerator.
"So," he says.
"So."
"That happened."
"It did."
"Any regrets?"
I consider the question. The warmth of him beside me. The way my body still hums with satisfaction. The quiet intimacy of this moment, stripped of armor and pretense.
"No," I say. "You?"
"Only that I didn't fall into that lake sooner."
I laugh, and he pulls me closer.
"This changes things," he says quietly.
"I know."
"I'm not good at casual, Callie. I don't want to be something you regret."
"You're not." I prop myself up on one elbow, looking down at him. "I don't do this lightly. I don't do any of this lightly."
"I know." He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "That's why I'm telling you. Whatever this is, I'm in. All the way."
The words land somewhere deep in my chest. Scary and wonderful all at once.
"I'm in too," I hear myself say. "All the way."
He smiles—not the charming grin, not the performance, just real and warm and mine.
We talk in the dark. About nothing important and everything important. About his brothers and my parents and the dreams we had when we were young and stupid. About fears we don't usually admit and hopes we don't usually voice.
He tells me about the first time he flew solo—the terror and exhilaration, the moment he knew this was what he was meant to do. I tell him about my first surgery, the one that almost went wrong, the sleepless nights afterward wondering if I'd made the right choice.
"You did," he says. "You're brilliant at what you do."
"You've seen me examine one dog and consult on a kennel."
"And handle a chaotic Belgian Malinois invasion, and put up with my terrible flirting, and march across a bar like a woman on a mission." He kisses my forehead. "Brilliant."
I'm half-asleep when his phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Dean reaches for it, squinting at the screen. The glow illuminates his face, and I watch his expression shift—something tightening behind his eyes.
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah." He silences the phone and sets it back down. "Just a reminder."
"For what?"
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "Re-enlistment meeting. Thursday morning."
The words hang in the air between us. I know what that means. I know what decision is waiting for him. Sign the papers and ship out. Don't sign and... what?
"Dean—"
"Not tonight." He pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Tonight, I just want this."
I should ask about Monday. About re-enlistment and what happens after. About whether this is real or just two people scared of being alone.
But his heartbeat is steady under my ear, and his hand is warm on my back, and for once I don't want to think three steps ahead.
Next week can wait.