Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Callaway
I’ve played in front of fifty thousand people who want my blood if I miss a shot.
I’ve sat in rooms with men in suits who talk like they’re buying your life in quarterly increments. I’ve smiled through press conferences while my knee bounced so hard it could’ve drilled through the floor.
None of that prepared me for a small exam room with blue walls, a humming machine in the corner, and Vesper Ana?s Lafontaine on an exam table in what can only be described as a paper napkin pretending to be clothing.
She looks furious.
Not at me or Monty—at the universe, at biology, at the fact that this is happening to her body without a vote.
Her chin is lifted like she can intimidate the ultrasound machine into behaving.
Her cheeks are flushed. Her hands are tense where they rest on top of the paper sheet, fingers clenched like she’s holding herself together by force.
Vesper’s eyes go glossy as the heartbeat fills the room.
We’re next to her—both of us. Monty’s fingers linger near hers, close enough to touch but not quite, enough that I notice. He stays there, solid and reassuring. Almost as if he’s saying, Yes. I’m here. We’ve got you.
He doesn’t look away from the screen. He studies it like he’s memorizing the curve of that tiny life, storing it somewhere permanent. Like it already belongs to him in the way that matters.
And it fucking undoes me.
Because I’m the guy who fixes things with money and charm. I’m the one who learned early that control passes for love if you say the right things with a smile. I’ve always believed that problems fold if you apply enough pressure.
But this isn’t something to fix.
This is a life.
We still don’t know how this works—how three people become something more than just a painful memory. We don’t know if we’re brave enough to try.
Vesper lets out a breath that wobbles. Her chin trembles, and I see her fight it. She hates crying. Hates losing composure. She tries to joke it away—
But her tears spill anyway.
Fuck.
I press a kiss to her temple, then Monty leans in and presses his forehead to hers, careful and reverent. He rests there for a heartbeat, like he needs to feel her.
I want to do the same.
I slide my hand to her cheek, thumb catching the tear before it can fall. It feels sacred, that small act. Like touching something meant to be protected.
“Hey,” I murmur, and my voice cracks around the sound. “You’re okay.”
She gives a wet, irritated laugh. “Am I?”
“Yeah,” I say, because sometimes certainty is built by saying it out loud. “You are.”
Jane moves the wand again—and that’s when my brain betrays me completely.
I should be benched for life.
No—locked somewhere far away from decent people.
Because Vesper is on that table, legs open, feet in stirrups, and my thoughts turn filthy in a way that feels wrong and overwhelming and impossible to stop.
I should not be thinking about her like this. Not here. Not now. Not ever.
But when the wand slides inside her, my body reacts without asking permission. Something low and demanding coils in my gut. Possessive. Wanting. My pulse roars so loud I miss half of what the doctor says.
I see it—how she opens, how her body responds, how she flexes around it.
And fuck.
I shouldn’t imagine replacing it. Shouldn’t picture my fingers instead, pushing in slowly, learning her again. Shouldn’t picture my cock sliding inside her, watching her gasp, watching her give in.
My hands curl tight at my sides, nails biting into skin as I try to stay still.
She’s going to be a mother. That should stop this. It should snap me back into place.
But . . . it doesn’t.
All I can think about is wanting her. Wanting to take care of her. Wanting to make her remember exactly who wants her most.
I hate myself for it.
When Jane cleans the wand, all I can think is Lucky bastard.
“I’ll step out so you can get dressed,” she says.
I stand too fast. “I’ll go too.” My voice comes out thin, needy.
Monty studies me, then kisses Vesper’s forehead. “I’m going with him,” he says. “In case he does something . . . very . . .Cally.”
As we walk, he mutters, “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
He exhales. “You went from caring partner to horny menace in under a minute.”
“I’m offended,” I claim, which sounds very pitchy since I’m actually losing my footing here. “You’re mistaken.”
He shakes his head. “I know you well enough. What’s going on?”
I shouldn’t say it. But I do.
His jaw locks. A muscle jumps near his ear.
I lean in. Close enough that my mouth brushes the shell of his ear when I speak. “Wouldn’t you want to be it?” I murmur. “Your cock inside her. Feeling her open. Hearing her lose it.”
“Cally.” My name cuts sharp. A warning. A plea.
“I wouldn’t mind being there,” I whisper, letting the want spill instead of fighting it, “slow, deep—letting her take me while you press in behind me. Your thick cock filling me while I make her come apart. All of us wrecked. All of us forgetting how to stop.”
His breath catches. I feel it. Hear it. He turns his face away like that’ll save him.
“You’re fucking insane,” he mutters.
“Maybe,” I say softly. “Or maybe I’m just desperate.” I swallow. “I haven’t been fucked in so long I can’t think straight anymore.”
My eyes drop before I can stop them. His jeans are pulled tight. Hard enough to leave nothing to the imagination.
It nearly undoes me.
“Thought maybe,” I add, voice rough now, “you’d get it.”
Silence stretches between us, charged and unbearable.
He doesn’t answer.
But he doesn’t step back either.
Doesn’t tell me to shut up. Doesn’t tell me to leave.
I lean in closer, breath brushing his jaw. “Tell me you don’t want it,” I murmur. “Tell me you’re not thinking about her naked, legs open in those stirrups, pussy slick and waiting for you.”
His eyes shut. His jaw clenches. A breath leaves him slow—but not calm.
“You are, aren’t you?” I press, voice low and rough, meant only for him. “You could be inside her—so deep she cries—and I could be buried in you. Fucking you while you fuck her. Feeling every sound she makes through your body.”
His breath hitches. I see his fingers twitch, the way he bites down on restraint like it hurts. I’m so close, I feel the heat of him, the tension pulling taut between us.
“Or . . . I could ride her fingers first,” I say, tongue grazing my lip as I picture it. “Then get her ready. Let her come once, soft and slow. And then I’d lie back for you. Let you push into me. Deep. Stretch me while she watches.”
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.
“You could fuck me while I watch her fall apart. You could fuck me while I beg for it. While she begs for you. And when you come”—I pause, breath catching—“you’d still be so hard you’d take her next. No hesitation. Still wet, still open. And I’d get to see both of you lose control.”
He exhales through his nose like he’s trying to reset his entire body.
“I haven’t been touched in a long time,” I whisper. “And ever since we went on the road, I think about what it would feel like to beg—” I pause, “But now that she’s close . . . maybe I can let you take me rough and deep while I make her scream.”
“Stop,” he rasps, but it’s wrecked. His pupils are blown wide. His hand drags through his hair like it burns.
“You don’t want me to stop.”
He doesn’t say anything.
Doesn’t have to.
His silence answers for him. So does the way he’s still standing here, breathing like he’s trying not to come undone.
“You want me to figure out a way to make this happen, don’t you, babe?” I murmur, leaning in close, letting my breath hit his ear as I nuzzle just behind it. “Say the word, and I’ll take care of you.”
I let the words curl low and dirty, soft enough to feel like a promise.
“You need a release? I’ll drop to my knees. Suck you slow in the shower, or a hotel room while we’re on the road or . . . anywhere you need to. We can keep that going until she’s ready for us.”
He flinches. Like he wants to believe it. Like he does believe it, and that’s what terrifies him.
“We’re not playing with her,” he snaps, voice a low warning.
“I would never play with Ves,” I say—quiet now. Serious. The hunger’s still there, but I rein it in, shift my tone.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me right when I told you we’re about to become a family. But we are. All of us. I don’t know how the fuck you and I fix what’s between us, but for her? We have to. We hurt her enough making her choose between us. That’s done. This is going to be different.”
He looks away. But he’s listening. I can feel it.
“You either figure your shit out, or you let her be happy without dragging her through it again. But you don’t get to stand in the doorway forever, blocking what she needs.”
“So it’s still about choosing,” he mutters. “It’s always choosing.”
“Yes,” I say. “You choose her. And whatever she needs. Or you walk away.”
His eyes lift. “What do you choose?”
“Me?” I grin, but it’s softer now. Raw. “I plan to fight for who I love.”
And just like that, the door behind us opens.
Vesper walks out with her ultrasound pictures and that tired smile she gives when she’s trying not to cry—again. She looks at both of us like she’s still waiting for the punchline to this whole damn thing.
I don’t say anything. I just walk to the desk and pay. Apparently her insurance is shit. Doesn’t cover maternity. So yeah, I pay. No questions asked. Because that’s what you do when you love someone.
Even if you’re still figuring out how to deserve them. Even when the other person you love rejects you and is a grumpy asshole who would rather die alone than let people love him.