Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
Alberto
For a moment, none of us move.
Ves is on her back beneath Callaway, flushed and open, her chest rising in uneven breaths.
Callaway is still inside her, his body braced over hers, his face buried at her throat like he needs the contact to stay upright.
And I’m behind him—still buried in his ass, thick and spent and pulsing with the last tremors of release—my weight draped over his back, my hands still gripping his hips like I’m the only thing holding him together.
It’s quiet now.
Not empty. Just . . . full.
Vesper’s fingers twitch, then curl weakly against Callaway’s bare back, her palm splayed like she can’t bear to let go. Her breathing slows, little by little, like her body is finally deciding it’s safe to rest between us.
I lean forward and press a kiss to the back of Callaway’s neck—slow, grounding, not urgent.
Then I reach around, finding one of Vesper’s hands where it rests limply against his side, and press my mouth to her knuckles.
Once. Twice. Featherlight kisses to the fingers that held him, touched him, welcomed both of us.
“Easy,” I murmur, not sure if I’m saying it to her or him. “I’ve got you.”
Callaway exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours—like those three words were a thread stitching him back together.
I shift first, careful not to pull away too fast. I ease my weight off his back, slipping free from his body with a drag that makes all three of us shudder. He stays where he is, still inside her, still curved protectively over her like if he lets go too quickly, something sacred might unravel.
I reach around him and brush Vesper’s hair back from her face.
Her eyes flutter open.
She smiles—slow, sleepy, wrecked. “Hi.”
God, she’s beautiful like this. Fucked out and glowing. Like we’ve pulled the stars down and tucked them under her skin.
“You okay, babe?” I ask, brushing damp hair from her face.
She nods, her eyes barely open. “I feel . . . floaty.”
Callaway presses a kiss to her cheek, his hand smoothing over her ribs. “Tell us if anything hurts.”
Her lips part like she might answer, but instead, she just exhales—content, trusting. Her legs twitch around his hips, still wide open, still clinging to the last of him inside her.
I press one more kiss to the crown of her head, then slip off the bed and head into the bathroom, body aching in the best way. I peel off the condom and toss it, wash my hands, and reach for a towel.
Then, I soak a washcloth under warm water, wring it out, grab another, and take a clean towel from the shelf. When I return, Callaway’s slowly easing out of her, his hands cradling her thighs like she might break if he moves too fast.
Her body shivers.
He kisses her chest as he pulls free, murmuring something I can’t hear, then collapses beside her, still touching her, still curled over her, like her skin is the only place he knows how to breathe.
I kneel at the edge of the bed.
“Let me clean you up, sweetheart,” I whisper.
She hums, soft and blissed, one hand finding Callaway’s and the other falling limp at her side in trust.
I press the warm cloth between her thighs—gently. Reverent. Slow circles to soothe first, not scrub. She whimpers, but not from pain—from sensation. Overworked nerves still sparking under every touch.
“Too much?” I ask, pausing.
“No,” she breathes. “Just . . . tender.”
“I know.” I kiss the inside of her knee. “We’ve got you.”
I clean between her legs, catching the mix of slick and come, wiping slow and careful while Callaway strokes her hair and whispers sweet nothings against her temple.
“You were perfect,” I murmur, lifting her calf to clean behind her knee. “Took us so beautifully. Let us worship you.”
She turns her head to look at me, barely, eyes glazed and soft. “I love you.”
My breath catches. So does Cally’s.
I lean in and kiss her—slow, lingering. First her lips. Then her cheek. Her temple. The slope of her jaw. I trail kisses down her throat, across her collarbone, over the soft center of her chest.
Then I lower myself, kissing the bare skin just above her navel—soft and warm beneath my mouth. I don’t linger like it’s mine to claim. I just offer what I can. A thank you. A promise. A quiet act of devotion to the woman carrying more than just our love.
“Thank you,” I whisper, mouth brushing her skin. “For all of this. For letting us love you.”
Her hand finds my hair, loose and lazy. Her thumb traces my scalp once before slipping away again.
I move gently—careful not to disturb her further—as I help guide her arms through the sleeves of one of my shirts. Soft cotton slides over her skin, swallowing her frame. She doesn’t resist, just exhales, pliant and trusting.
Callaway’s already moving, instinctively. He kneels beside me, lifts one of her legs, then the other, and together we slip a clean pair of his boxers up her thighs. Her hips shift, barely, just enough to let us dress her, her limbs loose with sleep.
She hums, small and content, curling slightly into the warmth we’ve wrapped her in.
She’s already falling. Already fading into that soft place only she knows how to reach—where safety lives, where love lingers even in sleep.
I switch clothes and clean her again, whispering praise with every pass—how good she was, how soft, how strong, how perfect.
She’s asleep before either of us speaks again.
I look over at Callaway.
His fingers are still tangled in her hair. His chest is rising, too fast. His eyes are on her, but I know he feels me watching.