Chapter 51
Chapter Fifty-One
Alberto
The suite smells like cedar and aftershave and victory.
Cally’s already inside when I shut the door behind me, my back to the quiet click of it latching. He tosses his bag on the armchair, then turns to me. Slowly. Like a man who knows he’s about to ruin something—or maybe fix it.
His jacket’s already undone. The sleeves hang off his broad shoulders like the aftermath of a fight. The collar of his dress shirt is wrinkled, open, the top button undone like it couldn’t handle the press of him tonight.
Neither could I.
My body is thrumming. Tense from the game. From the adrenaline. From the press conference. From the kiss in the locker room that still feels like it’s printed across my mouth in bold, black ink.
I watch as he reaches up to loosen his tie. One slow tug. It slides through the collar with a soft hiss. I swallow.
“You good?” he asks.
I nod. Lie. My pulse is sprinting. My skin’s too tight. My heart’s trying to beat out every word I haven’t said. But I nod anyway.
Cally’s eyes drag over me, jaw tightening.
He walks toward me—not fast, not slow—with that captain’s focus like he’s reading my play before I even make it.
And still I can’t move.
He stops right in front of me. Close enough that I can smell his cologne under the sweat. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off him.
“You were amazing tonight,” I whisper, and my voice already breaks. “You didn’t just come out. You came home.”
Cally exhales, nose brushing mine. “Say that again.”
I lean in. “You’re mine. And I want to go home with you.”
His kiss this time is softer—gentler than the one in the locker room—but there’s nothing calm about the way his hands grab the lapels of my jacket and back me toward the bed.
When the backs of my knees hit the edge of the mattress, I reach between us and start unfastening the buttons on his shirt, one by one, careful and reverent. He does the same with mine. Stripping away the public armor. The layers we wear for the world.
I drop his shirt to the floor.
He shrugs out of it like he’s shedding something he doesn’t need anymore.
Then it’s just us.
I’m standing in front of him in nothing but my slacks, chest rising and falling too fast, nerves skittering under my skin like I’m still waiting for a whistle. His fingers hook into my belt loops, tugging me closer until my hips brush his.
“Still with me?” he asks.
I nod, though my throat feels tight. I don’t trust my voice yet.
Cally releases me and turns to his bag, unzipping it with a practiced motion that tells me he’s thought about this. Planned for it. He pulls out a small pouch and tosses it onto the bed. Condoms. A bottle of lube that gleams under the lamplight.
The sight of it makes my pulse spike.
“Do we have to use condoms?” I ask.
The question slips out quieter than everything else I’ve said tonight, almost tentative, like I’m bracing for him to pull back instead of leaning in.
Cally stills in front of me.
Not stiff. Not alarmed. Just . . . attentive.
He searches my face, his thumb brushing slow along my hip like he’s anchoring us here, now. “Talk to me,” he says.
“We’re clear,” I answer immediately. “Both of us. Tested. Regularly.”
My voice doesn’t shake. My body does.
“We don’t use them with Vesper,” I add, softer now. Honest in the way that feels like peeling skin back. “Do we have to . . . between us?”
Cally’s eyes don’t leave my face. Not for a second. His hands stay warm on my hips, thumbs brushing small, grounding arcs like he’s holding me here on purpose.
“You’re asking me if I need one,” he says quietly.
I nod. Swallow hard. Force myself to stay open. “I want you. Just you. I want to feel you inside me. Nothing between us.”
The words settle in my body like truth.
Cally exhales slow. Controlled. His jaw tightens, but his grip doesn’t change—doesn’t pull away.
“I’m clear too,” he says. “You know that.”
“I do.”
“If we do this without,” he continues, voice low, intent, “it’s because you want it. Not because you think you owe me.”
I shake my head immediately. Step closer. Press myself into him so he can feel exactly how much I want this. How hard I am. How exposed.
“I want it,” I say. “Fuck, I want it so hard.”
There’s more. It presses against my ribs, demanding air. Demanding honesty.
I close my eyes for half a second, then open them again.
“I like knowing you’re inside me,” I admit. “Not just fucking me—filling me.” My voice drops, rough with want. “It does something to me. Knowing you’re there. Knowing you finish in me.”
Cally’s breath stutters.
His hands flex at my hips.
“I think about it,” I continue, words tumbling now, desperate and real. “About feeling you deep. About holding you there. About carrying you like that.” I swallow again, pulse racing. “I want your cum inside me, Cally. I want to feel it. I want you to give it to me.”
Silence.
Cally’s eyes go dark in a way that makes my stomach flip. He leans in, forehead touching mine, his voice dropping to something rough and reverent.
“You want me to fill you,” he says.
“Yes, fuck yes, please.”
“You want to feel it,” he presses. “Feel me inside you after?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Please.”
His mouth crashes into mine—hungry, claiming, like he’s finally stopped holding himself back. The kiss is deep and consuming, his tongue demanding, his teeth grazing my lip like a promise.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine again.
“You have no idea how hard that is to hear,” he murmurs. “You begging me like that.”
“I’ll beg more,” I say. “If you want.”
A low sound leaves his chest—half laugh, half groan.
“Careful,” he warns. “I might not stop once you start.”
“I don’t want you to.”
That’s all it takes.
He exhales, slow and controlled, like he’s bracing himself. Then his hands are on me again, undoing my belt, dragging the zipper down with maddening calm.
“Then let me,” he murmurs.
He pulls my slacks down my hips, takes my boxer briefs with them, stripping me bare in one smooth motion. I shiver as the air hits my skin, exposed and buzzing. His gaze drops, lingers, burns.
“Fuck,” he says softly. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
Then he kneels.
The sight of Callaway Winthrop on his knees in front of me—broad shoulders flexing, eyes dark and hungry—hits me harder than any check I’ve ever taken. My hands fist at my sides as he reaches for the lube, coats his palm without breaking eye contact.
He squeezes it onto his fingers slowly, deliberately, then wraps his hand around me.
I gasp.
“Look at you,” he says. “Already shaking.”
He strokes me once, twice, just enough to make my knees threaten to buckle. Then his mouth closes around me, hot and deep and skilled, taking me in like he knows exactly how much I can handle. His tongue drags along the underside, slow and sinful, his hand moving in perfect rhythm.
I groan, hips jerking forward before I can stop myself.
“Easy,” he murmurs, voice vibrating against me. “I’ve got you.”
His mouth doesn’t stop when his other hand slides lower.
Slick fingers press against me—testing, teasing—spreading me open with patient confidence that makes me feel seen. Worshipped. Owned.
I curse, one hand grabbing the back of his head, threading into his thick hair, holding him there like I might fall apart without him tethered to me. My whole body lights up as he works me open, his tongue still working my cock like it’s a prayer and a threat.
“You’re doing so fucking good, babe,” he murmurs, his voice raspy and reverent, wet against my skin. “So open for me. Taking my fingers like this—like you want my cock to feed your hole.”
Fuck.
The words hit me like a punch behind the ribs.
He pushes in deeper, another finger stretching me wide, slow and unforgiving. I moan, breath stuttering, thighs trembling as the pressure builds in the best possible way.
“You’re already clenching,” he whispers. “Desperate for it, aren’t you?”
I nod, panting. “Yes—Cally, fuck—yes.”
“Yeah?” His fingers curl up inside me, pressing right against my prostate. I moan and grip the sheets like they’re the only thing holding me together. “You want me to fill you up? Want me to get in deep and stay there, pumping you full until your body knows who owns it?”
I gasp, broken open, wrecked by the way he talks to me—like my desire is sacred and filthy all at once.
“Please,” I choke out. “Fuck, stop teasing. I want it. I want you to fill me. Want your cum in me, want it leaking out after, want to feel it when I walk.”
His groan vibrates against my cock. He pulls back just enough to drag his tongue along the length of me, eyes flicking up—blown wide, hot, and fucking hungry.
“You’re perfect like this. Letting me have you. Letting me ruin this perfect fucking hole, like it’s mine.”
Another stretch of his fingers and I swear I might come just from that.
His mouth keeps going—lips slick, jaw moving like he’s starving for the taste of me—as if he needs this just as badly as I do. He pulls me back in deep, sucks with pressure that makes my knees nearly give.
And he watches me while he does it.
Eyes locked on mine, reading every twitch, every broken gasp, like he’s cataloging what wrecks me the most so he can do it again. And again.
And again.
“Cally, baby,” I breathe. “Please.”
He looks up at me, lips slick, eyes blazing with hunger and something softer underneath.
“Tell me what you want.”
“I want you inside me,” I say, voice breaking. “I want you to fuck me. Please.”
His jaw tightens. His grip firms.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.”
He stands, hands strong on my hips, guiding me back toward the bed like he’s already claimed me.
And maybe he has.
His grip shifts—one palm sliding around to the small of my back, the other firm at my hip—steadying me as I sink down.
Then he nudges me to turn.
“On your stomach first,” he murmurs.
I crawl forward, heart hammering, cock aching, and stretch out across the bed. The sheets are cool beneath my skin, my legs parting instinctively—vulnerable. Offered. I feel him move behind me—feel the bed dip under his knees as he climbs up and straddles my thighs.
He takes his time. Palms dragging down my back. Kissing the curve of my spine. Thumbs spreading my cheeks to admire what’s already his.
“Look at you,” he says, voice thick. “Perfect fucking hole. You’re so open for me.”
A slick finger circles me again—just enough to tease. To remind me he’s in control.
Then he orders, “Up on your knees.”
I groan but obey.
I push up onto my forearms, spread my thighs wider. My head drops low, my chest pressed to the sheets, spine arched for him. I know what this looks like—offered up like a prize. I want him to see it. I need him to.
Cally kneels behind me. One hand spreads me open again. The other strokes himself once, twice. I can hear the slick slide of lube. The pause. The pressure.
Then his cock presses against me.
Thick. Hot. There’s no teasing now.
He pushes in—slow—the stretch immediate, searing, divine. I gasp, fists twisting in the sheets. My mouth falls open with a broken moan.
“Fuck, babe,” he groans behind me, voice raw. “You’re tight. You’re taking me so fucking well.”
He inches deeper, relentless and slow, feeding his cock into me like he’s branding me from the inside out.
“You were made for this,” he whispers. “For me. For my cock. You know that?”
“Yes,” I gasp. “Cally—yes.”
I feel every inch of him as he bottoms out, buried deep, my body shaking from the pressure, the fullness.
He stills there, chest heaving, hands gripping my hips like he needs to hold himself back from ruining me.
“Fuck,” he pants. “You’re squeezing me. Like your hole knows who I am.”
“Please,” I whisper.
“What do you need, Monty?”
I push back against him, desperate. “Faster. Harder. I can take it. I want to take it.”
He leans over me, chest pressed to my back, one hand gripping the back of my neck.
“You want to get bred like this?” he growls into my ear. “Want me to fuck my cum into you so deep you’ll feel it for days?”
“Yes.” I’m panting now. Begging. “God, yes. Fill me. Make me yours.”
His hips pull back—just an inch—and then slam forward. I cry out.
“Say it again,” he demands.
“Fuck me hard, Cally. Use me. Fill me up.”
And he does.
He fucks me with full, punishing thrusts now—deep, precise, like he’s staking a claim inside my body. His grip on my hips bruises. His cock drives into me over and over, thick and hard and perfect.
“You’re taking me so fucking well,” he grits. “Greedy little hole. You like this, don’t you?”
“I love it,” I gasp. “I want all of it. I want you dripping out of me.”
A broken groan rips from his throat.
“You’re gonna take my load,” he growls. “Every drop. I’m gonna fill you up and you’re not gonna waste a fucking ounce.”
My vision goes white.
My body tightens.
I’m so close—on the edge from just being used, worshipped, filled. My cock untouched, weeping against the sheets. And still, all I can think about is him—his cock inside me, his voice in my ear, the promise of what’s coming next.
His cum.
His claim.
His everything.