Chapter 36 I Licked Him. Zero Regrets. #2
I frown, blinking. "I don't get it."
He exhales, stretching his arm along the back of the headboard, turning slightly to face me.
"The moment it happened," he explains, "I accepted it.
I didn't cry about it. It didn't bother me when I thought about it.
" He pauses before adding, "But I also haven't been with another woman since. Not in any serious capacity."
"So maybe it didn't take me long to move on. But maybe it took me a long time to be ready to trust someone else again."
"Why me, though?"
I hold my breath.
And then he says, quietly but with no room for doubt: “Because you see me. And I see you.”
Just that. Like it's the most obvious answer in the world, like that should be enough explanation on its own, like there's no one else it could have ever been.
I smile at his words—not because I totally understand them, but because I want to, because I want to believe I can be someone worth choosing.
Cal finishes his plate first, pushing the tray aside with an easy, effortless movement, his muscles shifting under inked skin as he stretches one arm back behind his head.
He grabs the remote, flipping on the TV like he's done it a thousand times before, like he knows my streaming services as well as I do.
The screen flickers to life. "Pick a show," he says, casually scrolling through the options.
“Seriously?”
"Something you've always wanted to watch.
" He turns his head, arching an eyebrow at me, like he already knows I'm not going to argue, like he already knows I want this as much as he does.
"We're watching it together," he continues, tone casual but firm, like it's already decided.
"Episode by episode. Over dinner. In bed. "
I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head, settling back into the pillows. I reach for the remote, my fingers brushing against his as I take it from his grip. The brief contact sends a spark up my arm. "You better not fall asleep mid-episode, Callahan."
His lips twitch, amusement slipping into something darker. "Guess you’ll just have to keep me entertained."
We finished eating. We watched an episode of Bridgerton—because if I was going to force Callahan to sit through a show, it was going to be over-the-top, ridiculous, pure romance.
And now I'm full, warm, and perfectly content.
The wine has settled in my system, making me feel soft, with a pleasant buzz humming just beneath my skin.
Cal insisted on cleaning up while I finished my drink, gathering the plates, stacking the tray, moving through my kitchen like he's been here for years instead of days.
And I let him. Because, for once, I liked letting someone take care of me.
Now he's back, standing at the edge of my bed, looking down at me.
The shadows play across his face, highlighting the angles of his cheekbones.
And then he does the unexpected—he leans down, presses a soft kiss to my forehead, and murmurs, "Goodnight, pretty girl.
" Then he stands and heads for the door.
No. No, that's not right.
My hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist, holding him firm. "No!"
He stops immediately, turning back, brows furrowed, expression cautious. I don't let go. I tighten my grip, and then I force myself to say it: "I want you here."
His eyes darken, but his expression stays carefully unreadable. Doubt creeps in—did I read this entire night wrong? Why doesn't he want to sleep next to me?
"Izzy..." His voice is careful. "It's not that I don't want to."
He sits back down beside me, his weight dipping the mattress, his presence overwhelming. And then he tells me that he doesn't really sleep well. That sometimes—not always, but sometimes—he has night terrors from the war, from the atrocities he's seen. And he doesn't want to disturb me.
"Plus, I haven't slept in anything bigger than a twin bed in a decade."
"I don't care." He looks at me as I swallow, tightening my hold on his hand. "I'll stay up with you, if you want."
He shakes his head immediately. "No, you need your sleep."
I press my lips together before saying softly, "Please. I want you here. Let me take care of you for once."
His fingers flex against mine, his lips part like he's about to argue, but he doesn't. Instead, he leans in and kisses me deeply, fully, like he's forgetting himself, like he's forgetting the whole damn world.
His body shifts, pressing against mine, pushing me back into the pillows.
The soft mattress cradles my curves as his weight settles against me.
And by the time he pulls away, I'm turned on all over again.
And he? He's in my bed. Callahan Knight is very much in my bed.
He settles in beside me and we lie in silence for a while.
His arm rests across my chest, anchoring me in place.
I know he’s awake; his breathing is uneven, his muscles still holding tension.
But he’s comfortable enough to keep me close, to hold me like I’m his even in the quiet.
And I like it. I like the pressure of him, the strength in his body, the way his forearm drapes over me.
My fingers drift along his skin, tracing the lines of ink stretched over muscle.
The tattoos feel slightly raised beneath my fingertips, the texture different from his smooth skin.
I can feel his skin react, tiny shivers rippling through him.
It makes him tingle, makes him relax, so I don't stop.
Instead, I trace every line, every angle and intricate design, wondering what each of them means.
As my fingers explore, they brush against something cool and metallic at his throat—his dog tags. They've been there all along, resting against his chest. I pause, fingertips hovering over them, suddenly aware that I'm touching a piece of his identity. "Sorry," I murmur, pulling my hand back.
Cal catches my wrist gently, guiding my fingers back to the tags. "Don't be."
"Tell me about them?" I ask, curiosity winning over hesitation.
A low sound rumbles through his chest, like he wasn't expecting the question. "Hmm?"
"Your tattoos," I clarify, fingers still moving over the ink. "Can you tell me what the designs are? What they mean to you?" I hesitate. "If that's not too personal."
He turns slightly, looking down at me. And then he says words that make my heart clench: "Nothing's too personal with you, Izzy."
I swallow hard, my fingers pausing on his skin. "I won't ever keep secrets from you," he continues, his hand flexing slightly where it rests against me. "Anything you want to know, just ask."
I nod, tucking my head against his shoulder, letting my fingers resume their path. He lifts his arm, angling it so I can see, so I can map the designs with my eyes as well as my touch.
"This one," he starts, tapping a section of ink that stretches from his wrist to his elbow, "is for my unit.
The insignia, the coordinates of where we were stationed.
A couple of guys got it before deployment, a couple after.
Some of them never got the chance." His voice dips slightly at that last part, and I don't press.
Instead, I let my fingers move further up, tracing another pattern. "And this?"
He exhales, the tension in his chest loosening as he follows my touch. "That one's for my mom."
His hand covers mine, pressing it flat against the ink.
"She used to hum this song when I was little," he says.
"When I was sick, when I couldn't sleep.
I don't remember the lyrics, but I remember the melody.
" He tilts his forearm toward me. "The notes are here.
I had someone translate them onto a staff.
" A pause. "It's not perfect, but it's close enough. "
I try and fight the tears threatening to well in my eyes. That's... God. That's the most beautiful fucking tribute I've ever heard. I let my fingers glide over the ink, pressing my palm against it like I'm holding a sacred memory.
My hand drifts back to his dog tags, gently running over the embossed letters. The metal is cool and smooth beneath my touch. "And these?" I ask softly. "Do you always wear them?"
Cal is quiet for a long moment, his chest rising and falling beneath my palm. I can feel his heartbeat quicken slightly. "Since the day I enlisted," he finally says. "Never took them off."
I notice a shift in his expression, a decision being made. He sits up slightly, his movements slow as he reaches behind his neck. The chain makes a soft metallic sound as he unclasps it. "Until now," he says, voice rough with emotion.
My breath catches as he takes my hand, placing the metal against my palm, closing my fingers around it. The tags are still warm from his body, the metal smooth where it's been worn by years of constant contact with his skin. "Cal..." I start, not sure what to say or what this means.
"I've been carrying these for a decade," he says, eyes never leaving mine.
"And with them, who I was, what I've done, what I've seen.
" His fingers brush my cheek, tender in a way that makes my chest ache.
"These tags were a reminder that I couldn't move forward because I couldn't put the past behind me. "
He swallows hard. "But I don't need to put it behind me anymore. I just need to put it somewhere safe." His fingers tighten gently around mine. "With someone I trust."
I stare at him, at the way his eyes hold mine like they mean it, at the quiet openness written across his face. "You sure about this?" I whisper, understanding the enormity of what he's offering.
His lips curve slightly, certainty radiating from him. "More sure than I've been about anything in a long time." He leans in, pressing his forehead against mine. "Keep them safe for me, pretty girl."
With shaking hands, I slip the chain over my head, feeling them settle against my chest. They're heavier than I expected, both physically and in what they represent.
My fingers close around them, feeling the impression of his name, his blood type, his identity pressed into metal.
"I will," I promise, knowing I'm promising so much more than just safeguarding a piece of metal.
His eyes darken as he looks at me, at his tags resting against my skin. Possessiveness and tenderness flash across his face. "Looks better on you anyway," he murmurs.
My fingers start absently tracing another of his tattoos, and then he chuckles. "I've got a lot of ink, Izzy." His lips curve slightly, teasing. "It'll take some time to go through them all."
I flash a grin, the reckless kind of idea already buzzing through me. I lift his forearm to my mouth and lick it.
His entire body goes rigid—eyes wide, muscles locking, breath catching hard in his chest.
I shrug, all fake innocence. "I meant what I said."
My fingers drift lower, trailing down his stomach, tracing another section of ink. "Although, looks like I've got a lot more to explore myself."
His fingers tighten against my side. And I start to wonder if maybe I broke him.
Then he exhales, shaking his head, gripping me tight, and flips me onto my side.
He tucks me into him, wrapping me up in his arms, pressing his lips to my temple.
His body curves around mine, his larger frame enveloping my softer curves, creating a cocoon of warmth and security.
And then he mutters, "Go to sleep before I lose all control and fuck you to sleep instead."
I smile into his chest. And I fall asleep feeling safe.