Chapter 10
Milo
I'm rearranging Callum's throw pillows for the third time when my brain finally catches up to my hands.
We migrated back to the couch after dinner.
Somewhere in the last twenty minutes, the conversation lulled, my book went ignored, and my body went on autopilot.
The post-dinner version of us is warm and heavy, leftovers in the fridge, Callum's arm a comforting weight behind my shoulders. It's been a perfect night.
And now my hands are pulling the blanket off the back of the couch, folding it, tucking it around my legs, untucking it, and folding it a different way. I've adjusted the same throw pillow four times. My face burns. I know exactly what this is.
I'm nesting on Callum Hayes's couch like some kind of feral interior decorator.
I freeze mid-fold. The blanket bunches in my tight grip.
I risk a glance at Callum. He's watching me from his end of the couch, his phone forgotten in his lap.
He sees exactly what I'm doing, and he isn't going to make a big deal out of it.
Honestly, the fact that he understands makes my chest ache more than if he'd teased me.
"The bedroom has more pillows," he says. His voice is perfectly level, like he's just offering directions to the bathroom.
I look at him. He looks back. His eyes are steady, the corner of his mouth tilted up in a soft half-smile. His entire posture is an open invitation. Go ahead. I'll be right behind you. Permission I didn't know I needed to do something I didn't fully realize I was desperate for.
I drop the blanket, get up, and walk to the bedroom.
The second I cross the threshold, my instincts swallow me whole. I stop pretending I have any control over this. This isn't what I do at home—piling blankets on my bed and telling myself I just run cold. Those were blanket piles. This is deliberate. This is a den.
I start with the bed. I pull the comforter back and stack the pillows against the headboard in a configuration that makes zero logical sense but feels so fundamentally right it vibrates in my bones.
I grab two blankets from the foot of the bed and layer them.
Fleece on the bottom because it's softest against the skin.
The heavier knit on top because the weight of it settles my frayed nerves.
Then I need his clothes.
I yank open the closet and start pulling things off hangers.
Not his nice button-downs. The worn things.
The soft T-shirts washed a hundred times until the cotton is tissue-thin.
A flannel shirt that feels like butter against my cheek.
His firehouse hoodie that smells so intensely of cedar and smoke and Callum that my teeth actually ache.
I drag them to the mattress, weaving them into the blankets and pillows. My hands move on their own.
Callum appears in the doorway. He leans against the frame, arms crossed over his broad chest. He looks amused, awed, and underneath it all, undeniably aroused.
He watches me tuck a flannel against my makeshift side wall and doesn't say a word.
He's just letting me tear his bedroom apart without a single complaint.
"You want the ones from the hamper?" he asks quietly. "Those smell stronger."
My chest cracks wide open. It's the exact right thing to say. Not what are you doing? or let me help. Just offering me more of his scent. He knows. His alpha instincts read me the second I touched that blanket in the living room, and instead of taking over, he's feeding the nest.
"Yes," I say, my voice embarrassingly small. "And can you move that plant? I need the space on the nightstand."
He moves the potted fern without blinking.
Then he hands me three T-shirts from the hamper.
They smell like sweat and raw alpha. The scent bypasses my brain entirely and slams straight into my lower half.
A hot pulse of slick floods my underwear.
I press my thighs together, my fingers trembling as I take the shirts from him.
I force myself to ignore the heavy ache between my legs.
I'm working here. The need has to wait until the nest is finished.
I weave the damp cotton into the base layer.
When I'm done, it doesn't look like Callum's bed anymore.
It's a den. Soft, deep, and completely saturated with his scent.
I sink into the center of it, letting the heavy blankets press me down.
My palms flatten against his lived-in T-shirts.
A humiliatingly loud, satisfied purr rips out of my chest.
This is what I've been craving. Every breath fills my lungs with him.
He's still standing in the doorway, tracking my every move. He just watched his omega claim his territory, and he looks like he wants to eat me alive.
"Get in here," I demand.
He crosses the room and climbs onto the mattress.
It dips under his heavy weight, his large frame filling the space beside me.
He doesn't rearrange a single pillow. He doesn't adjust the blankets or try to put his mark on what I built.
He just lies back against the headboard and lets my nest hold him.
The sheer power of this massive, capable alpha submitting to the space I created sends a fierce, possessive heat straight to my gut.
I lean over and kiss him. It's slow and unhurried, tasting of garlic and the wine we had at dinner.
His hand drops to my hip automatically, his thumb finding the curve above my waistband.
My hand flattens against his chest. His skin is radiating heat through his shirt.
I push the hem up. I want it off, and I don't feel like asking.
He pulls it over his head and tosses it aside. I drag my hands over his bare chest, mapping the smattering of freckles, the hard lines of muscle, the trail of hair disappearing beneath his jeans. I tug my own sweater off.
His mouth immediately finds my bare stomach. He presses a hot, wet kiss to the soft curve of my belly—the spot he always goes to first. I force myself not to flinch. The insecurity isn't entirely gone, but the reverent, hungry way he treats my body is finally starting to outweigh the fear.
I'm so incredibly wet. Slick soaks my underwear, the heavy scent of my arousal mixing with the warmth of the nest. I push him flat against the pillows and swing my leg over his lap, straddling his hips.
I place my hands flat on his broad shoulders and press down. Stay.
His eyes go dark. His hands twitch at his sides, but he leaves them flat on the mattress.
His cock is a thick, hard ridge pressing up against my ass.
He goes completely still, the muscles in his thighs jumping with the effort of holding himself back.
He's massive. He could flip me onto my back and pin me in a heartbeat, but he's lying here, letting me push him down. The rush of power makes my head spin.
I trail my fingers down his stomach, popping the button of his jeans and dragging the zipper down. I reach inside and free him.
His cock springs out, thick, flushed dark, and heavy.
I wrap my fingers around his length, and my breath catches.
I still can't quite wrap my head around the fact that this belongs to me.
I stroke him slowly. His jaw locks. His breath hitches.
His knuckles turn white where he grips the sheets. He's shaking because of me.
I reach between my own legs, pushing my underwear aside.
I push two fingers inside my hole and gasp at the tight stretch.
Slick coats my fingers instantly, warm and slippery, dripping down my inner thigh.
Callum is watching. He can see everything—my hand working into my own ass, the slick shining on my skin.
"God, Milo," his voice is a ruined rasp, his eyes glued to my hand. "You look—Jesus. You look—"
"Shut up," I snap. My eyes widen a second later. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Don't apologize." His voice drops an octave. "Don't ever apologize for that."
I pull my fingers out, dripping with slick. I line his thick cock up with my entrance and slowly sink down.
The stretch is unbelievable. Gravity pulls me down onto every inch of him. The broad head of his cock drags perfectly over my prostate, and a flash of white light bursts behind my eyes. I stop halfway, panting, my thighs burning from the effort of holding my own weight.
Callum's large hands fly to my thighs. His thumbs stroke the sensitive skin, steadying me without pushing me down. His jaw is clenched so tight a muscle ticks in his cheek. He's pulsing inside me, desperate to thrust, but he doesn't move an inch.
I sink the rest of the way down. We both groan.
Being full of him—his lap flush against my ass, his cock buried so deep I feel it in my stomach—is so overwhelmingly good I can barely see straight.
Slick smears across his lap, soaking into the nest beneath us with a wet, obscene sound every time I shift.
I start to move. I roll my hips in slow, grinding circles, keeping him fully lodged inside me while I chase the friction.
Every downward roll drags him over my prostate.
My thighs shake. My hands brace hard against his chest. His expression is caught somewhere between absolute agony and pure worship.
His hips twitch upward involuntarily.
"Don't move," I breathe, my voice trembling.
Callum goes completely rigid. A low, choked groan of restrained desperation tears out of his throat, and the sound shoots straight to my cock.
I ride him. My legs are screaming, trembling with the sustained effort, but I refuse to stop. Every movement is mine. My cock bobs against his stomach with every slow grind. The wet, slapping sounds of our bodies colliding fill the quiet room.
He reaches a shaking hand up toward my cock.
"Let me," I say, batting his hand away and pushing it back down to the mattress.
His pupils blow so wide his eyes look entirely black. The awed, undone look on his face makes me feel ten feet tall.
"You're killing me," he grinds out, his knuckles white against the blankets. "Milo—you look—God, you have no idea. Your cock is leaking. You're so wet I can feel you dripping down my—"
I grind down hard at the exact right angle, stealing the rest of the words from his mouth.
"Just stay," I pant. "Let me feel you."
He stays. His body vibrates with tension. I set the rhythm, slow and controlled, riding this huge, capable alpha who obeys my every command.
Eventually, he can't take it anymore. His hips snap up, small upward thrusts meeting my downward grind.
I could tell him to stop, but I don't. My legs are failing, and his thrusts are hitting impossibly deep.
His hands grip my hips—not forcing, just holding me steady—his thumbs pressing hard into the skin above my hip bones.
The pace quickens. I throw my head back, moaning loudly, my cock slapping wetly against his stomach.
His hand wraps around my dick, and I nearly black out. His calloused palm strokes my sensitive head in perfect counter-rhythm to his upward thrusts. The dual sensation of being fucked and jerked is too much. I can't form words anymore. Just broken sounds. His name. Please. Right there.
Then, his knot starts to swell.
It builds at the base of his cock, a thick, heavy pressure pressing against my rim with every stroke. My body makes the decision before my brain can process it.
I grind down hard, forcing the swelling knot past my resistance.
Callum's hands dig into my hips. "Milo, are you—"
"I want it," I sob.
I sink all the way down. The knot pops inside me and locks. The stretch is enormous, fusing us together. I can't ride him anymore, just grind my hips in small, frantic circles to keep the pressure right where I need it.
Callum pumps his fist over my cock. He's pulsing deep inside me, his knot throbbing in heavy, rhythmic beats. He jerks his hips up, spilling hot and deep into my ass, and the heat of it spreads through me like wildfire.
I come with a loud, wrecked cry. My whole body seizes around his knot.
I spurt over his hand, thick ropes of come shooting over his stomach and chest. The orgasm tears through me, prolonged by the locked knot, rolling through my body in endless waves.
My thighs give out entirely. I'm empty and full and completely ruined.
I collapse forward onto his chest, gasping for air.
His thick arms wrap around me instantly, caging me against him. His heart hammers against my cheek. The nest is a disaster zone. Sweat, slick, and come soak into the blankets and the T-shirts I so carefully arranged. It smells like both of us now. It's permanently, irreversibly ours.
We don't speak. His hands stroke my hair and trace the line of my spine. I press my face into his neck, breathing in his heavy, satisfied scent as his knot slowly pulses in aftershocks.
After a few minutes, my hand blindly reaches out. I grab the edge of a flannel shirt that got shoved aside during the sex, and I automatically tuck it back into the pillow wall. Even with his knot locked inside me, my brain is still trying to tidy the den.
Callum's chest rumbles with a low, deep laugh. He pulls me tighter against his chest, burying his face in my curls, and lets the nest hold us both.