Chapter 17 #2
"Cocky."
"Literally, yeah." I grind down, clenching around him. His head drops back against the pillows. I watch his throat work as he swallows. Making Callum Hayes lose his composure under me is better than anything I could have ever imagined.
He retaliates. His hips snap up—sharp, deep, hitting the exact spot inside me that makes my vision blur. The smug expression drops right off my face, replaced by a loud, breathless moan.
"There it is," he says, looking up at me with something filthy and competitive in his eyes. "That's my favorite sound you make."
"I make lots of sounds."
"That one's the best. The one where you stop pretending you're running this and your body just—" He thrusts up again, same angle. I grab his shoulders as the sound rips out of me again. He looks so fucking pleased with himself.
"Shut up."
"Make me."
I lean down and kiss him. He thrusts up hard, and my moan gets lost in his mouth. His hand slides between us, wrapping around my cock. I break the kiss, gasping against his cheek. His grip, his cock deep inside me, his stupid smug face—it's all too much at once, and my thoughts white out.
"You look incredible up there," he murmurs, the teasing edge gone, leaving something raw behind. "Every time you do that with your hips—fuck, Milo."
"Tell me." I ride him faster, finding a rhythm that builds the heat low in my belly. His hand strokes me in time with my hips. "Tell me how I look."
"Like you're trying to kill me. Like you know exactly what you're doing and you're enjoying every second of it." His thumb swipes over the head of my cock. I jerk, and he smiles. "Like you live here."
I actually laugh mid-stride. "Like you live here" shouldn't be dirty talk, but coming from Callum, it's the possessive, real-estate-obsessed filth I apparently need.
"I do live here," I say, breathless. "You gave me a key and a fern and a drawer, and I'm keeping all of it."
"Good." He thrusts up, deep and deliberate. "This is what you get every night."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
The laughter dissolves into something urgent.
My thighs burn, my cock leaking slick against his stomach.
His hand moves faster, tighter. I feel his knot starting to swell at the base—a thick, heavy pressure that catches with every stroke, stretching me wider.
I bear down against it, my body demanding it.
"Take it," he groans, rough and pleading. "Can you—"
"Yeah." I push down, feeling the knot press insistently against my rim. "Yeah, I can take it, I—"
I push. The stretch burns beautifully. His knot is so much wider than his shaft, dragging against my rim as I bear down. The pressure is enormous. My body resists for one breathless second, and then it gives.
It pops through. I'm full—completely, utterly locked. The knot seats deep inside me, heavy and round, pinning my hips flush against his. The pressure on my prostate is relentless, and I shatter.
It hits me like a wave. My cock pulses into his hand, come striping across his stomach.
My body clamps down hard around his knot.
He groans my name—just "Milo," broken and honest—and comes inside me.
The flood of heat fills me up, the knot locking us together so nothing escapes.
I'm shaking, he's shaking, and his arms wrap tightly around me as I collapse onto his chest.
I shift my weight slightly, and the knot tugs at my rim, a deep stretch that sends an aftershock rolling through me.
My body clenches reflexively around it. I can feel the wet, hot mess of us—slick and come pooling between our skin where we're locked together.
I go still against his chest, letting the fullness hold me.
I trace a lazy line down his sternum. His skin is damp, his chest rising and falling under my hand.
His arm is heavy across my back. The apartment is quiet.
From here, I can see both our phones charging on the nightstand, his wallet and my keys in the little dish on the dresser.
Our things, mixed together. Our bedroom. Our nest.
The words are right there. They've been right there for weeks—maybe since the night he put a band-aid on my hand and I realized his carefulness was love. I've been holding them too tightly, afraid saying them would make them real in a way I couldn't take back.
But there's nothing left to hold back. No fear. No escape route.
"I love you," I say into the skin of his collarbone.
Callum's arm tightens around me. He takes a deep breath, his heartbeat picking up under my cheek. He doesn't say anything for a second, and I'm not afraid of the silence. I just wait.
"Been trying not to since the day we met," he says, his voice rough with the faintest edge of a laugh. "But you made it impossible the night you named my fern."
I smile against his skin. "Gerald sealed the deal?"
"Gerald sealed the deal." His hand slides up to the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. The humor drops away. "I love you, Milo."
The words settle into my chest like a breath I didn't know I was holding.
Something loosens. Something steadies. His knot holds firm inside me.
My hand finds his on the mattress, our fingers lacing together—the loose, automatic grip of two people who don't need to hold on tight because neither one is going anywhere.
His thumb traces a lazy circle on the back of my hand. My eyes get heavy. The knot holds, and this is home.