29. Caleb
TWENTY-NINE
Caleb
The sterile scent of antiseptic still hung in the air, even though the medical equipment had been cleared days ago.
Now, it was only the two of us, the heavy oak bed frame creaking under Novak’s weight as he shifted, restless.
Two weeks of enforced stillness had turned his usual precision into something edgier, and I wasn’t sure what to do when the big man stared at me as if I had all the answers.
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the way his broad shoulders tensed beneath the thin cotton of the borrowed T-shirt.
The fabric stretched over the inked cross on his chest, the tattoos dark against his pale skin.
He wasn’t looking at me, but as always, he would know what I was doing, and his fingers twitched against the mattress, the only sign of irritation.
The man was going stir-crazy, and worse—I was feeling the stress too.
I’d been sleeping beside him for the last week, close enough to smell the soap on his skin, and cuddle into him at night.
No sex. No release. Just the slow, maddening buildup of tension, every time his thigh brushed mine in the night.
“Doc says he told you you’re clear to bug out of here,” I said, voice low.
His dark eyes flicked to mine, unreadable. “Yes.”
“But you’re not packed and ready to go.”
“Something’s wrong.”
“What?” I pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer; the floorboards were cool beneath my bare feet.
The late afternoon light slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting gold across the scars on his side and the rigid set of his jaw.
Most of the damage had knitted back together, and his movements were easier, but he was still dealing with pain.
He was still for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose.
“You’re not in here with me,” he said, and sounded so damn put out that it made me smile. “And I want to make you feel good again, in case you change your mind and decide I’m not enough.”
“That’s not going to happen, Leon. I already told you that.”
“People who are together have sex.”
“Some do; some don’t.”
I leaned over him to kiss his nose. His hands stayed flat on the mattress, fingers splayed, but I felt the shift in him—the way his breath hitched.
“Come on the bed with me,” he said, and I took off my shirt, pushed down my sweats, tossed both aside, and climbed onto the bed, ready to curl up next to him.
Only, he gripped my leg and stopped me, instead gesturing for me to straddle his thighs, which I did with care.
He was okay sleeping on his back, but I knew he wouldn’t tell me even if I did hurt him.
I could see the dark stubble shadowing his jaw, the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow.
“I’ve never had this issue before,” he said. “It’s a strange feeling.”
“Being hard?” I wriggled on him a little, and he hissed.
“No, wanting sex.”
I found the waistband of his sweatpants, traced the elastic, and felt his stomach tense beneath my touch.
“You want me to suck you?”
“I don’t know,” he stared up at me, and there was confusion in his silver eyes.
“You don’t know?” I wriggled once more, and he let out a soft moan.
“I need you to fuck me,” he murmured, and then he gripped my wrists, stilling me. Not to push me away—to hold me there, suspended. His thumbs pressed into the pulse points at the base of my palms. Studying. Always fucking studying.
“You’re injured,” I said, so freaking hard myself that it hurt. What I wouldn’t give to be inside him right now.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
I twisted my wrists, breaking his hold, and slid my hands up his chest, over the cross tattooed above his heart, resting over his heart, reassuring myself he was there.
“I’ve been fine for days,” he said. Something flickered in his eyes—annoyance, maybe, or the first crack in that ironclad composure.
“I’ll ride you, and you don’t move a muscle.”
He stiffened then; his fingers flexed, released their hold on my hips, and fell away. “I want that,” he said.
I reached for the lube on the nightstand, the bottle cool in my palm, squeezing some onto my fingers, watching his gaze track the movement, as I reached behind and began to stretch myself. He never stopped staring into my eyes, deadly focused, his fingers trailing a path from my hips to my belly.
“Ready?” I asked, and smoothed lube over his cock.
“I’ve never fucked anyone,” he said, his lips pressing into a thin line.
The words came out rough, almost as if he had to yank them from somewhere deep inside.
A tightness flickered in his eyes, and I felt his fingers tremble where they gripped me—an unexpected hint of nerves.
“No one. Not ever,” he added, his voice so low I barely caught it.
For a second, he looked away, as if uncertain of how I would react, before meeting my gaze again with a flicker of raw honesty that left him exposed.
I stared at him. “Really?”
“No.” His thumbs traced circles on the insides of my wrists, slow and distracting. “Not with anyone.”
“You certainly give off big scary top vibes.”
“The only man I’ve ever been with is you. I’ve never wanted it.” He paused a moment. “Not until I decided we were going to be together.”
I shifted, pressing closer, feeling the way his cock jerked against my thigh. “And now?”
His hands slid up my arms, over my shoulders, his touch rough, almost desperate. “Now I want this, but if I do it wrong, you have to stop me.” He reached up and cradled my face. “I will never hurt you.”
“I’ve got you.” I leaned in, my lips brushing his jaw, his stubble rough against my skin. “I’ve always got you.”
A shudder ran through him, his body tensing beneath mine. For a second, I thought he’d pull away, and then he nodded. “I want this. I want you.”
I positioned myself, eased down, the burn delicious, the stretch too much, and then not enough, and finally he was deep inside me.
He twisted his fingers around the head of my cock, his thumb pressing into the slit, and my thoughts scattered.
“Leon,” I choked out, my voice raw. “Fuck—” His hand left my cock, and I whined at the loss, but then his fingers were digging into my hip, and I rocked back on him, and it took my breath.
“Do you like being mine?” he asked, and for the first time, there was a hint of vulnerability in his voice.
“Yes—” The word was torn out of me as I rocked back onto him. “Fuck—!” My voice broke, my orgasm taking my breath, cock pulsing against his chest, Novak’s eyes open, his neck bared as he fucked up into me, and then his expression... so beautiful.
“My Caleb,” he said as he came, and then his eyes closed, and he groaned.
I collapsed on top of him, my breath ragged against his neck, and he held me close.
His cock was still half-hard inside me, his come leaking out around the stretch, and I could feel the sticky mess of my own release smeared between us.
We hugged close, the only sound in the room was our harsh, uneven breathing, the occasional creak of the bed as our bodies settled.
Finally, Novak spoke, his voice was rough, almost hesitant. “Mine.”
I turned my head just enough to press my lips to his wrist, my own voice a wrecked whisper. “Yours.”